The morning after the wedding dawned grey, mist curling around the estate like a secret too heavy to lift. Ava woke to silence, the kind that pressed against your ears, reminding you that you were truly alone.
She lay there for a long time, the silk sheets around her feeling less like comfort and more like chains. Her fingers curled around the wedding band on her finger. Cold. Soulless. Much like the man who'd put it there.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
She sat up, drawing the robe around her. "Come in."
A maid entered, her eyes cast down. "Mrs. Devereux, sir says breakfast is in the solarium."
Sir. Not husband. Not Damien.
"Tell him I'll be down shortly."
The girl nodded and left without another word.
**
The solarium was all glass and silence, with light pouring in from tall windows and exotic plants winding toward the ceiling. Ava stepped in to find Damien already seated, sipping coffee and reading from a sleek tablet.
He looked up once, then returned to his screen. "You're late."
"I wasn't aware I was on your clock now."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Ava took the seat across from him. Her breakfast was neatly plated: fruit, poached eggs, and toast she didn't want. Still, she picked at it.
"I've arranged a media release," Damien said without looking at her. "Our story is simple. We met through a mutual acquaintance, fell in love quickly, and decided on a private wedding to avoid the press."
"How romantic," Ava said, dry as bone.
"I don't need you to believe it. I need them to."
She swallowed her retort. "What if they start digging?"
"They won't. I control what's worth digging into."
There it was again-his eerie certainty, his belief that everything and everyone could be managed. Ava wondered what he'd do when something slipped through his fingers.
Because it always did.
**
Later that day, she wandered the halls of the estate, a museum of curated wealth. There were no family photos. No signs of childhood. Just art pieces that looked too expensive to belong anywhere but in galleries.
Ava paused at a door left ajar and peeked inside. A study, lined with old books and a grand piano. As she stepped in, something shifted in the air-a feeling, like being watched.
She turned.
No one.
Still, the sense lingered. Heavy. Strange.
Her eyes fell on a worn photograph tucked between two books on a low shelf. It was the first personal item she'd seen in this house.
A woman.
Dark-haired, with eyes too familiar.
The same as Damien's.
She turned it over-no writing. Just silence where a name should have been.
Before she could examine further, she heard footsteps behind her. She quickly returned the photo and stood.
"You shouldn't be in here," came Damien's voice.
"I didn't realize it was off-limits."
He stepped into the study, shutting the door behind him. "That room belonged to my mother."
Ava stilled. "She was beautiful."
He didn't answer.
"You don't talk about her."
"Because there's nothing left to say."
There was an edge in his voice now, one that suggested the conversation was over before it began.
But Ava, driven by instinct or sheer stubbornness, pushed again. "Did she live here?"
"For a time."
A pause. Then
"She died in this house."
Ava's breath caught. "I'm sorry."
He nodded once, the flicker in his eyes too brief to catch.
"She taught me one thing before she left," Damien said, turning toward the window.
"What's that?"
"Don't let love make you weak."
Ava's heart squeezed at the sadness buried in the sentence. "That's not what love is supposed to do."
He glanced at her, cool and unreadable. "In this world, it always does."
**
That night, Ava couldn't sleep.
She sat by her window, notebook in hand, scribbling thoughts in ink the way she used to as a girl. But her thoughts were too loud, too tangled.
Somewhere in this mansion of glass and steel, Damien moved like a shadow. And somewhere beneath all his armor, he was bleeding from wounds she couldn't see yet.
But she would.
She had to.
**
The next morning, the housekeeper brought a note on a silver tray.
Ava unfolded it.
*You'll be accompanying me to a charity gala tonight. Formal attire. Be presentable. -D.*
She rolled her eyes. "Charming."
Still, she had nothing better to do.
**
By nightfall, she stood before the mirror in a navy-blue gown that clung to her like a second skin. Her hair fell in soft waves. The diamond necklace she wore was borrowed from the estate's vault, a gift from a man who didn't believe in gifts.
Damien entered without knocking-as always.
He paused at the sight of her.
"I assume this passes for 'presentable'?" she asked, voice cool.
He stepped closer, adjusting the clasp of her necklace himself. His fingers brushed her skin, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.
"You'll do," he murmured, but his eyes lingered longer than necessary.
The ride to the gala was silent, though the tension between them filled the car like smoke. Ava stared out the window. Damien stared at her reflection in the glass.
**
The ballroom was filled with powerful people wearing masks of civility. Politicians, tycoons, elite families who only spoke in veiled threats and fake smiles.
Damien moved through them like a prince in his domain. People gravitated toward him. Feared him. Respected him.
Ava played her part. Smiled when needed. Laughed when prompted. But all the while, she watched.
Watched Damien charm a senator.
Watched an old business rival glare at him across champagne flutes.
Watched a woman in red-a little too close, a little too familiar-whisper in his ear.
Ava felt something twist in her stomach.
Jealousy?
No. She barely knew the man.
But something else. A fire, flickering just beneath the surface.
Later, as she stood by the balcony alone, the woman in red approached.
"You must be the new Mrs. Devereux," she said sweetly.
"I suppose I am," Ava replied, sipping her drink.
The woman leaned in. "Don't worry, dear. None of them last long."
Ava tilted her head. "Is that so?"
"Damien has a type. And a shelf life. I should know."
She walked off, leaving perfume and poison in her wake.
Ava stood there, stunned-but only for a moment.
Then, she squared her shoulders.
She wasn't here to play house or be discarded.
She came with a purpose.
And if Damien thought she was just another pawn in his cold little game, he had no idea who he was playing with.