Darkly His: The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée
WARNING ⚠️: This book contains sex scenes and mature contents not fit for readers below 18+.
If you love steamy romances and emotional stories, this book is the one.
By day, Damon follows her rules in the kitchen: chopping, kneading, burning his fingers, and surviving her sharp mouth.
By night, she follows his.
Damon Blackwell is a cold, dangerous billionaire who hates Christmas, women, and anything that smells like joy. Haunted by tragedy and trauma, and memories of the girl he once loved and lost, he lives like a machine: money, control, and pleasure without attachment.
Then his grandparents and three ruthless brothers dare him to do the impossible:
Live like a normal man for 12 days to Christmas: no staff, no luxuries, no protection, no control and no bad temper. He has to change and be easygoing with investors.
Fail, and he loses the biggest business deal of his life.
Indulgence is over for him.
The only place Damon knows he can grab survival? A small-town Christmas cooking competition hosted by that one woman who broke his heart years ago.
Merry Steele never expected to see Damon again. The man she left without a word. The man who haunted her dreams after she broke his heart back now stands in her kitchen offering a deal she can't refuse:
Cook for him. Sleep with him. Pretend to be his fiancée until the end of the year.
The pay is tempting. The temptation is even greater.
Before Christmas, can they resist the heat, desire, and lingering love they once shared and keep it strictly business?
As family obligations, enemies, and a high-profile Christmas ball close in, Damon and Merry must correct old heartbreak, passion, and dangerous feelings.
Will Damon ever forgive his fuckmate?
Can Merry resist the billionaire who once stole her heart... or will old flames burn hotter than ever under the snow, the lights, and the Christmas feelings?
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Chapter 4
"Don't play with me, Steele." He growled dangerously, and Merry giggled.
"Well...." She said. "I prefer the name 'Steele' without that 'Missy' word backing it up."
The elevator dinged open. His office unfolded-floor-to-ceiling windows, sharp lines, cold colors, some flower vases and perfect order.
A perfect view of the bustling californian city.
It was beyond luxury and elegance.
She sat before he ordered her to.
Merry's eyes drifted-not to him, but to the desk.
Her fingers reached out without thinking, brushing a slim metal pill case near his blotter, cool under her touch.
Damon's gaze followed the movement instantly.
"Don't touch that," he said, too quick, too sharp-for something that small.
She stopped, then withdrew her hand as if she'd touched something private.
"Damon," she said plainly, "we both know this is a sweet opportunity. And we both know I'd do a fucking good job with everything you described yesterday. Don't drag this. I've got a handful of things to deal with."
"Don't swear around here. This is...."
He avoided her eyes.
She stood, walked around the desk, and stopped right in front of him.
His jaw tightened.
"We're wasting time," she murmured.
She lifted her leg and pressed her heel right at the crease between his torso and thighs one tiny inch from the masculine bulge beneath his suit pants.
He flinched, shocked she'd dare.
"What are you doing, Merry?"
"Showing you what you've been missing for months. And what I could take away again."
He tried to stay composed. He failed.
Her foot moved only lightly and his hip jerked. Their eyes locked. She smiled.
Then she stepped back.
Damon grabbed her waist instantly-reflex, instinct, maybe memory.
"Don't touch me, Damon. The job hasn't been taken yet. And until it is, you don't get access."
She guided his hands off her body.
He was silent. His jaw tight. His eyes dark. His hip stiff.
She cupped the back of his head, massaging slowly. "Relax. Can't believe you still want me that bad."
His voice rasped, "Steele. Just sex. Forget what you're thinking. I just want your body."
"Damon," Merry said evenly, "we both know why I'm here. You need control. Appearances. Someone who fits the picture and won't bore you to death."
She sat and leaned back, crossing her legs. "And I'm good at my job."
His jaw tightened. "This isn't a game."
"No," she said softly. "It's an arrangement. A family problem, I guess."
She stood and walked slowly to the glass desk, slow enough to make him aware of every step.
"We're wasting time. Aren't you excited about being my fiancé?" she murmured.
Damon didn't move. Didn't look at her. But the tension in him gave him away.
"Just sex," he said at last, like a warning. "No complications."
Merry laughed quietly. "What else did you think it'd be about."
