I didn't sleep much that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Damien's face that cold smirk, those grey eyes stripping me bare.
You belong to me, Elena.
The words haunted me, twining around my mind like smoke.
When the sun finally rose, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and pulled on a simple dress I found hanging in the closet, soft grey cotton, modest but flattering.
Someone had stocked the room with clothes in my size.
Someone, meaning Damien.
The thought made my skin prickle.
I was halfway through brushing my damp hair when there was a sharp knock at the door.
I jumped.
Before I could answer, the door opened and there he was.
Damien Blackwood.
Freshly shaven. Crisp white dress shirt open at the collar. Dark trousers that hung perfectly off his lean hips.
I straightened instinctively, my heart hammering in my chest.
Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside, his gaze raking over me.
Assessing. Calculating.
"Good," he said as if I had passed some unspoken test. "You're presentable."
My cheeks flamed. "Good morning to you too, husband."
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"Come," he said, turning on his heel. "It's time you learned the rules."
I followed him through the sprawling halls, struggling to keep up with his long strides.
He didn't speak.
Didn't offer me his arm.
He moved like a man who was used to being obeyed without question.
Finally, we reached a massive door at the end of a hallway.
He pushed it open, revealing a private study.
Unlike the rest of the cold, sterile house, this room felt… lived-in.
Dark leather chairs. A roaring fireplace. Heavy shelves crammed with books and decanters of dark liquor.
Damien crossed to a massive oak desk and picked up a slim black binder.
He tossed it onto a small table beside one of the chairs and gestured for me to sit.
I sank into the chair, my hands trembling slightly.
He remained standing, looming over me.
"There are expectations," he said, his voice cool. "You will memorize them."
I opened the binder and scanned the first page.
Rules for Mrs. Elena Blackwood
I swallowed hard.
Rule One: You will accompany me to all public and private events when requested.
Rule Two: You will present yourself appropriately at all times, attire, behavior, and speech.
Rule Three: You will not engage with the press under any circumstances.
Rule Four: You will not question my business dealings.
Rule Five: You will maintain discretion regarding our arrangement.
Rule Six: You will not form romantic attachments outside this marriage.
My hands tightened on the pages.
I flipped to the next page.
Rule Seven: You will be available when I require you.
Rule Eight: You will not enter my private office without permission.
Rule Nine: You will not interfere with my personal life.
Rule Ten: You will obey without hesitation.
The words blurred before my eyes.
Available when he required me?
Obey without hesitation?
This wasn't a marriage.
It was servitude.
I looked up, my throat dry. "And if I… break a rule?"
Damien's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You won't," he said simply.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a fact.
I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to scream.
This wasn't what I had agreed to.
Not exactly.
But I reminded myself that, this was for my mother.
For survival.
One year.
I could survive one year.
I forced myself to nod. "Understood."
His eyes glittered with something dark.
"Good," he said. "Your training begins now."
The rest of the morning was a blur.
Damien quizzed me on etiquette, business etiquette, press responses, and high society norms. Things I had never thought I'd need to know.
How to smile without seeming too eager.
How to walk three steps behind him without looking submissive.
How to answer intrusive questions with polite evasion.
By noon, my head was spinning.
He finally called for a break, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied my exhausted face.
"You'll adjust," he said, almost to himself. "You're quick."
"Thanks," I muttered, unsure if it was a compliment or another cold observation.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
"I have a meeting this afternoon," he said. "You'll accompany me."
I blinked. "Today?"
He nodded.
"You'll wear something more appropriate," he added, glancing pointedly at my dress.
Heat rushed to my cheeks.
Mrs. Whitmore appeared then, as if summoned by magic, carrying a sleek black garment bag.
Inside was a dress of midnight blue silk, elegant, understated, and expensive.
Along with matching heels and a set of pearl earrings.
"Change," Damien said simply.
Then he left the room.
Half an hour later, I found myself sitting in the backseat of Damien's sleek black Rolls Royce, my heart pounding.
The dress clung to my body like a second skin.
The heels made me walk with a sway I wasn't used to.
Damien sat beside me, scrolling through his phone, utterly at ease.
I stared out the window, the city flashing past in a blur of steel and glass.
"Where are we going?" I asked finally.
He didn't look up. "A charity gala."
"Charity?" I echoed, surprised.
"Appearances must be maintained," he said coolly.
Right.
Of course.
This wasn't about kindness.
It was about power. Image. Control.
As we pulled up to the event, the gleaming hotel lit with twinkling lights and red carpets, Damien finally turned to me.
"Remember your role," he said, his voice low. "Smile. Be silent unless spoken to. Stay at my side."
I nodded, heart hammering.
"And Elena?"
"Yes?"
His grey eyes locked onto mine.
"Don't embarrass me."
The gala was everything I had feared.
Opulence dripped from every corner, with crystal chandeliers, gold trim, and champagne flowing like water.
The women glittered in designer gowns, their lips curled into practiced smiles.
The men shook hands with firm grips and harder eyes.
Damien owned the room the moment we entered.
Heads turned. Conversations paused.
People smiled at him eager, deferential but their eyes were calculating.
And when they looked at me, their smiles tightened.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Why her?
I clung to Damien's side, trying to remember everything he had drilled into me.
Smile. Nod. Keep your back straight. Speak only if spoken to.
Damien introduced me as "Elena Blackwood" with no mention of how new I was to that title.
No one dared question him to his face.
But I could feel the whispers following us like smoke.
As we moved through the crowd, Damien's hand remained firmly at my lower back possessive, anchoring.
And strangely… comforting.
Like a shield against the sharks circling us.
At one point, a tall blonde woman in a red dress approached, breathtakingly beautiful, with sharp blue eyes and a predatory smile.
"Damien," she purred, kissing both his cheeks. "How... unexpected."
"Victoria," Damien said smoothly.
Her eyes flicked to me.
"And who is this little bird?" she asked, voice dripping with faux sweetness.
"My wife," Damien said, his arm tightening slightly around me.
Victoria's smile froze for a fraction of a second.
Then she laughed, a tinkling, brittle sound.
"How lovely," she said. "Do take care of him, dear. He's so very... complicated."
Her gaze lingered on Damien, full of history and warning before she drifted away.
I exhaled shakily.
"Who was that?" I whispered.
"No one you need to concern yourself with," Damien said coolly.
But there was a shadow in his eyes.
A shadow I didn't understand.
Yet.
We left the gala an hour later, slipping away while the party raged on.
The ride home was silent, tension crackling between us.
When the car finally pulled up to the estate, I scrambled out, desperate for air.
Damien followed at a slower pace, watching me with an unreadable expression.
I turned to face him, my fists clenched at my sides.
"Was that what you meant by appearances?" I demanded. "Parading me around like some... trophy?"
His mouth tightened.
"This is the life you agreed to, Elena," he said softly. "You'd do well to remember that."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
He was right.
I had agreed.
I had signed my life away.
But standing there in the moonlight, facing him this ruthless, beautiful man, a tiny spark of rebellion ignited in my chest.
I wouldn't be a trophy.
I wouldn't be another pawn in his games.
Somehow, some way…
I would find a way to survive.
And maybe, just maybe I would find a way to win.