The mansion was too quiet.
I wandered the halls that night, barefoot on the cold marble floors, the hem of my nightgown whispering around my ankles.
Sleep was impossible.
Damien had disappeared into his private wing after the gala without another word.
No goodnight.
No explanation.
No warmth.
Part of me was relieved.
The other part… resented the emptiness he left behind.
I paused outside a tall oak door at the end of the hallway.
It was different from the others, heavier, older.
An ornate iron lock gleamed beneath the faint light.
A lock that didn't match anything else in the ultra-modern house.
I remembered Damien's warning: You will not enter my private office without permission.
But this didn't feel like an office.
It felt… different.
Older. Secretive.
My hand hovered above the brass handle, temptation burning through me.
Was this where he kept his secrets?
Was this where the real Damien Blackwood lived? Not the polished billionaire, but the ruthless man I glimpsed beneath the surface?
My fingers brushed the cool metal.
Locked, of course.
I let out a shaky breath.
Curiosity gnawed at me, but I forced myself to back away.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
The next morning, the entire estate buzzed with activity.
Servants rushed through the halls, carrying fresh flowers, linens, and trays of food.
Mrs. Whitmore found me in the sitting room, where I was sipping coffee and pretending to read a magazine.
"Mr. Blackwood is hosting a gathering this evening," she announced crisply. "You'll need to prepare."
I blinked. "Another party?"
"Not a party," she corrected. "Business associates. Potential investors. Important people."
Her tone implied I was not yet important.
I set the magazine down. "What do I need to do?"
She handed me another garment bag.
Another dress, blood-red silk this time, daring and elegant.
"You're to be by his side the entire evening," Mrs. Whitmore said. "Silent. Supportive. Beautiful."
I clenched my teeth.
Another night playing the perfect wife.
Another night wearing a mask.
But if I had learned anything from the gala, it was that appearance mattered to Damien more than anything.
And if I wanted to survive this marriage, I needed to become a master at playing his game.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.
The red dress clung to every curve, the neckline dipping dangerously low.
Pearls gleamed against my throat.
My hair was pinned into soft waves, makeup expertly applied by a stylist Mrs. Whitmore had summoned.
I barely recognized myself.
I looked… powerful.
And somehow, that gave me strength.
Damien appeared in the doorway without warning.
His gaze swept over me, lingering at the curve of my waist, and the slope of my shoulders.
Something flickered in his eyes, something raw before his expression shuttered again.
"You'll do," he said gruffly.
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat.
He offered me his arm.
For a brief second, I hesitated.
Then I placed my hand lightly on his sleeve.
His muscles tensed under my touch, and for a heartbeat, we were connected by more than duty.
By something deeper.
Something dangerous.
The gathering was smaller than the gala, but no less intimidating.
Power dripped from every corner, men and women who controlled empires, their laughter sharp as knives.
Damien moved among them with effortless grace, making deals with a smile, wielding charm like a weapon.
I stayed at his side, smiling politely, nodding when appropriate.
No one questioned my presence.
Not tonight.
Not with Damien's hand resting lightly at the small of my back, claiming me with a silent warning.
I caught snippets of conversation.
Stocks. Mergers. Silent partners.
Deals that could make or break entire industries.
And through it all, Damien's name was spoken with awe and fear.
He wasn't just a billionaire.
He was a king.
A king with blood on his hands.
I felt it, the ruthlessness beneath his polished exterior, the barely leashed violence.
And somehow, I wasn't afraid.
Not really.
Because I had my kind of strength, too.
One I was just beginning to understand.
Hours later, after the last guest had departed and the last glass of champagne had been drained, Damien and I stood alone in the grand foyer.
I shifted awkwardly in my heels, exhaustion tugging at me.
"You did well tonight," he said finally.
I blinked, surprised by the rare praise.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He studied me, his expression unreadable.
"You're learning faster than I expected," he said. "Good."
I looked up at him, heart hammering.
For a moment, the air between us crackled with tension, with heat.
Damien reached out slowly, and deliberately, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers brushed my skin, and I shivered.
"Goodnight, Elena," he murmured.
And then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls.
Leaving me standing there.
Alone.
Breathless.
Confused.
Wanting.
Later that night, I found myself once again wandering the halls, restless and haunted.
The mansion felt different now.
Not empty but alive.
As if the walls themselves were whispering secrets.
I ended up back at the locked door.
Drawn like a moth to a flame.
Only this time… the door wasn't fully closed.
It was ajar, just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness beyond.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Had someone been inside?
Or had Damien forgotten to lock it?
I hesitated.
This was forbidden.
This was dangerous.
But curiosity was stronger than fear.
I pushed the door open.
It creaked on ancient hinges.
Beyond was a staircase spiraling downward into darkness.
A cold draft hit me, carrying the scent of stone and secrets.
I swallowed hard.
Don't.
I knew I should turn back.
I knew I should close the door and pretend I had never seen it.
But instead…
I stepped inside.
The staircase wound down, deeper and deeper.
I clung to the railing, my heart pounding in my ears.
Finally, I reached the bottom.
A long hallway stretched before me lined with old portraits, their faces worn and faded.
The walls were stone, rough, and ancient.
Nothing like the sleek marble upstairs.
This part of the house had been hidden, forgotten.
Why?
At the end of the hallway, a heavy iron door loomed.
Another lock.
Another barrier.
I approached cautiously, my footsteps echoing.
The door was slightly ajar, just like the one upstairs.
Beyond it, I glimpsed… something.
A room filled with old furniture, trunks, and
Documents.
Stacks and stacks of papers.
I inched closer, my fingers brushing the edge of a dusty desk.
Ledgers. Contracts. Deeds.
Old family records, some dating back centuries.
And then
A photograph.
I picked it up, my hands trembling.
A young Damien.
Barely twenty.
Standing beside a man who looked strikingly similar older, crueler.
His father, maybe?
The resemblance was uncanny.
But it was the expression on Damien's face that made me freeze.
Cold.
Empty.
Hollow.
Not the man I knew today.
Not entirely.
Beneath the ice, there was something else, something broken.
I set the photo down, my mind racing.
What had happened to him?
What was he hiding?
And why did he lock this part of himself away, buried deep beneath the mansion?
I turned to leave and froze.
Damien stood in the doorway.
Watching me.
His face was carved from stone.
For a long, terrible moment, neither of us moved.
Then, very softly, he said:
"You shouldn't be here."