The clock struck eight. A muted chime echoed through the vast mansion, a sound Lena hadn't heard before but somehow understood—it was time.
She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her damp hair with nervous fingers. The maid had left a simple black dress folded neatly on the bed. It wasn't flashy, but compared to the clothes she usually wore, it was too fine. She hesitated to put it on, but her own were still drying from the rain.
Don't let him think you're intimidated.
She squared her shoulders, slipped into the dress, and descended the staircase. Her heels clicked against polished marble, each sound magnified in the silence.
At the bottom, two lines of servants stood with heads bowed, waiting. The sight made her chest tighten. She wasn't used to people treating her like… like she belonged here. She didn't.
One of the maids lifted her head. "This way, Madam."
The title again. Lena clenched her jaw, swallowing her retort. She followed the maid through a long hall and into a dining room that looked more like a banquet hall. A glittering chandelier hung above a table long enough to seat twenty. Polished silver cutlery gleamed against snow-white linens.
But only two places were set.
Adrian sat at the far end, a dark figure in a crisp black suit. His posture was impeccable, his presence commanding. When his eyes lifted to meet hers, Lena's steps faltered.
"Sit," he said, voice even.
She crossed the room slowly, deliberately, refusing to let her nerves show. Her chair was at the opposite end of the table. The distance between them was absurd, almost laughable. Two strangers playing at a marriage.
"Really?" she said dryly, pulling out the chair herself. "This table could seat a small army."
His lips curved faintly. "Would you rather sit closer?"
Her cheeks heated, though his tone was calm, almost mocking. "I'd rather not sit at all."
A flicker of amusement crossed his eyes before he signaled the servants. Dishes began to appear—delicate porcelain bowls of soup, steaming platters of roasted meat, vegetables arranged with artistic precision.
The aroma should have made her hungry. Instead, it only reminded her how out of place she was. She picked up her spoon but set it down again, her hand unsteady.
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Eat."
Her head snapped up. "You don't get to order me around."
His brow arched, unbothered. "You'll collapse if you keep starving yourself. And I have no use for a sickly wife."
Her jaw clenched. "I'm not your wife."
The words hung in the air, sharp as glass.
The servants froze, eyes darting nervously. Adrian's expression didn't change, but the air in the room thickened, charged with unspoken danger.
Lena regretted saying it aloud, but pride kept her from backing down.
Finally, Adrian spoke. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Do not contradict me in front of the staff again."
Her heart skipped. He wasn't yelling. He didn't need to. The quiet warning in his voice was far more chilling.
Still, she lifted her chin. "So this is what it is? A performance?"
His eyes locked onto hers across the expanse of the table. "Exactly."
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Lena reached for her spoon again and forced herself to eat, the taste of the expensive broth bitter on her tongue.
The servants moved silently, refilling glasses, clearing plates. The meal stretched endlessly, each course another reminder of the gulf between them.
Halfway through, Adrian set down his fork and leaned back slightly. "Tomorrow, we'll visit the hospital together."
Lena froze. "Why?"
"You signed that contract." His gaze was unyielding. "Appearances matter. I won't have people questioning our arrangement."
Her stomach twisted. "You mean they can't know this isn't real."
His lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth. "On paper, it's real enough. That's all that matters."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to scream at him, to tear apart the paper that bound them. But she couldn't—not when her mother's life hung in the balance.
"Fine," she said bitterly. "I'll play my role."
Something flickered in his eyes, so brief she almost missed it. "Good."
The rest of the meal passed in silence. Lena barely tasted the food. When the final dish was cleared, Adrian rose smoothly.
"Follow me."
She stayed seated. "Why? To see my cell?"
His gaze darkened. "You test my patience, Lena."
Her lips parted with a retort, but she stopped herself. She didn't know how far she could push him—and part of her didn't want to find out.
Reluctantly, she rose.
He led her through another corridor, into a smaller lounge lined with bookshelves and leather chairs. A fire burned in the hearth, throwing warm light across the room. Adrian poured himself a glass of whiskey, his movements practiced, graceful.
"Sit," he said again, gesturing to the chair opposite his.
Lena crossed her arms. "I'm not a dog to be ordered."
His gaze cut to hers, sharp, unreadable. "Then stop acting like one cornered."
Her breath caught. The words stung more than she wanted to admit. She sat, if only to prove she wasn't afraid.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The crackle of the fire filled the silence. Finally, Adrian lifted his glass.
"To contracts," he said smoothly. "The only promises people seem to keep."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But wasn't he right? She had betrayed him once. And now, she was bound by paper, not love.
She leaned forward, her voice low but steady. "This contract may bind me, Adrian. But it won't break me."
For the first time that night, his mask slipped. His eyes softened—just a fraction—like a shadow of the boy she once knew. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"We'll see," he murmured, finishing his drink.
He stood, his presence once again a wall of ice. "Good night, Lena."
Before she could reply, he left, the door closing softly behind him.
Lena sat alone in the flickering firelight, her hands trembling.
She told herself she hated him, that she'd never forgive him. But the echo of that fleeting softness haunted her, pulling at wounds she thought had long scarred over.
And deep inside, a terrifying thought whispered:
What if she wasn't the only prisoner here?
Adrian leaves her shaken after their first "domestic" evening together, hinting that he's as trapped by the past as she is. Lena begins to suspect he's carrying wounds of his own.