The pounding on the door shook Damian Carter awake.
"Hey, you trash, wake up already! Are you dead or what? It's almost seven, and Vivian has to leave for work in half an hour. Your father-in-law and I are starving—do you want us to die waiting?"
The voice was shrill, dripping with irritation. Each slam against the wood made the cheap door rattle in its frame. Damian rubbed his tired eyes, pulled the thin mattress up against the wall, and looked around the cramped storeroom that had become his bedroom. The place reeked of dust and mothballs, every corner stacked with old boxes and broken furniture, leaving only a narrow strip of space where he slept.
Bracing himself for what was waiting, he opened the door.
There stood a plump, overdressed woman, dripping with perfume and caked in makeup that couldn't hide the years etched into her face. Vivian's mother. She glared at him as if he were some stain that refused to wash out.
"If it weren't for my daughter still being foolish enough to care for you, I'd have had you thrown out long ago," she snapped.
Damian didn't bother answering. He'd learned silence was the only shield he had left in this house. He slipped past her and went straight to the bathroom to wash up, then headed into the kitchen.
The Clark villa was breathtaking, the kind of place people stopped to stare at from the street. White stone walls rose high and proud, guarded by wrought-iron gates. A marble fountain sparkled in the courtyard, and polished cars gleamed under the morning sun. Inside, chandeliers glowed above polished floors, while expensive paintings and velvet drapes added to the sense of wealth and power.
But Damian didn't belong to this grandeur. Not really.
Despite being Vivian's husband, he had no bedroom in the villa. His space was the dusty storeroom at the back of the hall, crammed with broken furniture and stacked boxes. A thin mattress in the corner was the only place he could lay his head, rolled up each morning so it wouldn't block the strip of cleared floor.
And though he cooked the family's meals, he rarely ate with them. After serving Vivian and her parents, he would slip quietly into the kitchen, where the servants gathered around a smaller wooden table. There, he ate whatever scraps and leftovers were set aside—cold eggs, the crusts of bread, and fruit that no one else touched. He was her husband by name, but in this house Damian Carter lived no better than the help.
This morning was no different. He cracked eggs into a pan, whisked them with a steady hand, and plated a spread that was modest yet refined: golden omelets, buttered toast, a side of sautéed mushrooms and tomatoes. Nothing lavish, but elegant enough for a household that demanded appearances.
Fifteen minutes later, the dishes were carried into the dining hall by the servants. Damian followed quietly, wiping his hands on a towel.
The table was already alive with clattering cutlery. Vivian's father ate noisily, while her mother complained about the servants. At the head of the table sat Vivian herself, poised and perfect, dressed in a tailored business suit. Her long dark hair was pulled back, not a strand out of place, and a tablet rested beside her plate as she skimmed reports between delicate bites of toast.
Without looking up, she spoke in that flat, even voice that once carried warmth but now sounded distant."Damian, you'll drive me to the company today. The driver's sick, and Mom needs the other car."
"Sure," Damian said softly. Then, after a pause, he added, "But Vivian… Tim's back from New York. He's flying in this afternoon. I was hoping to leave a little early and catch up with him."
Before his wife could respond, her mother slammed down her fork."Ungrateful! You live off my daughter's money, and now you're making excuses when she asks for something? You're nothing but a useless live-in husband, lazing around while others work."
Damian kept his gaze on Vivian. Waiting. Hoping. But she didn't defend him. She didn't even look at him.
"You can see Tim tomorrow," she said coolly. "It's not like he came all the way back just for you. Go upstairs and change—we're leaving soon. I can't be late for this meeting."
A hollow sigh escaped him as he turned and climbed the stairs.
Back in his storeroom, he pulled a pair of jeans and a faded blue shirt from the closet. When he slipped them on, the mirror on the wall reminded him of who he was—a man in his mid-twenties, handsome enough, broad-shouldered, with eyes that once carried fire but now dulled with exhaustion.
As he walked back through the halls, the servants whispered behind their hands."Such a waste. A man like him with a wife like her…""She deserves better. Look at him, faded clothes and all. Not worthy of her beauty."
He heard every word but pretended he didn't. He always did.
Outside, Damian took the keys to the black Mercedes from the guard and slid into the driver's seat. The leather interior smelled new, pristine—a far cry from the rusted truck he'd once driven back in his village.
His eyes lingered on the villa, grand and gleaming under the morning sun. Three years had passed since the wedding. Three years since Vivian stopped wearing the simple silver ring he had bought for her in college, the one he'd worked four part-time jobs to afford.
Back then, they had been inseparable. She'd cooked his favorite meals, teased him about his stubbornness, and dreamed with him about a future that didn't involve dirt-stained hands like their parents'. She used to say she wanted a bigger life, a real life. He believed he could give it to her.
They had graduated together—he with a degree in Agriculture, she in Economics. She had whispered her ambition to start a real estate business, to build an empire from nothing. He'd admired her fire, her vision.
So he gave her everything he could. His time, his love, his sacrifices.
Now, as he sat behind the wheel of a car that wasn't his, in front of a villa that wasn't home, Damian wondered when all of that had stopped being enough.