#romancewithbite

Chapter Eight — (8/43)

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✨ Some lies are told softly, so they sound like love. ✨

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Sophie bounded into the room, her curly hair still slightly mussed from sleep. She spotted Emilio and her face lit up, dispelling some of the morning’s chill.

“Mr. Torres! You’re here!” she shrieked, launching herself at him.

Emilio caught her, hugging her tight, inhaling the familiar scent of childish innocence. For a moment, he forgot the absurdity of the situation, lost in the genuine warmth of her embrace. He was still Mr. Torres to her, even if everything else had changed.

“Hey, Sophie-bear,” he murmured, ruffling her hair.

Damien watched them, an unreadable flicker in his eyes.

Sophie pulled back, beaming. “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“Actually, Sophie,” Damien interjected smoothly, his voice calm and even, “Mr. Torres will be staying much longer than that.”

Sophie tilted her head, her big eyes questioning.

Damien took a deep breath. “Mr. Torres and I have something very important to tell you, monkey. We’ve decided that we… we care for each other very much. And so, we’re going to get married.”

Sophie’s eyes widened, first in surprise, then in dawning realization. Her gaze flickered between her father’s stoic face and Emilio’s slightly pale one.

“Married?” she whispered, her voice small.

Emilio forced a smile.

“That’s right, sweetie. Like in the storybooks. And I’m going to live here with you and your Papa now.” The lie tasted bitter, even as he said it for her sake.

Sophie paused, processing—then her face broke into a delighted grin. “Like a family?”

“Exactly,” Damien said, his voice flat but firm, leaving no room for dissent. He even offered a rare, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement to Emilio.

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Emilio’s heart ached. He was lying to this bright, trusting child, but at the same time, the relief that Sophie seemed to accept it—even embrace it—was profound. It meant his sacrifice, however humiliating, wasn’t entirely in vain. The financial security for his grandmother, the safety of his teaching career—it was all now inextricably linked to this fragile, manufactured happiness.

After breakfast, Ms. Albright appeared as if on cue, a tablet in hand. She had a schedule. Every hour of Emilio’s new life was already mapped out: meetings with Sophie’s new private tutor, introductions to the household staff, fittings for new clothes, discussions about the public announcement. His old life as Leo was already a ghost. His life as Mr. Torres was on indefinite hiatus. He was now just Emilio—the fiancé, the future husband, the latest acquisition in Damien’s meticulously planned world.

The days leading up to the public engagement announcement were a whirlwind of carefully orchestrated falsehoods. Emilio was given a crash course in Damien’s life—his business ventures, his carefully cultivated public image, even the names of distant relatives he’d never met but would now have to pretend to know. He met the household staff, a small army of professionals who moved with silent efficiency, their faces as discreet and unreadable as Ms. Albright’s.

His first experience with Damien’s tailor was both mortifying and fascinating. The man clucked over Emilio’s existing wardrobe before measuring him with clinical precision, whispering figures to Ms. Albright about bespoke suits and formal wear. Emilio felt like a doll being dressed for a part he hadn’t auditioned for.

Sophie, meanwhile, adapted with remarkable ease. Her private tutor quickly established a routine, and Sophie still sought Emilio out for stories and playtime, clinging to him as naturally as she did to her father. Emilio found himself slipping into the rhythm of being a stay-at-home “parent,” spending his days reading, drawing, and playing hide-and-seek in a house too large for proper hiding.

Damien remained largely absent, immersed in work. Their interactions were brief and businesslike—discussing schedules, clarifying the narrative, exchanging polite remarks about Sophie’s day. There was no warmth. No intimacy. Nothing to suggest the impending “union” they were about to announce to the world.

Tuesday arrived.

The day of the public announcement.

Emilio stared at his reflection in a dark suit that fit him perfectly—so perfectly it felt like a second skin. He barely recognized himself.

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✨ Stories that ache, burn, and bloom. 🥀

📖 Read The Gilded Cage on Wattpad

✨"By day, he’s a kindergarten teacher with glitter on his sleeves. By night, he’s “Leo,” the man behind a gold mask. And tonight, his double life collides with the father of his favorite student."✨

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The smell of dry-erase, markers, glitter glue, and apple juice was oddly comforting to Emilio.

