“Act Like You Love Me, Please ”—The Poor Girl Begged the CEO Millionaire in Front of Her Ex…
A Hidden Past and a Frayed Lifeline
Ella stared at him, stunned.
Engaged?
He was really doing this.
She could barely breathe.
“Congratulations,” Vivian said stiffly.
“Quite the surprise.”
Damian turned to Ella, and for a moment their eyes met.
She saw something there: not calculation, not performance, but something else.
Ella blinked back tears, not from humiliation, but from how fiercely he had stood beside her.
In a moment where she could have crumbled, he had held her up.
Charles looked like he wanted to say more, but a waiter interrupted to lead the newlyweds to the main stage for their first dance.
People returned to their conversations, though eyes still lingered.
Ella pulled Damian aside, her voice barely a whisper.
“Why did you say that?”
He looked down.
“Because it shut them up.”
She shook her head.
“That kiss—”
“I figured if I was going to act, I might as well be convincing,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t press further.
The truth was she didn’t hate it.
She had expected to feel embarrassed, small, and forgotten, but standing next to Damian, she felt safe and seen.
Maybe it was all a charade or a moment of impulse.
But as the music swelled and the newlyweds danced, Ella found herself wondering if pretending just for tonight might be the only real thing she had felt in a long, long time.
The night had fallen gently over the city, casting silver reflections on the tinted windows of Damian’s car.
Inside it was quiet.
Ella, exhausted from the emotionally charged evening, had fallen asleep in the passenger seat.
Her golden hair framed her face, and her hands rested lightly in her lap.
Even in slumber, there was a shadow of sadness behind her peaceful expression.
Damian glanced at her, his hand tightening slightly on the steering wheel.
He didn’t wake her; he couldn’t.
Instead, he let the silence wrap around him and allowed his mind to wander backward.
He went far beyond the reach of boardrooms, wealth, or tailored suits.
He went back to when he was just Damian, not Mr. Hawthorne.
He had been 13: skinny, angry, and alone.
The orphanage was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer.
Meals were forgettable, and the walls were always peeling.
The older boys fought for dominance while the younger ones cried quietly in corners.
Damian did neither; he just kept his head down and survived until she arrived.
She was older, maybe 17 or 18, with blonde hair in a messy bun, long legs, and a dancer’s posture.
She came in wearing a faded jacket and ballet flats.
She smiled too brightly for a place so dull.
He remembered how all the kids had stared.
No one ever came just to spend time with them, especially not someone like her.
She introduced herself simply: “Ella.”
She taught them how to stretch, how to point their toes, and how to pretend they were floating even when they felt heavy.
The other kids laughed, struggled, and fell, but Damian watched her with quiet awe.
She was light—the opposite of everything in his world.
She came once a week for two months.
It was the only time the common room didn’t feel like a cage.
On her last day, she pulled Damian aside.
“I brought something for you,” she said, smiling.
From her bag she pulled out a worn ballet slipper: soft pink, frayed at the seams, and the satin faded with use.
He stared at it.
“I don’t need it anymore,” she said.
“But maybe you do.”
He looked confused.
She knelt so her eyes met his.
“Listen, okay? If one day you make it, if you ever get out of here and find your place in the world, help someone the way I’m trying to help you.”
Her voice had trembled a little.
“Promise me that.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Then she hugged him—brief, warm, and gone too quickly.
She never came back, but Damian never forgot.
Back in the present, Damian parked the car outside his penthouse.
Ella still slept, her breathing soft.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small box of worn leather with aged corners.
He opened it slowly.
Inside, wrapped in tissue, was the ballet slipper.
Time had not been kind to it: the satin was dull and the sole was separating.
But he had kept it, moving it from place to place, office to home, success to success.
It reminded him that someone once believed he was worth saving.
And now, all these years later, that girl sat beside him again, asleep, fragile, and unaware.
She was unaware that the man she begged to pretend had once held on to her gift like a lifeline.
Damian turned toward her and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers lingered for a moment, hesitant.
“Still giving light where it’s darkest,” he murmured.
She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
He looked back down at the slipper in his hand.
“You saved me first, Ella, and now it was his turn.”
In the days after the wedding, Ella found herself swept into a life that felt borrowed.
It was a world of charity galas, rooftop dinners, and art exhibits, always with Damian at her side.
To everyone else they were a perfect couple: the mysterious CEO and his graceful fiancée.
To her it was still an arrangement; at least that’s what she kept telling herself.
They had never spoken of terms or timelines.
It had begun with a single sentence—”Come with me”—and somehow it hadn’t ended.
Damian never questioned it.
He simply showed up: car ready, introduction smooth, and presence constant.
He played the part flawlessly.
But what unsettled Ella were the moments when it didn’t feel like acting at all.
At a garden brunch one morning, a waiter approached.
“Would you like some tea, ma’am?”
Before she could answer, Damian replied without looking up.
“Chamomile. Light honey, no lemon.”
Ella blinked.
He finally met her gaze.
“That’s what you drink after a long day, isn’t it?”
She nodded slowly.
“Yes, it is.”