Then, she went to sit again, smirking back into his watchful blue eyes.
"Give me the fucking contract papers, Damon Blackwell. I'll need a good lawyer."
Damon was suddenly in front of her. He slipped his hand into her hair.
"What....?"
Damon only smirked softly and stepped back.
****
****
As Merry walked out of the lawyer's office, she smiled softly.
Three missed calls.
All from Samantha.
Merry smiled faintly and didn't return them yet.
When the elevator opened into the lobby, Damon was already there.
Waiting.
Not pacing. Not watching the doors. Just standing, hands in his pockets, coat on, expression neutral.
"You don't linger," he said, walking beside her without looking.
"I like efficiency." He pushed open the glass doors. "Your contract's digital copy will be emailed within the hour. NDA included. Violation penalties are... severe."
She stepped into the afternoon light. Cameras across the street shifted, curiously.
Merry noticed. Damon didn't need to.
He stopped just short of the curb. Cars rolled past. The city pretended not to care.
"You cook," Damon said. "You attend what I attend. You don't speak to the press unless approved. You don't improvise."
She turned to face him, eyes bright. "You just hired me to improvise your life."
A pause.
Then, Damon spoke: "You don't fall in love with me."
Merry tilted her head, teasing. "Too late to make that rule."
Then, she huffed, irritated.
"WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE EVEN WORTH LOVING?"
His jaw flexed. "You don't use the past also."
"Then don't make me talk about it," she said simply.
Another pause. Longer.
Finally, he nodded once. Not agreement. Acceptance.
"My driver will pick you up at seven," he said. "You're moving into the penthouse tonight."
"Not tonight, Damon. I have my kitchen staffs to deal with first. Tomorrow."
"I want efficiency."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "You're already breaking my own rules, Damon. You'll have to manage me."
He met her gaze then. Really met it.
"This is temporary," he said. "You leave at year-end."
Merry stepped back, the noise of the city rushing in between them.
She walked away before he could answer.
Across the street, a phone lifted. A photo snapped.
Damon watched her go, something tight settling behind his chest.
****
****
Morning came too bright.
Damon was already awake when the glass walls of the penthouse began to shine with sunlight.
He stood at the window, shirt half-buttoned, coffee untouched on the counter behind him. His reflection stared back, eyes rimmed dark, hair tousled, jaw set too tight, like sleep had been a personal insult.
He hadn't looked at the bed since he rose.
Merry was going to be there soon. Curled on her side. Breathing. Sleeping.
That was the problem.
He turned away before the thought finished forming.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his father.
"Board meeting moved forward. PREPARE. Your image matters more than ever. Don't embarrass me. Have you gotten that fiancée?"
Damon locked the screen without replying.
The elevator ride up to his office was silent and brutal.
By the time he reached the executive floor, the mask was back in place.
Cold, precise, impenetrable.
The moment he stepped out, everything irritated him.
"Good morning, sir," his assistant said too brightly.
He didn't answer.
A junior analyst trailed him with a tablet, voice eager. "Few minutes ago, the board rescheduled the meeting to eleven-"
"I said nine," Damon snapped without breaking stride.
"Yes, sir, but Martin's office called-"
Damon stopped so abruptly the analyst nearly collided with him.
"I don't care what Martin's office wants," he said quietly.
The quiet was worse than shouting.
The analyst swallowed. "Understood, sir."
They moved again. Faster.
A catered breakfast sat untouched. Someone had chosen pastries with powdered sugar. Damon stared at them like they were an offense.
"Who ordered this?" he asked.
A staffer raised her hand hesitantly. "You usually-"
"Get it out," he said. "Now."
She scrambled.
His assistant tried again, cautiously. "Sir, if you'd like to postpone-"
"No. Call them in now."
The word landed hard.
A steel case slipped from someone's hand. Damon flinched at the sound before he could stop himself.
The room noticed.
His fingers curled slowly at his side.
Unacceptable.
"Why are you all standing there?" he snapped coldly. "If you don't have something useful to add, leave."
They left.
Too fast.
Too obedient.
When the door shut, Damon gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. He stared at the polished surface until his reflection blurred.
Control. He needed control.
His hand went where it always did-automatic, unthinking.