He moved around the classroom like it was his second home—dodging finger-paint splatters, correcting backward S’s, and refereeing a heated dispute over who got to be the “Line Leader.” For a group of five-year-olds, his students had the capacity for both full-scale meltdowns and Shakespearean monologues. Emilio wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Well, almost anything.

“Mr. Torres,” came a high, chipper voice, “Sophie’s cutting the glue sticks again.”

Emilio turned from the alphabet board just in time to catch Sophie, curly hair tied up with a glittery pink bow, in the act of slicing the bottom off a purple glue stick with her kid-safe scissors.

“Sophie,” Emilio said, crouching down to eye level.

“What’s our rule about scissors?”

“They’re for paper,” she recited, sheepish.

“And is glue paper?”

“No, but it looked squishy and I wanted to see what was inside.”

Emilio smiled despite himself. “Tell you what. If you promise not to perform surgery on your school supplies again, I’ll let you feed Percy the class hamster.”

Sophie gasped. “Deal!”

From across the room, Tasha Miller—his coworker, best friend, and official classroom gossip—gave him a smirk.

“You spoil her,” she mouthed.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

At 3:10, the bell rang. Small shoes squeaked against linoleum as kids rushed to cubbies and clung to legs.

Emilio crouched to help one of them zip up their monster-shaped backpack when he heard the front door click open.

The shift in air was subtle, but immediate. Voices quieted. Little heads turned.

He had arrived.

Damien Langford walked in like he owned the floor he stepped on. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a navy overcoat and a steel-gray suit beneath it. He gave off the same energy as an expensive car with tinted windows—sleek, cold, untouchable.

Sophie ran straight to him. “Papa!”

“Hey, monkey,” Damien murmured, lifting her easily into one arm.

Emilio stood, trying not to stare. Or sweat. He felt like he always did around Damien—like a guy wearing a $12 tie standing next to a man who probably had an espresso machine more expensive than Emilio’s car.

“Mr. Torres,” Damien said with a nod.

“Mr. Langford,” Emilio replied, voice a little too formal. His palms were still glue-sticky.

They stood in silence for a beat too long. Sophie clung to Damien’s collar but was watching Emilio with interest, like she was trying to figure out what he was feeling.

“Well,” Damien finally said, shifting Sophie onto his hip. “We appreciate your… continued dedication.” And with that, he turned and left.

By 5:00, the classroom was spotless. Emilio stood by the coat rack, slipping on a different jacket—sleeker, darker, without the threadbare elbow patches.

He opened his backpack and pulled out a black mask, glittered in gold. His stage persona. “Leo.”

With a sigh, he put it in his gym bag and headed for the subway.

The strip club pulsed with low lights and louder music.

The crowd was already half-drunk and shouting for “the teacher” before he’d even hit the stage.

Emilio’s feet moved on muscle memory. Smile, hips, roll, tease. Nothing too vulgar, nothing too soft. Just the right balance of mystery and control. Up here, he didn’t have to think. He just performed.

He never looked too closely at the audience. Until he did. Third row, center. Navy coat. Steel-gray suit. Pale eyes like a thunderstorm.

Damien Langford.

Emilio’s heart slammed into his ribs like a bird in a cage. The song kept playing, but his breath was gone.

Damien’s face was unreadable.

And he did not look away.

Chapter Seven — (7/43)

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✨ Some cages are lined with silk instead of bars. ✨

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The rest of the evening was a blur of overwhelming opulence. Ms. Albright, rigid and efficient, led him through a house so vast it felt like a small hotel. There was a library filled with leather-bound books he would never dare touch, a gleaming professional-grade kitchen, a private gym, and a sprawling living room with a view of the city lights that made his stomach drop.

His room was larger than his entire apartment. It had a king-sized bed, a walk-in closet that was mostly empty save for a few impossibly soft bathrobes, and a bathroom with a shower big enough for a small car. His own spare belongings, hastily packed by Ms. Albright’s team, were already neatly folded in drawers. His worn copy of The Velveteen Rabbit looked out of place on the sleek nightstand.

Damien appeared briefly after the tour, standing in the doorway of Emilio’s new room.

“Sophie is asleep. She’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

Emilio simply nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

“Get some rest,” Damien said, his voice softer than Emilio had ever heard it—almost, but not quite, empathetic.

Then he turned and walked away, leaving Emilio alone in the cavernous silence of the luxurious room.

