The night before I became a bride,
I slept with a stranger.
It was supposed to be a blur.
A mistake.
A reckless act born from a little too much alcohol and frustration–the kind that clouds your mind when you're being forced into an arranged marriage with a stranger.
I didn't even ask his name.
But I remembered his touch.
And the way he looked at me like I was more than just another girl passing through the fire.
It was one thing to have sex with a stranger out of reckless desperation.
It was another entirely to let that stranger touch me again… now that I was his father's wife.
Now that I was, in some unthinkable way, his stepmother.
The thought twisted my insides. My stomach lurched. Damien wasn't just about to cross the line–he was about to demolish it.
I pushed harder against him, feeling his grip tighten on my arm, fingers tangling painfully in my hair.
"Damien, please—please stop," I gasped. The pleading cracked in my throat, thin and terrified.
And then—
Like the heavens heard me, there was a soft, almost tentative knock on the door.
Ma'am Pat burst in like a guardian angel.
"Damien! What are you doing?" she barked. Her voice cracked like a whip across the room.
It was like a spell had been broken. Damien froze, then released me. His hands trembled. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he'd just woken from a nightmare he didn't understand.
"Leave." Ma'am Pat said sharply.
"I..." Damien stuttered. "I'm sorry, Lily."
His voice was thick with regret, nearly breaking. Then he fled, slamming the door violently.
Ma'am Pat stood like a wall between me and the darkness he left behind. She was the oldest worker in De Luca mansion. She wasn't just a maid—she was the woman who raised Damien, who rocked him to sleep when he was a child, who held his secrets and heartbreaks.
She was his protector. She was family.
She was the only one in this godforsaken house with enough gravity to make him stop in the absence of Don Pedro.
He respected her. Deeply.
I collapsed.
My knees hit the floor, and I couldn't stop shaking. The sobs ripped through me, wild and uncontrollable.
Ma'am Pat dropped beside me, wrapping me in her arms with a gentleness that only made me cry harder.
"Why?" I choked out. "Why do men always want to do this to me?"
My voice echoed in the room.
I hated it.
I hated myself.
I hated how everything inside me felt wrong, dirty and broken like I was the one who kept inviting pain.
Ma'am Pat stayed silent at first, holding me, rocking me, letting every stifled scream pour out.
"It's not you," she whispered, her voice trembling, shattering with disbelief. "Damien… he's not like that. I don't know what came over him."
The room seemed to close in. The air thickened with my humiliation. My skin crawled, every nerve alive with shame.
Ma'am Pat helped me to the bed. She stroked my hair, brushed the damp strands from my face like I was something fragile
I clung to her like a life raft, drowning in filth. My fingers dug into her dress, afraid she'd vanish if I let go. Afraid that letting go would let something worse in.
I wanted to peel off my skin, climb out of my own body, and escape whatever this was.
Eventually, the sobbing wore me out. My body gave in to exhaustion, and sleep swallowed me whole.
I woke up heavy.
Swollen eyes. Heavy chest. Broken heart.
My limbs ached like I'd been hit by a truck, and every breath scraped down my throat, my chest heavy with each inhale.
The sharp, acrid smell of cigarettes clung to the air. My stomach dropped before my eyes even opened.
Don Pedro.
My heart stilled, then seized like it had forgotten how to beat.
I wished I had died in my sleep.
He sat in the corner of the room, shirt undone, his tie, carelessly draped over his shoulder. Sunlight bled through the window and kissed his skin in soft gold, but it didn't make him look any less menacing. If anything, the contrast made him more terrifying.
I was too scared to follow his eyes as he stared off into space, unmoving, the cigarette glowing like a dying ember between his fingers.
And then—he stood.
Not a single word. Just the weight of him moving through the room. I held my breath as he passed, each step deliberate, leaving a silence that screamed after him.
It wasn't his presence that terrified me.
It was his silence.
It petrified me.
I sat frozen, every nerve taut—until, finally, I moved.
My legs felt like stilts as I stepped out of bed. Ignoring the sting between my thighs and the ache in my soul, following his absence.
I found him in his dark room. Smoke curled in the corners, the gloom pressing close and suffocating, like the walls themselves were alive.
He sat on his on the couch, cigar in hand, radiating a calm that felt like a storm waiting to break.
"I'm sorry." I instantly hated how pathetic I sounded.
"Leave. I'm not asking." The sound of it hollowed the space between us. Even the air seemed to drop ten degrees.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice through the lump in my throat. "I'll stay."
The silence that followed was brutal. He exhaled smoke, then crushed the cigar in the tray—the red glow sputtering out like the last ember of reason; the room, dimming with it.
Then he rose.
"You never listen. You never do as you're told. What made you think... you could mess with me?" His voice carried a dangerous quiet as his gaze slid to the leather belts hanging like instruments of torture.
"I… didn't mean for it." My voice shook, tears blurring his face. "I swear… I didn't."
He stepped closer, his hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white, as if holding back a force that could tear the room apart.
"Leave."
The word made me shrink. I shook my head.
Every line of his body screamed restraint… until it broke. He flipped the low side table and it slammed into the wall, sending everything on it erupting into the air:
Sex toys. Dildos. Leather restraint. A velvet box of metal clamps.
A glass of liquor shattered at my feet, shards biting into my skin as blood blossomed, hot and sharp.
My breath caught. I froze, eyes locked on the space between us.
He stalked forward, rage simmering beneath every step.
Then he loomed over me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body.
"You will not break another rule in my house," he growled into my face like a beast unleashed.
I froze, unable to move, my breath caught in my chest. His gaze pinned me to the wall, every inch of him a warning I couldn't ignore.
I just stood there, eyes darting over the room but never really seeing it, like a puppet void of emotion.
"Get the fuck out," he said, his voice barely human.
More plea than command. Like he was fighting himself.
The edges of the room blurred, my vision tilting in strange, slow waves, everything swimming in and out of focus. I wasn't sure if it was the sleepless nights, the stress, or just the weight of him standing there…. but the next thing I knew, the floor was rushing up to meet me.
And then... Nothing.