Chapter 3 The Performance

The two weeks passed quickly. Life, as Chloe Sterling had known it, was over. In its place was a carefully orchestrated performance, and Rhys was the demanding, meticulous director.

Their first "date" was at a small, exclusive art gallery. Rhys had chosen it. "Public enough to be seen, quiet enough to talk," he'd explained, his tone all business. He'd arrived at her penthouse to pick her up, and the sight of him out of his usual dark suit had stolen the breath from her lungs. He wore a tailored navy blazer and dark trousers that emphasized his lean, powerful frame. He looked less like a bodyguard and more like a devastatingly handsome, if slightly dangerous, billionaire. Which, of course, he was, she just didn't know it.

"Ready?" he'd asked, offering his arm. It was a gesture so formal, so unlike him, that she almost laughed. But when she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, she felt the solid, unyielding muscle beneath the fine wool. It was a reminder that the man, not the costume, was still very much in charge.

At the gallery, he played his part perfectly. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back, a possessive, gentlemanly touch that sent unwelcome shivers up her spine. He leaned in close when she spoke about a painting, his head tilted as if hanging on her every word. To anyone watching, they were a beautiful, engrossed couple.

But the conversations were scripts.

"Comment on the use of color in the Monet," he'd murmured, his lips close to her ear as they stood before a water lily painting. His proximity was unnerving. He smelled of clean soap and something else, something uniquely male and earthy.

"It's unique," she whispered back, feeling foolish. "The light is beautiful. It feels peaceful."

"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Now smile up at me. Like I've just said something charming, not given you an order."

Chloe forced a smile, turning her face to his. He was so close she could see the faint stubble along his jawline, the tiny flecks of silver in his blue-grey eyes. For a heart-stopping second, the act felt terrifyingly real. His gaze dropped to her lips, and his own smile, which had been a polite curve, seemed to soften, to become something more genuine. Then, just as quickly, the shutter came down. He was Rhys the Bodyguard again.

"It's working," he said quietly, turning back to the painting. "The reporter from the society column just took a photo. Try to look less like you're planning a corporate takeover and more like you're falling in love."

The following week was a whirlwind of carefully leaked sightings. A cozy dinner at a restaurant known for its celebrity clientele, where he fed her a bite of dessert from his fork, his eyes holding hers in a way that made her forget it was all for show. A stroll through the park on a sunny Saturday morning, his arm draped casually over her shoulders, his thumb making small, absent-minded circles on her arm that felt anything but absent-minded.

Rhys had even arranged for a photographer to "catch" them leaving her building together early one morning, him holding her hand, both of them looking relaxed and happy. The photo appeared in the gossip pages with the caption, "Tech Heiress Finds Comfort in Her Protector." Julian had called her within minutes, his voice dripping with false cheer.

"Chloe, my dear! I saw the papers! I must say, I had my doubts, but you two look… very convincing." The unspoken question hung in the air: Is it real?

"We're happy, Uncle Julian," she'd said, her voice steady as she stared out the window, where Rhys was on the phone, his back to her. "Truly happy."

In the quiet of her penthouse, however, the facade vanished. They spent hours at her dining table, which was now covered with flowcharts and security briefings instead of dinner plates.

"We need a story," Rhys said one evening, pushing a file toward her. "How we met. When we fell in love. The press will dig. It has to be airtight."

"So, what's our story?" Chloe asked, sipping a glass of wine. She needed it to calm her nerves. Being this close to him, talking about fake intimacy, was playing havoc with her senses.

"I've been your head of security for two years," he began, his tone analytical, as if planning a tactical operation. "We've spent countless hours together in cars, at events, in this very apartment. A slow burn. We developed a deep respect for each other's minds. The attraction grew under the pressure of your position. We kept it professional until after your father's passing, when our shared grief brought us closer."

It was a good story. Logical. Believable. And so far from the cold, transactional reality that it made her chest ache.