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Emilio sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress so soft it felt like he was floating. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he found Tasha. He needed to talk to her, to tell her everything. But then he remembered the nondisclosure agreement—and the unspoken threat of losing Sophie.

He sighed, the sound lost in the vastness of the room. This was it. No turning back. He was now officially entangled with Damien Langford, the architect of his new, gilded cage. The only comfort was the quiet hum of his phone confirming a new bank account had been set up—and a large sum of money already transferred.

Sleep didn’t come easily that first night. The bed was too soft, the silence too profound. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant hum of the city, seemed amplified in the unfamiliar space. Emilio replayed the events of the day again and again: Damien’s cold proposal, Ms. Albright’s unflappable efficiency, the dizzying tour of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

He finally drifted off just before dawn.

A discreet chime woke him.

7:00 a.m. Saturday.

Too early.

He found Damien in a vast, sunlit dining room.

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✨ Stories that ache, burn, and bloom. 🥀

📖 Read The Gilded Cage on Wattpad

Chapter Nine — 9/43

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✨ Some lies don’t just spread — they settle in. ✨

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Damien met him in the main foyer. He looked impossibly handsome, commanding, in a suit the color of midnight.

He gave Emilio a brief look. “You’ll do,” he said, a faint hint of something that might have been approval in his voice.

They drove in a black car with tinted windows, Ms. Albright in the front passenger seat, barking instructions into a discreet headset. The car pulled up to a grand hotel, where a small cluster of photographers and reporters were already gathered.

Emilio’s heart hammered.

This was it.

Damien stepped out first, a confident, practiced ease in his movements. He extended a hand to Emilio, who took it, his palm sweating. The flashbulbs erupted, blinding.

Damien, ever composed, addressed the cameras with a controlled smile. “Good morning, everyone. I’m pleased to announce that Emilio Torres and I are engaged to be married. We’ve found a deep connection and look forward to building a family together. Thank you for respecting our privacy during this joyful time.”

He squeezed Emilio’s hand briefly, a public display of affection that felt entirely foreign and utterly fake. Emilio forced a smile, a practiced teacher’s smile, as the cameras clicked furiously. He nodded, murmured a polite, generic thank you, and allowed Damien to guide him through the crowd of reporters. <!-- more -->

The whole thing lasted less than five minutes. But it felt like an eternity. As they settled back into the quiet of the car, Emilio let out a breath he’d been holding since he stepped onto the pavement.

“Well done,” Damien said flatly. He was already looking at his tablet, the brief charade forgotten. “That went smoothly.”

Emilio nodded, staring out the window at the passing city.

He was engaged.

To Damien Langford.

The lie was officially out, and he wondered how many more layers he would have to build before it all collapsed.

The drive back to the mansion was silent, save for the hum of the engine. Damien remained absorbed in his tablet, his expression unreadable.

Emilio, meanwhile, felt a strange lightness that quickly curdled into emptiness. The public performance was over. The private one was just beginning.

When they arrived home, the house felt different. Not physically—but emotionally. It was no longer just Damien’s extravagant residence. It was now the stage for their domestic charade. The staff moved with renewed quietness, their glances subtle but curious as Emilio followed Damien through the halls.

Later that afternoon, Ms. Albright summoned Emilio to the study. Damien was not present. She handed him a new schedule—far more detailed than the last.

It included “couple’s activities.” Simulated date nights. Weekly dinners with select business associates. Multiple charity appearances leading up to the gala. Each item was meticulously planned, right down to suggested conversation topics.

“Mr. Langford prefers spontaneity in these interactions,” Ms. Albright said, her voice devoid of irony. “However, these are common conversational starters. You are to appear enamored, but not overtly affectionate. A quiet devotion is most convincing.”

Emilio stared at one bullet point: Discuss mutual interests (e.g., charity work, art appreciation).

He barely knew Damien. Let alone their mutual interests.

This wasn’t just about playing a role. It was about erasing himself.

Sophie, blissfully unaware of the complexity of it all, seemed delighted by the news. She drew pictures of a stick-figure family—herself in the middle, holding hands with two taller figures labeled Papa and Mr. Torres.

She presented them to Emilio with bright eyes.

He smiled for her, guilt tightening his chest.

He was building a fantasy around her joy. And the lie was growing roots.

