Chapter Two
The sun hasn't even risen yet, but the penthouse feels smaller than it did last night. Maybe it's not the room, it's him. Damien Dravenhart. Brooding and overwhelming, I sit on the edge of the king-sized bed, staring at the ring still on my finger. Cold and flawless like him.
I hear a quiet click, the bedroom door isn't closed anymore. Of course not. He never lets me have a moment of peace.
"Breakfast?" His voice was heard across the room. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.
I looked up. He's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the room like he owns it. He might as well. After last night, I suppose he does.
"I can make it myself," I say. I force the words out, keeping my tone neutral. Professional and detached.
"I'm not asking." He steps in, The air changes around him, like the room shrinks. "You'll eat with me."
I bite my lips, I know arguing will get me nowhere. The contract makes that painfully clear. One year. One bed. One house. One life in his control.
We sit across from each other at the small dining table. Damien doesn't speak unless necessary, and when he does, it's carefully measured. Watching him, I feel like a criminal being interrogated rather than a wife. Not that he's wrong, maybe I am guilty. Guilty of walking away five years ago. Guilty of letting my pride keep me from stepping into the chaos that destroyed his life.
"You're quiet," he says finally, breaking the silence. The words are simple, but the weight behind them is heavy, like a hammer tapping on a nerve I didn't know still existed.
"Just thinking," I mutter, refusing to meet his eyes.
He stares at me anyway. "About me?"
I choke on a laugh that isn't funny. "About surviving the next twelve months."
He leans back, expression unreadable, but I see it, something behind those storm-gray eyes. Doubt? Curiosity? I can't tell. And I don't want to.
Breakfast ends without another word. Silence between us, I retreat to my side of the penthouse, unpacking essentials and trying not to think about the next four days, civil ceremony, press release, media intense questions, and Damien is there watching my every move.
Hours later, the first text arrives. Be ready by 6 PM. Dress for public appearances. Smile. Look devoted.
A shiver runs down my spine. Not because of the text itself. Because I know, he didn't have to remind me. The contract is signed. The rules are clear. And yet… something about the way he orders around, it all makes me feel trapped in more than just legal obligation.
By the time evening comes, I'm dressed in the outfit he chose for me; sleek, tailored, professional. Too professional. I wasn't comfortable in it, I hated it. I hate that I feel… exposed.
He appears silently in the doorway again, as though summoned by instinct. I caught him smirking, Or maybe it's a warning.
"You look… exactly as you should," he says softly, like a threat that sounds like a compliment.
The elevator dings. Our driver announces the car is waiting. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't hold my hand. But the tension between us is unspoken and dangerous.
The city streets blur past. I force myself to breathe, focus, and survive. One year. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days.
I can do this.
But deep down, I know; he isn't the only one hiding something. And the first real public test of our contract tonight might be just the beginning of a war I wasn't prepared to fight.