He returned to his phone as though nothing had happened, leaving her quietly stunned.
Another night at a rooftop auction, the wind turned sharp.
She rubbed her arms, and before she even spoke, Damian was already slipping off his jacket and placing it gently around her shoulders.
She looked up.
“You didn’t have to.”
He was already walking ahead.
“Come on, you’ll catch a cold.”
He never touched her unnecessarily.
Yet, when they walked through crowds, his hand would rest lightly at the small of her back, guiding, steadying, and protective.
Each gesture was brief and polite, but too natural and too knowing.
She began to notice him more: the way he loosened his tie exactly two buttons after every event.
She noticed how his jaw tensed when someone whispered cruelly about her past and how he never let go of her hand first.
Slowly and dangerously, she began to wonder: was any of this real?
But then she would remember Charles: his charm, his promises, and how easily he had left her behind.
She had believed in love once, and it had nearly broken her.
She would not make that mistake again.
One rainy evening after a long appointment, Ella returned to Damian’s penthouse.
The city outside blurred behind streaks of rain.
Her head was spinning and her body trembled with exhaustion.
She barely reached the couch before collapsing.
Damian appeared within seconds.
“What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
“I don’t know,” she murmured weakly.
“Just dizzy.”
He touched her forehead.
“Hot. You have a fever.”
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, trying to sit up.
“I just need—”
But he was already moving, phone in hand.
Then he stopped, looked at her again, and set it down.
Instead of calling his assistant, he rolled up his sleeves and walked into the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, he returned with a bowl of rice porridge, the steam curling in the air.
“Eat,” he said simply.
She blinked.
“You made this?”
He nodded.
“I watched a video.”
Her lips curved faintly.
“In your $6,000 suit?”
He gave a small shrug.
“I changed the tie.”
He helped her sit up, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and fed her small spoonfuls when her hands trembled too much to hold the bowl.
The warmth spread slowly through her.
And though she was too tired to speak, her chest ached at the sight of him.
This was a man who didn’t have to care, but did.
He stayed beside her through the night, dampening her forehead with a cool cloth and checking her temperature every hour.
When dawn crept through the curtains, Ella stirred and opened her eyes.
Damian was asleep on the couch beside her, still in his shirt and slacks, his head tilted back with exhaustion etched across his face.
She watched him quietly.
No one had ever stayed before: not through pain, not through fever, and not through fear.
They hadn’t stayed even when she had been at her most broken.
Maybe it had begun as pretend, but this night and this care were something real.
It was something that felt dangerously close to love.
Ella stepped quietly into Damian’s study, still holding the cup of tea he had made for her.
The apartment was quiet that evening, with the soft hum of the city below filtering through the large windows.
She had never spent much time in this room before.
It wasn’t cold or sterile like she imagined a billionaire’s office would be.
It was warm and lived-in: books lined the shelves, a record player sat in the corner, and a small frame hung just above the desk.
It caught her attention immediately.
She moved closer, her brows furrowing.
It was an old photograph, slightly faded.
A girl in a simple leotard stood in the middle of a group of children, arms gracefully extended mid-spin.
Her golden hair was tied back in a loose bun, her face full of light and focus.
The children around her clapped and laughed.
The setting was familiar: a worn-out gymnasium, cracked tiles, and a makeshift barre on the wall.
Ella felt a strange tightness in her chest.
She leaned in.
It was her: younger, brighter, and full of dreams.
It had been taken during one of those volunteer days when she visited the orphanage to teach ballet.
She hadn’t even known someone was taking photos then.
She hadn’t seen this picture in years, maybe ever, but Damian had it.
She turned around, holding the frame delicately in her hands, and found Damian standing in the doorway watching her.
“This… this is me,” she said softly.
He nodded.
“How do you have this?”
Damian stepped into the room, his expression unreadable.
“Someone took it. I found it years ago and kept it.”
She blinked.
“But why?”
His eyes lingered on the photograph, then shifted back to her.
“Because the girl in that photo,” he said quietly, “saved me.”
Ella’s breath caught.
She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but something in his tone silenced her.
It wasn’t the time, not yet.
She returned the frame to its spot and stepped back.
The room felt different now, as if some invisible door had opened between them—one neither of them had dared approach until now.
Later that night, as she was getting ready to leave for the evening, Damian appeared at the hallway with a small box in his hands.
It was wrapped simply: no ribbon, no card.
He held it out to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Open it,” he said.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a pair of ballet slippers.
They were not store-bought, mass-produced ones; these were handcrafted, elegant, and made for performance.
Her size was perfect.
Her hand trembled as she lifted one.
She looked up at him, eyes wide.
“Damian…”
His voice was gentle.
“You used to fly, Ella.”
She stared at him, heart pounding.
“You’ll fly again.”
The tears came before she could stop them: silent at first, then unstoppable.
He stepped forward without hesitation and wrapped his arms around her.
She buried her face in his chest, the slippers still clutched in one hand, and cried like she hadn’t cried in years.
She cried for the girl she used to be and for the boy he once was.
She cried for the strange, beautiful path that had brought them back to each other.
He held her tighter: no words, no pretending, only truth.