✨ Some doors, once opened, change everything.✨

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The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute instructions to his substitute for Monday (because, of course, a sudden engagement meant a sudden "honeymoon," however fake), hurried goodbyes to his students, and a vague explanation to Tasha about needing a few days off for “personal reasons.” She gave him a knowing look, but thankfully didn’t pry.

By six o’clock, Emilio stood in front of his closet, which contained precisely one decent pair of non-jeans slacks, a slightly faded button-down shirt, and the aforementioned $12 tie. He opted for the slacks and a simple, dark-colored polo shirt. He tried to brush some of the dust off his one pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes. He felt like an imposter even before he’d left his apartment.

The subway ride felt endless. Each stop brought him further into a world he didn't belong in, until he emerged into a tree-lined street of imposing, elegant homes. Damien's address led him to a formidable gate that slid open silently as he approached, revealing a long, winding driveway.

The house was all glass and sharp angles, bathed in the cool glow of evening lights. It was vast, impersonal, and intimidating. He rang the doorbell, his heart hammering against his ribs.

A moment later, the door was opened by a woman in a perfectly tailored black suit – Ms. Albright, no doubt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her expression was as unyielding as her voice had been on the phone.

“Mr. Torres,” she stated, her gaze assessing him from head to toe. It felt less like a greeting and more like an inventory check. “Please, come in. Mr. Langford has been waiting for you.”

She led him through a cavernous, minimalist foyer. Every surface gleamed, every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a museum. There were no finger paint smudges here, no stray glitter, no smell of apple juice. It smelled of expensive wood polish and something sharp, like ambition.

“The study, Mr. Torres,” Ms. Albright announced, opening a heavy, dark-wood door.

Damien sat behind an enormous desk, bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but a perfectly fitted dark sweater and dress pants that somehow still managed to look more formal than Emilio’s best clothes. Sophie was nowhere in sight.

Damien looked up, his pale eyes meeting Emilio’s. There was no greeting, no pleasantry. Just that familiar, unreadable gaze.

“Have a seat, Emilio,” Damien said, his voice flat. He gestured to one of two leather chairs facing his desk.

Emilio sat, sinking into the plush leather that felt too luxurious for him. This wasn’t a meeting; this was an interrogation. This wasn’t a proposal; it was a contract. And he was about to sign away his life, or at least a significant portion of it, to this man.

Damien gestured to Ms. Albright, who efficiently placed a slim, leather-bound folder on the desk between them. It looked less like an agreement for a marriage and more like a hostile takeover document.

“Thank you, Elena,” Damien said, his voice clipped. He didn’t look at her, his attention already fixed on Emilio.

“As I mentioned, this arrangement is temporary. The primary objective is to present a stable domestic environment for Sophie’s upcoming custody review. The duration will be approximately six to twelve months, or until the court’s final decision is rendered and deemed irreversible.”

Emilio stared at the folder. Six to twelve months. A year of living a lie. A year of living with Damien Langford.

“This document outlines the terms,” Damien continued, his tone devoid of emotion. “It details our public narrative, your responsibilities, and the financial compensation.”

Ms. Albright slid the folder open, revealing several pages of dense legal text. Emilio’s eyes skimmed the jargon, his head already spinning.

“We will do the public narrative first,” Damien said, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on the desk. “We met through Sophie, naturally. A casual acquaintance that blossomed into a deep, meaningful connection. You’re charming, kind, good with children – all true, I presume?”

Emilio bristled. The forced compliments felt like thinly veiled insults. “I am a good teacher, yes.”

“Good. We will announce our engagement next week. A small, intimate ceremony will follow shortly after. You will cease your employment at the kindergarten for the duration of our marriage – it will appear as if you’re focusing on our new family dynamic. Sophie will be homeschooled by a private tutor for this period, to further support the narrative of a focused, stable home environment.”

Emilio’s jaw dropped. “Cease my employment? But—Sophie? She loves school. She loves her friends!”

Damien’s pale eyes hardened. “This is not a negotiation, Emilio. It is a necessary component of the illusion. Her attendance at school, particularly with you as her teacher, could invite too much scrutiny, too many questions from other parents. And your continued presence there would make it difficult to maintain the public image of a newlywed focusing on family life.”

