Damien returned that morning.
The house didn't announce it—but the air did. It thickened. Every heel in the mansion clicked faster, every guard straightened. Even Claiborne stiffened when she heard the distant hum of his car approaching.
I stood at the window of my room, watching the sleek black Escalade roll past the gates. The way the sun glinted off its surface made it look like a predator slithering toward its prey.
Toward me.
I should have moved. But my feet remained planted. My hands were still.
I didn't flinch anymore. Not even when his door opened.
He stepped out, dressed in black slacks, a white shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, sunglasses concealing the cold that lived in his eyes.
He looked like a man who could burn down the world and walk through the ashes without blinking.
And he was mine.
My husband.
The thought made my stomach twist.
"Fix your posture."
Claiborne's voice snapped me back. She had appeared behind me, quiet as a shadow. She adjusted the folds of my dress, tightening the sash around my waist until I couldn't breathe. "He's in a good mood today. That means he's planning something."
"Good?" I asked, dryly.
Her lips twitched. "As good as a viper's smile."
I wanted to ask her more. But a knock on the door silenced us both.
It was one of Damien's guards.
"You're needed in the atrium."
I followed.
Down the endless stairs. Through halls that no longer felt unfamiliar, only cold. The scent of glass polish and imported roses trailed me like perfume. When I reached the atrium, he was there—standing with his back to me, speaking quietly to a woman I hadn't seen in days.
Cassie.
She turned as soon as she noticed me, her lips already curled in a smirk.
"Well, well. The silent little wife returns."
Damien didn't even turn.
He simply spoke.
"Diana. Sit."
The chair in front of him waited like a throne. Or an executioner's stool.
I walked forward, chin up, just like Claiborne taught me.
Cassie didn't move. She stood beside him, her arm brushing his. She wore red today—tight, silk, dangerous. She looked like a siren that could convince any man to drown willingly.
I sat.
Damien finally turned his head.
"Look at you," he said, voice soft but heavy. "You're learning."
I didn't answer.
His eyes narrowed slightly at my silence, but then something strange happened—he smiled. Not kindly. Not warmly. But with something dark and impressed.
"Cassie's going to help you today," he said. "She's been here longer than you. Knows how to behave in this house."
Cassie's eyes glimmered.
"Oh, I'd love to," she purred, leaning closer to him. "We girls have so much to talk about."
Something about her tone made me grip the arms of my chair.
Damien stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Be ready for dinner. You'll be serving it."
I looked up, startled. "Serving it?"
He met my eyes with a hard stare. "Every polished doll needs to learn obedience. Don't forget—your role here isn't just decorative."
Then he was gone.
And Cassie turned toward me with a laugh that could cut glass.
"Oh, darling," she sighed. "You're not even close to ready."
**
The rest of the day was a performance of humiliation.
Cassie made me rehearse every motion of a perfect dinner hostess—how to pour wine without spilling a drop, how to keep my eyes lowered just enough to seem demure, how to greet Damien's business associates without trembling.
She corrected me with unnecessary force.
A tug here. A push there.
"You're too soft," she whispered at one point, brushing invisible lint off my shoulder. "He'll chew through that softness."
I clenched my jaw.
"You're in love with him," I said quietly.
She froze.
Then—she smiled.
But it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course I am. Who wouldn't be? He's power. He's ice and fire. And he's mine when you finally disappoint him."
I looked at her, steady now. "Then you're going to be waiting a very long time."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're learning how to bark. Careful. You might forget you're on a leash."
**
That evening, I stood behind Damien's chair at the long dining table, dressed in ivory, every part of me polished to perfection.
He didn't look at me once.
But I felt his eyes every time I moved.
When I poured his wine. When I bent to collect an empty plate. When I stood behind him—silent, obedient, but alive.
At the end of the dinner, he stood and turned.
He stepped close.
So close.
One gloved hand reached out, gently brushing a stray curl from my cheek.
"You're watching me," he murmured.
I swallowed. "You're watching me first."
His lips twitched.
He leaned down, his voice low.
"Good girl."
Then he walked away.
And for the first time… I didn't feel afraid.
I felt seen.