Hana sat quietly on the edge of the velvet couch in the grand library, her hands nervously folded in her lap. The scent of polished wood and aged books filled the air, but it did little to soothe her rapidly beating heart. Damian stood across from her, rigid as always, the afternoon light casting sharp shadows across his sculpted face.
He held a thin stack of papers in one hand a contract. Not the marriage contract they had already signed. This one was… personal.
"Read it," he said coldly, dropping the pages onto the coffee table between them.
Hana blinked, then leaned forward to glance at the title.
Terms of Coexistence.
Her throat tightened.
Damian remained standing, arms crossed. "We may be legally married, Hana, but let's be clear we do not share a relationship. This marriage was a transaction. Nothing more. This document ensures we understand each other's boundaries."
She picked up the contract and began to read.
1. No romantic entanglements. We do not love each other. There will be no expectations of affection, intimacy, or physical contact unless otherwise agreed upon.
2. Separate spaces. You will have your own bedroom. Mine is off-limits unless explicitly invited.
3. Public appearances. When necessary, we will act as a united couple for family and business events. You will be given a schedule in advance.
4. Privacy. We do not question each other's whereabouts or personal activities, provided they do not affect the public image of this marriage.
5. Confidentiality. This arrangement and any details of our personal lives are not to be disclosed to anyone. Ever.
Hana looked up slowly. "You wrote this last night?"
"I've had it prepared for weeks," he replied without shame.
She felt a strange sting behind her eyes not quite tears, but close. "Do I get to add my own rules?"
For a brief second, something flickered in Damian's eyes. Amusement? Interest?
"Go ahead."
She took the pen from the table and wrote:
6. Respect. We may not love each other, but we will treat one another with basic human dignity. No insults, no emotional manipulation.
7. Support for my mother. You will not withdraw medical support or financial aid for my mother without discussing it with me first.
She placed the pen down and pushed the contract back to him.
Damian read the additions slowly. For a moment, his jaw tightened. Then he nodded once. "Agreed."
They both signed at the bottom.
As the ink dried, so did the remnants of Hana's naïve hopes. This was not a fairy tale. There would be no passionate love story, no sweet beginnings. Only rules. Boundaries. A cage dressed up as a palace.
That evening, Hana moved into the guest bedroom on the east wing. Her room overlooked the garden lush and blooming but even the flowers felt too perfect, too staged. Just like everything else.
She sat on the bed, her eyes fixed on her suitcase still lying unopened.
Was this her life now?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.
She opened it slowly to find Martha, the housekeeper, standing there with a soft smile and a tray of warm food.
"Mr. Wexler asked me to bring this. He figured you might not come down for dinner."
Hana's brows lifted. That was… unexpected.
"Thank you, Martha."
The woman hesitated before speaking again. "He's not as heartless as he seems, dear. He just… builds walls high enough even he can't climb."
When Martha left, Hana sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the tray.
The gesture didn't mean anything. Probably guilt. Or just a sense of responsibility. Nothing more.
And yet, her chest felt tight.
She picked up the spoon and began to eat.
Meanwhile, in his study, Damian stood by the window, staring out into the night.
The image of Hana's expression as she read the contract kept replaying in his mind.
Something about it bothered him.
No, not bothered.
Haunted.
He reached into the drawer, pulled out a small photograph. It was creased and old. A young girl with big brown eyes and a wide smile. Her.
He whispered to the darkness, "You promised you wouldn't cry. But I saw it."
And for the
first time in years, the cold CEO felt something shift inside his heart.
A crack.
Small.
But real.