Chapter Six — (6/43)

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✨ *Some signatures feel heavier than chains.*

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The breath caught in Emilio’s throat. He loved his job more than anything. It wasn't just a paycheck; it was his passion, his purpose. To give it up, even temporarily, felt like a betrayal of himself, a wound cut deep. And Sophie, his sweet, bright Sophie, pulled out of the environment she thrived in? It was a low blow.

“As for responsibilities,” Ms. Albright interjected, her voice cutting through Emilio’s rising panic, “you will reside solely at this address. You will accompany Mr. Langford to all necessary social events, family gatherings, and any custody-related appointments. You will present a united front, publicly and privately. There will be no discussion of your previous employment, nor any indication that this is anything other than a legitimate marriage. Discretion is paramount.”

Emilio felt trapped, suffocating in the opulent room. “And… financial compensation?”

Damien picked up a pen, tapping it lightly against the contract. “A monthly allowance will be deposited into a new account, sufficient to cover all personal expenses. Your previous debts, including your grandmother’s medical bills, will be settled immediately upon the signing of this agreement. A substantial sum will be transferred to you upon the successful completion and dissolution of the marriage.”

The offer was staggering. Enough money to wipe out his crushing debt, to secure his grandmother’s future, to provide a safety net he’d never dreamed of. It was tempting—horrifyingly so. Everything he needed, offered with a chilling lack of warmth.

“You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement,” Damien added, as if reading his mind, “regarding the true nature of our arrangement and any information you might glean during your time here.”

Emilio looked from the cold, unyielding face of Damien to the thick stack of legal papers. This wasn’t a marriage proposal; it was a surrender. He was trading his freedom, his identity, for financial security and the preservation of his other life.

He thought of Sophie, her eager smile, her small hand fitting perfectly in his. He thought of his grandmother, her tired eyes, her fragile hope.

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The pen clicked as Damien pushed the folder closer. “Read it carefully, Emilio. Then sign.”

Emilio reached out, his hand shaking as he picked up the pen. He was about to sign away his life—or at least the next year of it—to the most formidable man he’d ever met. The ink felt cold against his trembling fingers.

Emilio’s gaze darted over the pages, but the legal jargon blurred into an indecipherable mess. His mind fixated on the two clauses that mattered most: his grandmother’s medical bills paid, and the end of his stripping days. And the cost—his job, his freedom, his dignity. It felt like selling his soul, but the image of his grandmother’s worn hands, the worry etched into her face, eclipsed everything else.

He didn’t read every line. He couldn’t. He just found the blank space at the bottom of the last page, the dotted line waiting for him. His hand trembled so violently he had to brace it with his other, the pen scratching faintly as he scrawled his name:

*Emilio Torres.*

Ms. Albright, silent until now, efficiently slid another document across the desk. “And the non-disclosure agreement, Mr. Torres.”

Another signature. Another piece of himself given away.

When he finally lifted the pen, his hand ached as if he’d been wielding a sledgehammer instead of a ballpoint.

Damien took the documents, his movements precise, almost reverent. He handed them to Ms. Albright, who placed them back in the folder and snapped it shut with a definitive click. The sound echoed through the silent study, sealing Emilio’s fate.

“Excellent,” Damien stated, rising from his desk. He walked around to stand beside Emilio’s chair, his presence suddenly overwhelming. “Elena will arrange for your belongings to be moved over the weekend. You can begin residing here as of Monday morning.”

Emilio swallowed. Monday morning. He hadn’t even truly processed what he’d just done.

“We’ll make the public announcement of our engagement on Tuesday,” Damien continued, as if discussing a corporate merger. “A brief statement to a few media outlets, followed by an appearance at the charity gala next Thursday. Sophie will be informed of our engagement tomorrow.”

Sophie.

Oh, Sophie. How would she react to this whirlwind? To suddenly having a *new papa*—who was her teacher?

“You’ll be given a tour of the residence tonight,” Ms. Albright added smoothly, “and provided with a temporary access key. Your personal effects will be unpacked in your assigned suite. We’ve already taken the liberty of purchasing some essentials for you.”

*Assigned suite.*

*Essentials.*

Emilio felt a wave of dizzying unreality. His life—once simple, once predictable—was being dismantled and rebuilt around him without his consent.

