Morning arrived like a sentence passed down from heaven. The light that slipped through the slits of the curtains felt merciless, casting its gaze on Nayla's bare skin, still sprawled on an unfamiliar bed. Silence lingered thick in the air, yet inside her head, the echoes of last night refused to fade. Breaths. Moans. The sound of a table scraping against the floor. They spun in her mind like a curse stitched into her very bones.
Her body was still warm, but her heart had turned to ice. Because the truth hit harder than Damian's kiss ever could. Slowly, she sat up, scanning every inch of a room she had never seen before, but one she already knew belonged to him.
The door opened without warning. Of course. Damian never knocked.
"I didn't invite you in," she murmured, though her heart was pounding like war drums.
He gave the room a quick sweep before letting his eyes settle on her.
"This is my room."
"You gave it to me last night." Her voice sharpened.
"I offered it," he replied coolly. "Not gave."
She scoffed. "Typical Italian. Always playing with words."
"You forget you carry some of that blood, too."
Unlike Damian who grew up with arias and espresso, Nayla came from two clashing worlds. One soft and vibrant like her Balinese mother's spirit, the other cold and rigid like her father's table of rules, vineyards, and bitter roast coffee.
"I'm leaving," she announced flatly, clutching her phone, already halfway turned toward the door.
"Unfortunately, you're in my house," Damian said with that smooth, heavy voice. "And that means I get to lock or unlock doors as I please."
Nayla spun on her heels, eyes narrowed. "You have no right over me."
He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze steady and unshaken.
"But I have a right over this place. Which means I decide who stays or goes."
For a moment, only her breath filled the space. Shallow. Angry. Held back.
"So this is a prison now?"
"Depends how you look at it," he shrugged. "But I've never liked women leaving my bed too soon."
She cursed under her breath. Damian was never supposed to matter. He was just the quiet friend who used to come by during her brother Adrian's college years in Milan. Reserved. Mysterious. That's how she remembered him. But now, Damian was a storm, and she was right in its eye.
"I'll leave. And I don't care about your damned rules." Her voice rang with conviction, even if her feet stayed frozen.
"No." The answer came with no hesitation.
"You think I'll just obey?"
"I think you're smart enough to know when to fight and when to be still."
She stood there, breath rising, fury simmering under her skin. "You won't keep me here, Damian."
He took one step closer. Just one. Enough to charge the air between them. "Don't test me, Nayla."
Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked out. Their eyes collided for a heartbeat before he grabbed his car keys from the console and disappeared through the door.
No goodbye. No explanation. No trace of remorse.
The sound of the front door locking was too loud. The echo of it stayed long after.
Nayla chased after him, but only made it halfway down the hall.
"Damn it," she muttered.
She tried the front door. Locked. The back door, also locked. Even the large windows on the lower floor refused to budge.
Damian had locked her in.
Dozens of messages flew from her fingers. No replies. Calls went unanswered, only the droning beep of waiting lines.
As Damian's closest friend in Indonesia, Adrian might have had a key. But Nayla couldn't call him. If her brother ever found out she stayed the night here and let alone slept with Damian, everything would explode.
"Damian!" Nayla screamed at the top of her lungs, but all she could hear was the echo of her own voice.
Her body gave out. The hours stretched into agony, each tick of the clock a new kind of torment. The elegant living room now felt like a gilded prison.
She stood before the door again, turned the knob, and still locked.
"Bastard!" she hissed.
Her life was unraveling thread by thread. And in the cracks of the walls, Nathan's shadow lingered. That smile she once fell for now haunted her like a ghost that wouldn't leave. The man she called husband had become her cruelest trial.
She slumped onto the sofa. Too tired to cry. Or maybe she had already surrendered.
Damian didn't return until long after twilight kissed the earth. Nayla wandered to the left of the kitchen, desperate for something — anything — to numb the ache of the night.
A half-full bottle of whiskey stood proud among polished glass. She reached for it. Poured it into crystal. No ice and no small talk.
The first sip scorched her throat. Strangely, though, the sting brought a faint warmth to her chest. An aching reminder that she was still alive.
The second glass came quicker. Then the third. The fourth. And soon, the numbers blurred.
Amid the cinnamon undertones and amber shadows, Nayla sank to the floor. Her back leaned against the sofa leg, eyes glassy, mind slipping. Silence welcomed her unraveling.
Damian found her when she was already completely drunk. Her knees were drawn tightly to her chest, fingers loosely clutching the final glass, now nearly empty.
"If you're trying to forget something, there are easier ways that don't come with a hangover," he said quietly.
She laughed, broken. "But none this fast."
Damian sat across from her, just within reach. He didn't touch her. Didn't take the glass away. He simply waited.
And then, it spilled.
"I'm tired," she whispered. So soft, it barely existed.
He said nothing. Asked nothing.
"Everyone sees me as the perfect wife to a perfect man," her voice cracked. "You know Nathan, right? He's a public figure. Too handsome to be cruel. Too clever to be wrong."
She raised the glass again. Drank the last drops, then set it down with a sigh.
"I thought he loved me. I thought our marriage meant something. But I was just… decoration. Something pretty to show off."
Damian remained a statue. Solid. Present.
She let out a laugh that tasted bitter. "Nathaniel Wyatt Sinclair. Indonesia's golden boy. Australia's pride. Every mother's dream son-in-law." She shook her head. "And me? Just the wife who's too cold. Too principled. Too much."
"You're not too much," Damian finally said.
"You know what he told me?" Her voice dropped. "That he loves me… but also wants to sleep with other women."
No flicker of shock crossed Damian's face. He absorbed the words like he already knew them.
"Open marriage," she scoffed. "You know what hurts more than a secret affair? When the person you love asks you to bless their betrayal."
Damian was still sitting up straight. No arguments. Just the stillness of a man who listened too well.
"He said it was normal. Modern. That long-term couples need exploration. Quoted some article like it was scripture. And I—" she broke off, a sharp inhale. "I thought maybe I was selfish for being hurt."
Damian's silence wrapped around her like a blanket. Still. Steady.
"I tried to understand," she said quietly. "We've been married five years. He said it's natural. That I should take a month or two to think. But then he said, 'At the end, I'll do it anyway. With or without your consent.'"
Damian didn't flinch. But something in his eyes shifted. Respect, perhaps, for a wound laid bare.
"I started doubting myself. Was I not enough? Was I boring? Had I lost my worth?" She laughed again, but it broke into tears. "I hated that. Hated questioning my value because he wanted another body in his bed."
The room went quiet. Their breathing the only rhythm.
"I feel… small," she whispered. "And I don't know how much longer I can keep going."
Damian stood. Stepped forward. Then, gently, almost reverently, he pulled her into his arms.
He didn't speak. He didn't promise anything.
But that night, for the first time in months…
Nayla's heart stopped fighting.