Hana had never known silence could be this loud.
The Wexler estate was palatial marble floors, gilded chandeliers, and corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly but nothing felt warm or welcoming. Her heels clicked against the floor as she wandered aimlessly, too anxious to eat, too overwhelmed to rest. Every step echoed back at her like a reminder of where she stood now: a stranger in a stranger's world.
She had married a man she barely knew, all for a mother who now lay unconscious in a hospital bed.
It wasn't love. It wasn't even a partnership. It was a contract. A transaction. And yet, the thin gold band on her finger felt heavier than chains.
She didn't see Damian again after the courthouse ceremony the day before. No kiss. No dinner. No wedding night. Just silence. When she asked the maid where the master of the house was, the woman replied politely, "Mr. Wexler stays in the east wing. He values his privacy, madam."
"Madam." The word stung.
She hadn't even changed her last name.
Hana Wexler? It didn't feel real. None of it did.
That morning, she braved the dining room. Long and elegant, with towering windows that let in the pale winter light, it was clearly made for hosting banquets, not breakfasts. And there he was.
Damian.
Sitting at the head of the table like a painting brought to life. Dressed in a charcoal suit even though it was Saturday. Reading a newspaper like he had all the time in the world. A steaming cup of black coffee sat untouched beside him.
He didn't look up when she walked in.
Hana hesitated at the doorway, her hands clutching the soft sleeves of the cream sweater one of the maids had laid out for her. Designer, she was sure. Every thread in this house probably cost more than her monthly salary back at the café.
"You're late," Damian said without looking up.
His voice was low, calm, and completely devoid of emotion.
"I didn't realize breakfast had a schedule," she replied carefully.
Damian folded his newspaper with military precision and looked at her. His eyes were as cold as ever like blue glass, sharp and unreadable.
"In this house, everything has a schedule," he said.
She bit the inside of her cheek. "Noted."
He gestured to the chair at the far end of the table. "Sit."
It wasn't a request.
She obeyed silently, the table between them feeling like an ocean.
A butler appeared from the side with a tray. "Madam, would you prefer eggs or toast?"
"Just coffee, please," Hana said.
Damian narrowed his eyes. "You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Regardless. You'll eat."
"Damian, I"
"Eat," he repeated, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
She clenched her fists under the table. So this was what she'd signed up for obedience, silence, submission. No room for opinions. No room for her.
She took the toast when it arrived, picking at it without appetite. The tension between them thickened with every second.
Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Are we really going to pretend this is normal?"
Damian didn't flinch. "I don't believe in pretending, Hana. You agreed to this arrangement. You're here. And until the terms change, we maintain appearances."
"And what terms would those be?"
His gaze darkened slightly. "You don't get to ask that question."
"You're right," she muttered bitterly. "I'm just the wife."
He stood suddenly, chair scraping against the marble. "Don't play victim. You had a choice."
She looked up at him, fire sparking in her chest. "No, I didn't. Not when my mother's life was hanging in the balance. You knew that, and you used it."
His jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
"Why me?" she asked, voice cracking. "Out of all the women you could've had why me?"
Damian turned away, walking toward the window. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, "Because you're forgettable."
Hana froze.
He turned back to her, his face unreadable. "No scandals. No background. No ambition. You were supposed to be easy to control. Silent. Invisible."
She rose from her seat, fists trembling. "Well, I guess you chose wrong."
His lips quirked slightly, but there was no amusement in it. "We'll see."
Without another word, he left.
The mansion felt even colder after their encounter. Hana retreated to the west wing, where her "quarters" had been prepared. It was beautiful, no doubt high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet that could fit a car. But it felt like a cage.
She stood before the mirror, staring at her own reflection.
Who was this woman?
Not Hana Lin, the barista who used to save tips to buy her mom's medicine.
Not the daughter who sang lullabies and promised everything would be okay.
She was Mrs. Damian Wexler now. Legally. Technically.
Emotionally? Spiritually? Nowhere close.
A knock broke the silence. She turned.
It was Miriam, the older housekeeper.
"Madam," Miriam said with a soft smile. "You have a fitting appointment at three. Mr. Wexler insisted."
"Fitting?"
"For a gala. You'll be attending with him next weekend."
Hana blinked. "He didn't tell me anything about that."
Miriam gave a sympathetic shrug. "He prefers actions over words."
Of course he does.
The boutique was in the city exclusive, high-end, private. Hana sat stiffly on a velvet chair as gowns were brought to her one by one, each more extravagant than the last. Silks, satins, diamonds sewn into seams.
She tried one on a crimson off-shoulder with a slit that ran dangerously high. The mirror reflected a woman she didn't recognize.
"Mr. Wexler prefers bold colors," the stylist said.
"How thoughtful," Hana muttered.
The door opened. She froze.
Damian walked in, eyes scanning her from head to toe.
His expression didn't change. "That one."
Just like that. No compliment. No reaction.
Just... a decision.
"You don't like it?" he asked, noticing her frown.
"I didn't say that."
"But you're thinking it."
Hana looked him straight in the eyes. "I'm thinking you treat me like a mannequin. Or worsea burden."
He didn't flinch. "And yet here you are. Wearing the dress. Playing the part."
"What exactly is the part?" she challenged. "Loving wife? Silent trophy?"
Damian stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The part is whatever keeps people from asking questions. Especially now."
She blinked. "Now?"
He hesitated, then added, "Our marriage will be scrutinized. Especially after the announcement."
"What announcement?"
"I'll be naming you as Wexler Corporation's co-chair."
Her jaw dropped. "What? You can't be serious—"
"You'll smile. You'll nod. You'll pretend. And in exchange, your mother gets the best care money can buy."
She stared at him, stunned. "So this was never about marriage. This was always about business."
His eyes darkened. "Everything is about business, Hana."
That night, Hana sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the window. Her mind raced.
What had she gotten herself into?
The man she married was a master manipulator. A strategist. A cold-hearted CEO who saw people as assets and liabilities. And she? She was both.
But there was something else beneath his ice.
A flicker. A shadow.
A reason why a man who could have anyone chose her a stranger with nothing to offer but desperation.
She was
determined to find out what it was.
But one thing was certain She would not go down quietly.
If Damian Wexler wanted a performance, he would get one.
But in the end… the script would be hers.