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✨ Stories that ache, burn, and bloom. 🥀

💌 Read *The Gilded Cage* on Wattpad

✨ Some vows are spoken with trembling hands.✨

════════ ⋆★⋆ 🥀 ⋆★⋆ ══════════

They stood in the same spot, the same empty stretch of linoleum, the same silence hanging between them. Only this time, it was filled with the unspoken weight of Emilio’s decision.

“Mr. Langford,” Emilio began, his voice steady, despite the tremor in his hands. He clasped them behind his back, a desperate attempt at appearing composed. “I… I’ve thought about your offer.”

Damien’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes, the color of a stormy sky, seemed to sharpen, fixed on Emilio. “And?”

Emilio swallowed, the word sticking in his throat like a splinter. He hated this. He hated the position he was in, hated the man who put him there, and most of all, he hated that he saw no other choice.

“I’ll do it,” he forced out, the words tasting like ash. “I’ll marry you.”

A flicker—something unreadable, perhaps relief, perhaps triumph—crossed Damien’s face before it smoothed back into its customary mask. “Good. I knew you’d be pragmatic, Mr. Torres.”

Emilio flinched at the implied compliment. Pragmatic? Or desperate?

“What… what happens now?” Emilio asked, feeling a strange mix of emotions.

Damien pulled out his phone, a sleek, expensive device.

“My assistant will contact you later today. She’ll set up a meeting. We’ll need to discuss the details of our… arrangement. The duration, the public narrative, living arrangements, and the financial specifics.”

“Living arrangements?” Emilio echoed, aghast. “You mean I have to… move in with you?”

Damien raised a brow. “Of course. A married couple lives together, Emilio. It creates credibility. Do you have a problem with that?”

Emilio opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

A problem? He lived in a tiny, cluttered apartment filled with thrift-store furniture and the lingering scent of old books and his grandmother’s herbal remedies. Damien lived in a mansion, probably, with granite countertops and a view of the city skyline. The sheer chasm between their lives was dizzying.

“No,” Emilio managed, the lie tasting bitter. “No, I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Excellent.” Damien nodded, a curt, business-like movement. “My assistant, Ms. Albright, will be in touch. Expect a call by lunchtime.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And Emilio? No more… extracurricular activities. You won’t need to.”

It was both a statement of fact and a stark reminder of the leash he was now on. Emilio just nodded, unable to meet Damien’s gaze.

Damien gave another brief nod and turned to re-enter the classroom. Just before he stepped inside, he glanced back, his expression softening almost imperceptibly for a fleeting moment. “You’ve made a wise decision.”

Emilio watched him go, the cold cologne scent fading from the hallway. He felt a profound sense of unreality, as if he were watching himself in a play. He was getting married. To a man who blackmailed him. For a child he loved, and a job he couldn’t lose.

His hands still trembled, but now it was from a different kind of fear. The fear of the unknown, of the life he was about to step into, a life where the lines between Mr. Torres and Leo had just blurred into an unrecognizable mess. He just hoped, with a desperate, quiet prayer, that he wouldn't regret it.

The school day crawled by. Every ring of the bell, every child’s excited shout, tightened the knot in Emilio’s stomach. He kept glancing at his phone, a cheap, cracked smartphone that felt suddenly inadequate in the face of impending luxury.

At 12:15 PM, just as he was about to usher his students to the lunchroom, it rang. An unknown number. He took a deep breath and stepped into the quiet of the supply closet.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Torres? This is Elena Albright, Mr. Langford’s executive assistant.” The voice was crisp, efficient, with an underlying steel that spoke of someone who tolerated no nonsense. “Mr. Langford informed me of your… impending union. I’m calling to schedule our initial meeting. Are you free later today?”

Emilio blinked. Impending union. It sounded so grand, so official, for something built on blackmail and desperation.

“This evening?”

“Yes. Mr. Langford prefers to move with efficiency. I’ve booked us for seven o’clock at his residence. I’ll send the address to your phone momentarily.”

“His… residence?”

“That’s correct. You’ll be living there, of course. It’s best you familiarize yourself with the property and discuss the specifics in person.” There was no room for argument in her tone. “Do you require a car service, Mr. Torres?”

Emilio nearly choked. “No, no, I can get myself there.” A car service. Good lord. “Thank you, Ms. Albright.”

“Very good. I’ll see you then.” The line clicked dead before he could even properly say goodbye.