Nothing.
He paused.
He checked the blotter. The pen. The edge of the desk.
His hand moved again, slower this time. He shifted a folder. Checked the corner. Ran his fingers along the smooth surface like the answer might be hiding in plain sight.
The pill case was gone.
The reaction was immediate and sharp. Not panic but worse.
He straightened, jaw tightening, breath measured. He stood very still, counting once. Twice.
He never misplaced anything.
He slipped his hand into his coat pocket.
His fingers closed around something that did not belong to him.
****
****
At lunchtime, Merry ate with him publicly.
Dressed. Calm. Watching him like she already knew.
"You yelled at three people," she said mildly, setting a mug down on the table. "One of them almost cried."
"I pay them well," he replied. "They'll recover."
She didn't argue. Didn't smile.
"That wasn't about them. You're acting and I think I'll enjoy some parts of your show. Not all, though."
He froze just for a fraction of a second.
"What do you mean, Steele?"
"You're in trouble somehow," she said. Not a question.
Silence thickened.
He poured himself coffee he wouldn't drink. "You don't get to diagnose me."
"No," she agreed easily. "But I get to notice patterns. You get cruel when you're scared of things."
His jaw tightened.
"You were shaking," she said softly. "Your hands. You didn't even notice."
That hit.
He set the cup down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim.
"This arrangement," he said coldly, "does not include emotional analysis."
Merry held his gaze, unflinching.
"Then stop making me see your weaknesses," she said. "Be extra-cold."
Damon looked like he would strangle her.
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8.6
It was my birthday, but instead of celebrating, I was bleeding on the floor of my own bedroom. My sister Serena had just smashed a champagne bottle over my legs, her eyes filled with a dark madness because our father allowed me to wear the family diamonds.
To escape her, I bolted into a pitch-black guest suite, only to be grabbed by a man who felt like a wall of solid muscle. He was drugged, unstable, and pinned me against the wall, his teeth sinking into my neck in a primal claim that left a permanent mark.
I managed to flee, but the nightmare was just beginning. My father didn't care about my injuries; he only cared that I had "insulted" the man in that room—Delos French, the most powerful CEO in New York. He threatened to stop paying for my mother’s critical care facility unless I went to Delos and begged for his forgiveness.
My brother Julian was even worse, intentionally pouring scalding coffee over my bandaged wounds just to see me flinch. They forced me into a revealing gold dress, treating me like a high-priced commodity to be sold to the highest bidder to save their failing company.
I didn't understand how the people who were supposed to love me could be more predatory than the monster in the dark. I had spent my life fixing their scandals, yet they were ready to throw me to the wolves the moment I became useful as a pawn.
But when I stood before Delos French at his gala, he didn't see a trophy. He recognized my scent, my touch, and the fire in my eyes. He trapped me in his private lounge, kneeling to clean the blood from my injured feet.
"Marry me," he whispered, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "And I will give you the power to burn your family to the ground."
I looked into the eyes of the man who had hunted me and realized he was the only one offering me a weapon to destroy the people who had broken me.
"Okay," I whispered.
8.9
For three years, Alana acted as the sole tactical brain for the Dawnbreaker squad, keeping them alive despite being labeled a useless "Dud" Conduit.
But right before the crucial Ascension Trials, squad leader Cash handed her a corporate sponsorship contract. The condition? She had to become the "private companion" to a greasy corporate heir just so the squad could get high-tier gear.
When she refused, the teammates she had bled for unanimously voted to kick her out.
"You're just window dressing, a liability."
They revoked her safehouse access, burned her belongings, and the academy advisor even tried to force her into a state-sanctioned breeding program. They left her to freeze in the slums, betting she would desperately crawl into the rich man's bed.
What they didn't know was that her inability to summon an Eidolon wasn't a lack of talent. Her teammate Dallin had been secretly sabotaging her rituals for years, crippling her potential just to keep her chained as their free tactician.
Stripped of everything and pushed to the absolute brink, Alana's despair morphed into a deadly resolve.
Using a million-credit black market loan and a forbidden blood matrix, she forcibly anchored an Apex-Tier cosmic wolf disguised as a harmless silver pup.
