Aria could hear the echo of her footsteps as she walked down the endless marble hallway of Damian's mansion. The silence was heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the occasional ticking of a distant clock. She had spent nearly two weeks here now, yet the house still felt foreign, like a cage draped in gold.
Her heels clicked softly as she made her way toward the dining room. Breakfast, as always, was a ritual—quiet, strained, and filled with unspoken rules. Damian never smiled at the table, and she had stopped expecting him to.
This morning, however, something was different.
When she entered, Damian was already seated, dressed sharply in a navy suit. His dark eyes rose from the newspaper, pinning her in place.
"You're late," he said, his voice cool, measured.
Aria lifted her chin. "It's seven-thirty. Breakfast is at seven-thirty."
His brow arched slightly, but he didn't argue. Instead, he folded the paper with deliberate precision and set it aside. "I don't like being kept waiting."
Her fingers tightened around the chair before she sat down. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't his employee, that this wasn't one of his board meetings where everyone bowed at his command. But the words stayed trapped in her throat.
The silence stretched as the servants placed their plates on the table. Aria picked at her toast, avoiding his gaze. Yet she felt it—his eyes, sharp and unreadable, lingering on her.
Finally, she set her fork down with a quiet clink. "Why do you look at me like that?"
Damian didn't flinch. "Like what?"
"Like you're studying me," she said, her voice lower now. "As if I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve."
He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you are."
Her pulse quickened, though she tried to mask it. "And what happens when you figure me out?"
The corner of his mouth curved, not into a smile, but into something darker. "Then I'll know if you're strong enough to survive this marriage."
Aria's chest tightened. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. His words weren't romantic—they were a warning.
Later that afternoon, Aria wandered into the mansion's library, one of the few places where she found peace. The shelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes and the scent of old paper. She trailed her fingers along the spines, letting her thoughts drift.
Her life had been rewritten in a matter of days—her freedom traded for her father's debts, her future bound to a man who treated marriage like a transaction. She should hate him. She wanted to.
But sometimes, in those rare moments when his mask slipped, she caught glimpses of something else—a shadow in his eyes, a weight he carried alone. And that unsettled her more than his coldness.
The sound of footsteps broke her thoughts. She turned, startled, to see Damian standing in the doorway. His tie was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and for the first time, he looked less like a CEO and more like a man.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice firm.
Aria crossed her arms. "Why not? It's just a library."
"Because it's my space." He stepped closer, his presence filling the room. "And I told you—there are places in this house you don't belong."
Her defiance sparked. "Then maybe you should stop treating me like a guest and start treating me like a wife."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Damian froze. For a heartbeat, his eyes darkened, unreadable. Then, in a sudden motion, he closed the distance between them.
"Careful, Aria," he murmured, his voice low, dangerous. "You wanted this deal as much as your father. Don't pretend otherwise."
Her breath caught as his hand brushed against the shelf beside her, caging her in. She could smell his cologne—sharp, intoxicating. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"I never wanted you," she whispered.
For the first time, Damian's mask cracked. Something flickered in his gaze, something raw. He stepped back abruptly, as if pulling himself under control, and turned away.
"You should remember the terms of our marriage," he said coldly. "Emotions were never part of it."
Aria's heart ached at his words, though she didn't know why. She watched his retreating figure until the door closed behind him, leaving her alone in the silence of the library.
That night, as Aria lay awake in the vast bed that felt too empty, she heard it—the faint creak of footsteps in the hallway. Curious, she slipped out of bed and pulled her robe tightly around her.
She followed the sound down the dimly lit corridor until she reached the study—the one room Damian had forbidden her from entering. The door was ajar, light spilling through the crack.
Her heart pounded as she peeked inside.
Damian stood at his desk, speaking on the phone in a voice sharper, colder than she had ever heard.
"…I told you already," he was saying. "If they come near her again, I'll destroy them."
Aria's breath hitched. Her?
Before she could step back, the floorboard creaked under her weight. Damian's head snapped up, his eyes locking on hers through the open door.
The air between them crackled with tension.
"What," he said softly, dangerously, "are you doing here?"