He stared at his phone, the address for Damien Langford’s residence already popping up. A quick search revealed it was in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, a sleek, modern architectural marvel that looked more like an art gallery than a home. His own tiny apartment with its perpetually leaky faucet suddenly felt miles away.

✨ Some choices aren’t really choices at all.✨

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The word “marriage” echoed in Emilio’s head, bouncing off the fluorescent lights of the school hallway like a stray rubber ball. It was absurd. It was a joke, a hallucination brought on by too little sleep and too much glitter. Except Damien Langford’s cologne still lingered, cold and expensive, a tangible reminder that this nightmare was real.

He spent the rest of Monday in a fog. The children’s laughter sounded distant, the bright colors of their artwork muted. Every time Tasha asked him about his weekend, he nearly blurted out, “Oh, nothing much, just got blackmailed into a fake marriage by a student’s dad!” He settled for a vague, “It was… eventful,” and prayed she wouldn’t press.

He considered his options, or rather, the distinct lack thereof. He could refuse. And then what? Damien would expose him. He’d lose his teaching job, the only job that truly nourished his soul. He’d lose the comfort of apple juice and glitter glue for good. And then what would he do? The stripping wasn’t a choice born of desire, but of desperation. His grandmother’s escalating medical bills had swallowed his savings, then his pride, then every spare hour he possessed. He couldn’t afford to lose this. He simply couldn’t.

Tuesday brought a new wave of panic. He ran a few scenarios in his mind, each one worse than the last.

Telling the school himself? Explaining to Sophie why her favorite Mr. Torres was suddenly gone? The thought of her sad, confused little face was a physical punch to the gut.

He tried to distract himself. He meticulously organized the art supplies, color-coding the crayons, alphabetizing the construction paper. He even stayed late to build a new block-tower display, higher and more elaborate than any before. But even then, the image of Damien’s unreadable face, the chilling calm in his voice, haunted him.

By the time Wednesday evening came, he called Tasha.

“Hey,” he said, sounding casual, “Hypothetically speaking, if someone you knew was in a complicated situation, like, morally gray, high stakes, what would you do?”

Tasha, ever practical, snorted. “Depends. Are we talking about a rogue glitter-bombing incident or something that could land you in jail?”

Emilio forced a laugh. “Closer to the glitter-bombing, but with… reputation consequences.”

“My advice? Confess. Or at least get legal advice,” Tasha said without hesitation. “Secrets always come out, Emi. And usually, they do more damage when they do.”

He thanked her, hung up, and stared at his phone. Legal advice? He couldn’t even imagine explaining this to a lawyer without sounding completely insane. And confessing? To whom? The principal? The parents? The whole world?

He went to work on Thursday feeling hollowed out.

Sophie, oblivious to the storm brewing between the adults in her life, skipped up to him, a drawing of a smiling sun clutched in her hand. “Mr. Torres! Look what I made!”

Emilio smiled, genuinely this time, and praised her. He loved these kids. They were his world. And the thought of that world shattering because of a secret, because of a deal he’d made to keep a loved one alive, was unbearable.

He saw Damien again at dismissal. A quick nod, a polite "Mr. Torres," nothing more. But the clock was ticking.

Friday. Tomorrow.

That night, lying awake in his small apartment, the silence was deafening. He thought of his grandmother, frail but feisty, relying on him. He thought of Sophie, her innocent trust. And he thought of Damien, the man who held all the cards, offering a lifeline disguised as a gilded cage.

It was humiliating. It was wrong. It was, perhaps, the only way.

He stared at the ceiling, the decision a bitter pill sliding down his throat. The alternative was unthinkable. He couldn't risk it all.

When Friday morning arrived, bringing with it the familiar scent of children and possibility, Emilio took a deep breath. He had to be ready. He had to face Damien. And he knew what he had to say.

Friday morning felt heavier than usual. The vibrant classroom colors seemed duller, the children’s eager chatter a distant hum. Emilio went through the motions, helping with puzzles, reading stories, all the while bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. He didn’t have to wait long.

At 8:05 AM, the classroom door creaked open. Damien Langford stood there, just as he had on Monday, a silent, imposing figure in a dark suit, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Emilio. Sophie, oblivious, darted past him and straight to the sensory table.

Damien gestured to the hallway. Emilio’s stomach did a familiar flip.