Chapter 12: The Deal (Flashback)

Three Years Ago

Phoebe Sinclair had spent most of her life maneuvering through expectations—her father's, society's, the board's. But nothing had prepared her for the moment she sat in his office, facing a reality she couldn't escape.

"You have until the end of the month, Phoebe." Thomas Sinclair's voice was as composed as ever, his fingers laced together on the desk. "The Lancaster deal is secured, but the merger is contingent on our family's stability. That means you need to be settled. A year ago."

Phoebe's jaw tightened. "I told you—I won't be manipulated into an engagement for the sake of a business deal."

Her father sighed, as if speaking to a difficult child instead of his grown daughter. "This is bigger than you. The Sinclairs and the Lancasters uniting through marriage is the best possible outcome for both families. It's not a punishment, it's a privilege."

A privilege.

Phoebe's hands curled into fists in her lap. Marrying Charles Lancaster would be a prison sentence. The man was as charming as he was ruthless, the kind of person who smiled at you while setting a trap beneath your feet. She had spent enough time in his presence to know she would rather set herself on fire than be bound to him for life.

Her father watched her reaction with a hint of amusement. "What's it going to be, Phoebe?"

She stood, her pulse a steady drum in her ears. "I'll figure it out."

The Same Night – Blackwood Enterprises' Gala

Phoebe hadn't planned on seeing him again.

Damon Blackwood was a name she had heard long before they met—whispers of a man who had built an empire from nothing, a strategist who saw ten moves ahead, and, perhaps most frustratingly, someone her father respected. He was polished, ruthless when necessary, and entirely too good at hiding what he was thinking.

And now, he was her only option.

She found him standing by the balcony, whiskey in hand, his dark suit tailored to perfection. The city lights stretched behind him, but he barely acknowledged the view when she approached.

"Phoebe Sinclair," he murmured, lifting his glass slightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Phoebe didn't waste time. "I need a favor."

Damon turned his full attention to her, brow lifting slightly. "And what exactly makes you think I'm the type to grant favors?"

Phoebe exhaled, steadying herself. "Because it benefits you just as much as it benefits me."

He took a sip of his drink, silent for a moment. Then, "I'm listening."

Phoebe hesitated, the words tasting foreign in her mouth. "My father expects me to marry Charles Lancaster. If I don't find another solution, he'll make sure it happens."

Damon studied her, his expression unreadable. "And what does this have to do with me?"

She forced herself to hold his gaze. "You need stability. You're on the verge of closing the Lennox acquisition, and their board is notoriously traditional. They want to know you're not just some power-hungry businessman who doesn't value family or commitment."

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe. "Let me guess. You're offering yourself as proof of my commitment?"

Phoebe lifted her chin. "A fake relationship. We make it public. The Lennox board sees you as a man who values stability, and my father is forced to back off."

Damon exhaled slowly, glancing back toward the city. "It's risky."

"You don't strike me as a man who shies away from risk."

A smirk ghosted across his lips. "Fair enough." He turned back to her, the weight of his gaze settling on her like a challenge. "But tell me, Sinclair—what's stopping you from finding some society boy to play pretend with instead?"

Phoebe clenched her jaw. "Because I need someone my father can't manipulate."

Damon hummed in consideration, taking another slow sip of whiskey. Then, finally—

"Fine."

Phoebe exhaled, relief and trepidation warring inside her.

"But there are rules," he added, his voice lowering just slightly.

"Of course," she said, lifting a brow. "Let's hear them."

Damon took a step closer, just enough for the city lights to cast sharp shadows across his features. "We make it believable. Public appearances, photos, a well-crafted timeline. The moment it stops benefiting either of us, it's over."

Phoebe nodded. "Agreed."

"No emotional attachments."

The words sent an unexpected chill through her.

She didn't flinch, didn't let it show. "Agreed."

Damon studied her for another moment before extending his hand.

"Then we have a deal."

Phoebe reached out, shaking it firmly.

A deal.

Simple.

At least, that's what she told herself.

But standing there, his fingers warm against hers, the city stretching behind them like a silent witness—

She had a feeling nothing about this would be simple at all.

**********************************

Damon had spent his life making calculated decisions, weighing risks against rewards, and ensuring that he always stayed in control. When Phoebe Sinclair had approached him with her proposition, he had seen the logic behind it immediately.

He needed stability—at least the illusion of it—to close the Lennox acquisition. She needed an escape from her father's iron grip. A mutually beneficial arrangement with a clear expiration date.

Simple.

Or at least, that's what he had told himself.

The problem with a game like this was that once emotions got involved, it stopped being a game at all.

In public, they played their roles flawlessly.

Their first official outing as a couple had been at a gala hosted by the Lennox family, and Phoebe had slipped into the act so effortlessly that for a moment, Damon had wondered if she had been playing people her whole life. She smiled at him like he was the center of her world, her fingers warm where they rested lightly on his forearm.

"You could at least pretend to enjoy this," she murmured as they posed for a photograph.

Damon smirked, leaning in just slightly—close enough that from an outsider's perspective, it might have looked intimate. "I thought I was."

Phoebe rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. Instead, she reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers as they walked into the main event. The move was calculated, of course—every touch, every lingering glance, every casual brush of hands designed to sell their story.

But there were moments—small, fleeting moments—where Damon forgot it was just an illusion.

Like the time they had been at a charity auction, and Phoebe had whispered something sarcastic in his ear, making him laugh—actually laugh—before she nudged him playfully, her eyes bright with amusement.

Or the evening they had attended an event in Paris, and he had found her outside on the terrace, away from the crowd, the city lights reflecting in her eyes. They hadn't spoken much that night, just stood there, breathing in the cool air, the silence between them surprisingly comfortable.

She was nothing like he had expected.

And that was dangerous.

Getting What They Wanted

The Lennox deal had gone through smoothly.

Damon had secured his acquisition, his public image bolstered by the carefully crafted narrative of his "relationship" with Phoebe. The board had been satisfied, the press had eaten up the story, and his company had emerged stronger than ever.

Phoebe had gotten her victory as well.

Her father had reluctantly accepted that she was no longer under his control, and the engagement with Charles Lancaster had been officially dissolved.

By all accounts, their arrangement had been a success.

So why did it feel like a loss?

Damon had known from the start that this wasn't real. He had set the rules himself—no emotional attachments, no complications.

And yet, when the time came to walk away, something inside him resisted.

The first sign of trouble had been the argument.

"You're ending this?" Phoebe's voice had been calm, but Damon had known her long enough by then to recognize the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Our deal is done," he had said, keeping his tone neutral. "We got what we wanted."

Her lips had pressed into a thin line. "You mean you got what you wanted."

Damon hadn't responded, because she wasn't wrong. The Lennox deal had gone through, and there was no longer a reason to maintain the façade. It should have been simple.

But it wasn't.

Because for the first time in years, Damon had felt something beyond ambition.

And he was walking away from it.

Phoebe had stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for something—some sign that he felt it too.

When he had given her nothing, she had nodded once, then turned and walked away.

And Damon had let her go.

He had told himself it was the right decision. That he had done what was necessary for his career.

But weeks later, sitting in his office with the city stretching out before him, he had realized something else.

He had gotten everything he wanted.

And yet, without her, it all felt meaningless.