The chandelier above her glittered like a thousand glass daggers—beautiful, fragile, and ready to fall. Rose Valentina D'Aragon sat poised on the velvet chair, her spine straight despite the corset biting into her skin. Cameras flashed around her. Her mother beamed at the press. Her father was already in business talks, barely acknowledging the chaos around them.
This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.
Instead, it felt like a sentence.
Across the grand ballroom, dressed in a tailored black suit like he owned the world, he stood—Damian Alaric Vortigan. Her husband, as of exactly nineteen minutes ago. His lips curled in that same smug smirk she'd hated since they were kids. The only difference now was the wedding band on both their fingers.
A golden chain of silence looped around her neck. The wedding was done. The papers signed. The empire officially merged. There was no way out.
He approached, glass of champagne in hand, eyes cold and unreadable.
"I didn't think you'd make it past the vows without stabbing me," he muttered as he leaned in beside her, his voice low so only she could hear.
"I still might," she replied without looking at him, her lips frozen in a smile for the cameras.
"Cheers to the happy couple!" someone yelled.
Damian clinked his glass against hers.
"To the greatest business merger of the century," he said smoothly, ignoring the way her eyes narrowed at the word business. "And to the most beautiful bride in the room… if only she weren't my worst nightmare."
They drank.
The rest of the evening blurred—fake laughter, fake touches, forced dances.
But behind closed doors, when the ballroom faded and the press had vanished, the real conversation began.
Inside their shared penthouse suite—cold, modern, too perfect—Rose kicked off her heels and turned to face him.
"I'm not sleeping with you," she said flatly.
Damian raised a brow, loosening his tie. "I wasn't expecting a honeymoon. You made that very clear when you called me an emotionless vulture during our rehearsal dinner."
"Then let's make a deal," she said, walking past him and opening a bottle of wine. "We play the perfect couple to the world. Business, events, family crap—sure. But in here, we live separate lives."
"Separate bedrooms?"
"Obviously."
"Separate... partners?" he asked, his voice unreadable.
She met his gaze without flinching. "I have a boyfriend. You have your model. What we do behind these walls is our business."
A long silence. Damian sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You're colder than I expected, Rose," he said finally.
She shrugged. "I learned from the best."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Fine. Let's play house. But remember something, wife—you may think you hate me, but one day… you'll beg for me."
Rose turned to face Damian, her voice cold and steady.
"I will never beg for you."
He smirked, stepping in until the space between them practically sizzled. His voice dropped low, teasing and dangerous.
"Really?" he asked. "Look me in the eyes and say that again."
Rose didn't flinch. She leaned forward, her face mere inches from his. The air between them pulsed with heat—hate, maybe. Maybe something else.
"I, Rose Valentina D'Aragon, will never fall for Damian Alaric Vortigan," she whispered. "Are we clear?"
Damian chuckled, the sound deep and smooth like aged whiskey. He leaned back, his gaze still locked on hers.
"Crystal," he murmured. "But when you lose… I'll be here." He winked at her with maddening confidence.
She rolled her eyes just as the door opened. Their parents—both sets—entered the room like they owned the place, all smiles and glowing excitement. Rose quickly straightened up, forcing a polite smile as Damian stiffened beside her.
"Mom? Dad? Father-in-law, Mother-in-law?" she greeted, her voice laced with forced warmth.
Damian offered a curt nod. "Everything alright?"
Her mother stepped forward, beaming. "We have a little surprise. We'll be staying here in the penthouse with you two for the next year!"
Rose's mouth fell open slightly. "I'm sorry—what?"
Damian's mother clasped her hands together. "Just to make sure you both fall in love and give us some adorable little grandkids soon!"
"Mom, seriously," Damian groaned.
His father waved a hand dismissively. "Of course there's a need. We just want to be sure our two lovebirds are settling in and getting… cozy." He winked.
Rose's father joined in with a grin. "And since it's your wedding night, we won't disturb." He gave Damian a pointed look. "Just remember to be gentle."
Damian's mother laughed. "Damian, don't be too rough on her."
And with a chorus of winks and well wishes, the parents exited the suite, leaving behind a thick cloud of awkward silence.
Rose slowly turned to face her new husband, arms crossed. "Well… I guess we'll be sharing a bedroom after all."
"Yup," Damian replied, loosening his tie. "Lucky us."
Their eyes shifted toward the massive, rose-covered bed in the center of the room. Soft candlelight flickered across silk sheets. It looked like something out of a romance movie—mocking them.
Then their gazes drifted to the couch. Small. Narrow. Pathetic.
Back to the bed.
Then, at each other.
"I'm taking the bed," they said at the exact same time.
Their glares clashed like swords.
"I'm taking the bed," Rose repeated firmly. "I'm the woman here."
Damian scoffed. "And I'm the man. And older than you."
"By one year," she snapped. "That means absolutely nothing."
"It means a lot to me," he shot back. "Also, I'm taller."
"Oh, wow. Want a trophy for that?"
The argument continued for nearly ten minutes—an intense standoff of insults, sarcasm, and petty pride. Rose held her ground like a queen defending her throne.
In the end, she won.
Damian stood at the edge of the couch with a pillow in one hand and a blanket in the other, muttering curses under his breath. Rose fluffed her pillow, victorious.
"Taller, richer, and still lost," she said sweetly as she slipped under the covers. "Good night, husband."
"This isn't over," he grumbled as he dropped onto the couch.
"Neither is the war," she called back with a smirk.
The lights dimmed. Silence settled. But as Rose lay there, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she couldn't ignore the faint scent of his cologne that still lingered in the air.
Nor the strange flutter in her chest.
She blamed the wine.
She blamed the stress.
She definitely did not blame him.
Not yet.