Chapter 3: The Rules of the House
Morning sunlight slipped through the large windows of the Cole mansion, painting golden lines across the polished floors. Amara woke to the faint smell of coffee drifting through the air. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then her eyes opened fully, and the sight of the unfamiliar ceiling brought it all back — the contract, the vows, the man with eyes like winter.
She sat up slowly, pressing her palms together. The guest room was large, elegant, and empty of warmth. Everything was in shades of white and silver, too perfect to touch. The silence was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock.
Amara rose and dressed in a modest cream blouse and long skirt she had packed the night before. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm. You made this choice, she reminded herself. You have to survive it.
When she stepped into the dining room, Damian was already there — seated at the long table, reading a newspaper. His posture was straight, his black suit flawless, his expression unreadable. The housemaid set a cup of black coffee in front of him and stepped back quietly.
"Good morning," Amara said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't look up. "You're late."
Her heart skipped. "It's only eight—"
"Breakfast in this house is at seven-thirty," he cut in sharply, turning a page. "I expect punctuality."
Amara swallowed her words and nodded. She sat at the other end of the long table, where a plate of untouched food waited — scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. The food looked beautiful, but she could barely taste it.
After a moment, Damian finally put down the newspaper and looked at her. His eyes were cool, steady. "There are a few rules you should know."
"Rules?" she echoed quietly.
He leaned back in his chair. "This marriage is a contract, nothing more. You'll attend events with me when necessary. In public, you'll act the part of my wife. But privately, you'll stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours."
Amara clenched her hands together beneath the table. "Understood."
"You'll also keep appearances," he continued. "Our marriage will be under the spotlight for a while. Don't talk to the media. Don't make friends with anyone who works for me. And don't—ever—go into my office without permission."
His tone was calm but firm, leaving no space for argument.
She nodded again. "Fine."
He studied her face for a moment, as if searching for something. "Good. Then we understand each other."
He stood, straightened his jacket, and turned toward the door.
"Damian," she said suddenly.
He paused, glancing back.
"Why me?" she asked. "Out of everyone, why did you choose me for this arrangement?"
He held her gaze for a long second before replying. "Because you were desperate enough to agree."
The words struck again like cold steel, and then he was gone.
---
The rest of the day moved slowly. Amara explored the house — or rather, tried to. The mansion was enormous, filled with rooms that looked like they belonged to a museum. She passed by paintings worth more than her father's old company, glass walls that looked out onto the garden, and long corridors lined with silence.
Every servant she met bowed politely but never spoke beyond a greeting. The air of the house itself felt restrained, like no one dared to breathe too loud.
In the afternoon, she found herself in the garden. The sunlight touched her face, warm against the chill that had settled inside her. She sat by the small pond and stared at her reflection. You don't belong here, she thought. You're just a visitor in someone else's world.
Her phone buzzed. It was her father.
"Amara," his weak voice came through the line, tired but happy. "How are you, my dear? Damian's treating you well, I hope?"
She forced a smile, though he couldn't see it. "Yes, Dad. Everything's fine."
"I knew he would be. That man… he has power. You'll be safe with him."
Her throat tightened. "Yeah. Safe."
She hung up before her voice could break.
---
That evening, Damian returned home late. Amara was in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book she hadn't really been reading. He walked in, loosening his tie, the scent of his cologne filling the space before his voice did.
"You're still awake."
"I couldn't sleep," she said quietly.
He nodded once, indifferent. "There's a dinner tomorrow. Formal event. You'll come with me."
She hesitated. "What should I wear?"
He glanced at her, eyes scanning her plain blouse and skirt. "Something that fits the image of Mrs. Cole."
And just like that, he disappeared down the hall again, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Amara sighed and set the book aside. She walked to the balcony, watching the city lights below. Somewhere out there, people were falling in love, laughing, living. And here she was — married to a man who treated her like a shadow.
She touched the ring on her finger, feeling its cold metal bite against her skin.
"I can survive this," she whispered to the night. "I have to."
---
But even as she said it, something began to change inside her. Beneath the hurt and confusion, a quiet defiance started to grow — the need to understand the man behind the ice.
And far away, in the darkness of his study, Damian sat alone again, staring at the same photograph from before. His hand hovered over it, but he couldn't bring himself to turn it over this time.
The face of the woman in that photo haunted him — the woman who had betrayed him, the one who had taught him that love was weakness.
Yet when he thought of Amara's trembling voice, her stubborn eyes, her quiet courage — something flickered in the cold emptiness of his chest. Something he didn't want to name.
Outside, the night deepened, wrapping the mansion in silence.
And between two broken souls bound by contract, the first cracks of something unexpected began to appear — fragile, forbidden, and real.