When her ex-squad tried to publicly humiliate her and burn her new "pet" alive in the cafeteria, a flash of silver light severed Dallin's hand instantly.
Looking at her screaming former teammates, Alana finally smiled.
8.4
Everything in Chris' world changes when he meets Kate.
Chris Cena who is a young billionaire CEO controls one of the most powerful empires built by his late father.
Chris lives under the shadow of his mother, Elisabeth Cena. The ruthless woman who once ruled the empire before handing it to him.
Kate Milmar who is brillant, sensual and emotionally guarded moves confidently among powerful men without ever allowing herself to belong to any of them.
When she publicly challenges a wealthy client, her fearless defiance immediately captures Chris's attention.
Chris offers her a dangerous proposal for her to leave her world and exclusively belong to him.
As their attraction grows slowly, Kate notices strange cracks in the history of the Cena Empire. Chris's father died suddenly years earlier and in the aftermath, Elisabeth took control of the company briefly before passing it to her son.
What once seemed like a normal transition begins to look suspicious as Kate uncovers missing records, hidden documents and a mysterious change in the company's will.
Elisabeth sees Kate as a threat to both her son and the legacy she had built and a silent war begins between the two women .
Chris gets caught between his loyalty to his mother and the growing feelings he has for Kate.
9.3
"Adrian, why would you lie to me? Why would you let her push my mum like that?"
Yvonne's voice trembled, holding back tears.
Adrian smirked. "Wake up, Yvonne. You really thought I wanted you when Tricia was right here?"
That was how Adrian-her first crush, the boy she thought cared-chose to humiliate her in front of everyone as she was the cleaner's adopted daughter.
But fate had other plans.
Because the Diamond Belfort brothers-the heirs everyone adored were coming to their school in search of their missing heiress- baby sister. But the queen bee steals the chance that should have been hers. Then again, secrets don't stay buried forever. With her true identity waiting to explode, Yvonne must decide to rise from the ashes, claim her place, and bring down everyone who tried to destroy her.
Because the real heiress doesn't beg.
She takes rather.
Now, Yvonne is done playing small. It's her time to rise, reclaim her crown, and make everyone regret ever doubting her.
7.9
Eileen Goff was a nobody, scrubbing diner tables to survive while her greedy family bled her dry.
On the eve of her twentieth birthday, the government's mandatory marriage algorithm matched her with a spouse.
It wasn't a plumber or a teacher. It was Harrison Butler, the ruthless, untouchable billionaire king of Butler Industries.
At the registry, Harrison's glamorous intended fiancée threw a half-million-dollar check at her.
"Take the money, get out of here, and never show your face again."
The registry supervisor even offered her a million dollars to sign a cancellation agreement, trying to erase her from the system.
At their first high-society gala, Harrison's stepmother and the fiancée locked Eileen in an empty room, plotting to humiliate her and prove she was just cheap trash.
Eileen was terrified and confused. Men like Harrison Butler didn't just accept federal matches with girls who smelled like fried onions.
But instead of abandoning her, Harrison smashed the door open, publicly banished his own family, and kissed her in front of the entire city's elite.
Why was this billionaire going to such extreme lengths to protect a complete stranger?
Then she overheard his assistant talking about a marriage clause in his grandfather's trust fund.
He didn't love her; he just needed a powerless, state-mandated wife to lock his parasitic family out of his empire.
Realizing she was a highly valuable pawn, Eileen stopped trembling, looked the billionaire in the eye, and spoke.
"I believe we can have more than just a legal relationship. We can have a business arrangement."
7.7
Silas Vane, a billionaire on the edge of ruin, needs his ex-wife's signature to save his tech empire-and June Ashby, his scorned orchard-owning ex, wants only one thing: to make him suffer.
The deal is brutal, simple, and non-negotiable: Silas must move back to their small hometown, trade his silk suits for calloused hands, and work the orchard harvest for six months. Worse? He has to play her doting husband for the press-fake marriage, real contract, no room for error.
What starts as a revenge-fueled game quickly spirals. As the sun dips below the orchard trees, old sparks reignite, and the line between fake and real blurs into something dangerous.
Silas came to town for a patent to save his empire. But he might just walk away with a broken contract-and a heart completely owned by the woman who set out to destroy him.