He knew how Emma's pulse raced when his hand lingered near hers. Knew how her laughter was slightly sharper when she was nervous. Knew, with terrifying precision, how to disarm her with a glance or a whisper, leaving her simultaneously frustrated and inexplicably drawn to him.
Emma wanted to hate him. She really did.
The following morning, she woke to the sound of light tapping against glass. Sunlight spilled into the bedroom in gold streams, cutting through the heavy curtains and landing on the polished marble floor. Her body felt stiff, her head a lingering echo of the previous night's hangover and emotional rollercoaster.
The sheets were cool against her skin, a silent reminder that she was in a world far removed from her Brooklyn apartment, far removed from the chaos of part-time jobs, overdue bills, and a quiet, mundane life. Here, everything was polished, perfect, and terrifyingly public.
She propped herself up on one elbow, the morning light revealing the dress from the gala folded neatly on a chair, untouched. Damien was nowhere in sight—unsurprising, given his habit of leaving before anyone else woke, moving through his empire with the precision of a general.
Emma's stomach growled, and with a groan, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cold marble. As she padded toward the door, wrapped in a plush robe, her phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table.
It was relentless. Notifications. Alerts. Messages from every social media platform she had ever used—and several she hadn't.
Emma Carter, the mysterious new Mrs. Blackwood…
First public photos surface!
Billionaire's bride: who is she really?
Her eyes widened. Oh no.
She tapped the first link. The photos were everywhere—her awkward smile, her hand held tightly in Damien's, the careful tilt of her head, the way he'd leaned slightly toward her, as if she belonged to him. Panic surged through her chest. Her private humiliation had gone global.
Damien appeared at the doorway, hair still slightly tousled, dressed in tailored black loungewear that somehow made him look impossibly casual and dangerously attractive. His gray eyes, sharp and calculating even in soft morning light, tracked her panic like a predator observing prey.
"Breakfast?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
Emma whirled toward him. "Breakfast?" she repeated, waving her phone frantically. "Damien! The entire city saw me last night! I'm viral! I'm infamous! I look like a—like a—like a…!"
"A disaster?" he suggested, raising a brow.
She shot him a glare that could curdle milk. "You think this is funny?"
He took a step closer, calm as always, and handed her a glass of water. "I think it's manageable. And no, I don't find it funny—just… predictable."
Emma frowned, unsure whether to be insulted or relieved. "Predictable?"
"Yes," he said, voice soft but authoritative. "You're still panicking, still trying to survive in a world you weren't born for. That reaction—it's normal. Human."
She blinked at him. "You… humans too?"
Damien's lips twitched with amusement. "I meant your reaction. You're doing fine. I've handled the press before. You're fine."
Emma huffed, flopping onto the couch. "Fine? Fine is me living paycheck to paycheck in Brooklyn. Fine is not knowing I could be married to someone like you overnight. Fine is not being thrown into a gala where everyone expects me to be… glamorous!"
Damien's smirk faded into that cold, calculating gaze that always made her heart flutter and her teeth grit simultaneously. "Glamorous isn't the point, Emma. Control is. And right now, you have very little of it."
She groaned, burying her face in a cushion. He was right, of course. The world was spinning, and she had no choice but to ride along, dangling by a thread of his making.
For hours, the day passed in a blur. Damien instructed her in interviews, photo shoots, and carefully orchestrated public appearances. Emma stumbled through polite smiles, forced laughter, and carefully modulated tones while Damien's presence hovered near, almost a shield against complete disaster.
By midday, they were seated in his private office, a sleek space of glass, steel, and impossibly expensive furniture. Damien poured two glasses of iced tea, sliding one across to her.
"Relax," he said. "You survived the gala. You survived the media storm. This is just another day."
Emma sniffed. "Another day? Damien, the world saw me last night. They have opinions. They will analyze my wardrobe, my makeup, my… my… nervous tick!"
Damien's gaze softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Then let them. What they don't know doesn't matter. What matters is what I think—and what I expect from you. Remember, one year. We play the roles, we survive. That's all. Do you understand?"
Emma took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I understand. But it's… exhausting."
He leaned back, studying her like he was measuring her resilience. "Good. It should be. That's the point. If you're not pushed, you won't grow."
Emma rolled her eyes. "You make everything sound like a self-help book for billionaires."
Damien's lips quirked. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm just effective."
The next few days were a whirlwind. Public appearances, charity events, photo ops, and interviews filled her schedule. Emma grew adept at smiling on cue, nodding politely, and occasionally handing Damien the perfectly timed sarcastic quip that kept her sanity intact.
But every evening, when the house emptied, when the staff retreated behind closed doors, Damien appeared—always. He'd stand near the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter, watching her with that infuriatingly calm gaze.
"Why are you always here?" Emma asked one evening, flinging a towel at him while washing her hands.
"Why are you?" he countered smoothly.
"Because I have to cook for myself?"
"No. Because you're alive, and I need to make sure you stay that way," he said evenly, his gray eyes meeting hers. "You're my leverage, Emma. But more importantly, you're… valuable."
She blinked, unsure how to respond. Valuable? She wasn't a product. She wasn't… a business asset. She was just a normal woman who had somehow stumbled into the life of a man who could buy entire islands without blinking.
"You're… impossible," she muttered.
"I am aware," he said, smirking slightly.
The tension between them was palpable, an invisible wire stretched tight. Every glance, every touch, every word carried a weight that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Emma hated that her pulse raced when he was near. Hated that his calm authority made her heart thump with a dangerous rhythm. Hated that he could make her feel small and significant all at once.
And yet… she couldn't look away.
One night, Damien invited her to a private dinner at his penthouse. Candles flickered, casting warm shadows over the sleek dining room. The city stretched below them, a sea of lights and impossibly high-rise buildings.
Emma sat, hesitant, feeling like an intruder in a world she would never fully belong to. Damien poured wine for both of them, his hands brushing hers briefly. She felt the spark again, undeniable, dangerous.
"Why am I here?" she asked, voice soft, uncertain.
Damien's gray eyes met hers, sharp, commanding. "Because this is where I want you. Because this is where you belong—temporarily. Because I need to see if you can survive me."
"Survive you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes. Survive me, survive yourself, survive the world that now watches you every second. This is your trial, Emma. And so far…" He trailed off, lips curving in a faint smirk. "…so far, you're doing better than expected."
Emma wanted to slap him, and simultaneously, she wanted to throw herself into the warmth behind those steely eyes. She hated that. She hated herself for feeling it.
Dinner passed in a mix of awkward conversation, careful laughter, and glances that lingered just a second too long. Damien's hand occasionally brushed hers, light, almost casual, but enough to set her nerves on fire.
By the time the dessert arrived—dark chocolate torte with raspberry coulis—Emma realized she was exhausted, emotionally drained, and strangely exhilarated.
"You know," Damien said, leaning back slightly, "if you survive the next month as well as you survived the past week, I might actually consider extending this marriage indefinitely."
Emma nearly choked on her wine. "Indefinitely?!"
"Just a suggestion," he murmured, smirk ghosting his lips. "But you should know… I enjoy a challenge."
Emma set her fork down with deliberate slowness. "You are… impossible."
Damien's gray eyes gleamed with something she couldn't name, something that made her chest tighten. "And you," he said softly, "are unforgettable."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to escape. She wanted to scream and throw herself into the nearest taxi and disappear back to Brooklyn.
But she didn't.
Because part of her—the dangerous, reckless part—wanted to see how far this could go.
---To Be Continued---