Morning came too quickly. I barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow dreams that felt more like memories than rest. By the time the faint blue of dawn crept through the curtains, my mind was already awake — too awake.
My eyes felt heavy. My chest, heavier.
The mansion was quiet when I stepped into the hallway, the kind of quiet that makes you question your own breathing. Everything here echoed — footsteps, thoughts, insecurities.
I hugged myself as I walked.
This place wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
Long hallways stretched farther than I remembered. Walls lined with monochrome art, all sharp angles and cold frames. It was Damien's taste — structured, expensive, silent. Like him.
My slippers brushed the marble as I wandered, not really thinking about where I was going until I stopped at a balcony that overlooked the living room.
Everything looked staged.
Perfect.
Untouched.
And I felt completely out of place.
I leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply… trying to convince myself I could survive here for a year. Maybe. Hopefully.
Footsteps approached — slow, firm, familiar.
Damien.
I straightened immediately.
He appeared below, dressed sharply even at this early hour, scrolling through his tablet as he handed his jacket to the maid. He didn't look up — not at me, not at anything but his schedule.
Of course.
But then he paused, almost sensing something. His shoulders stiffened. He raised his head an inch — not enough to see me, but enough to feel like he wanted to.
I stepped back instinctively, pressing against the wall.
I didn't want him to catch me watching him like some lost child who didn't belong here. Even though that was exactly how I felt.
When he left through the front door, the silence rushed back in.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
The kitchen felt warmer — not homely warm, but at least alive. The staff greeted me politely. Too politely. Their eyes followed me with the same mixture of curiosity and caution.
As if I were a temporary exhibit. Something not meant to last.
"Good morning, ma'am. Would you like breakfast?" one of them asked gently.
Ma'am.
The word sat awkwardly on my shoulders.
"I'll… make something myself," I said, managing a weak smile.
She looked startled, as though I'd said I wanted to cook explosives.
"Oh… okay. Of course. I'll leave you to it."
The moment she stepped aside, I felt the weight of the kitchen — the polished counters, the rows of sparkling utensils, the ingredients arranged with military precision. Everything here screamed that I didn't belong, screamed they weren't my kind.
Still, I forced myself to breathe and reached for eggs.
A simple task.
Crack. Whisk. Pour.
Halfway through scrambling them, I paused — suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of my father laughing as I tried to cook breakfast for him on his birthday. The kitchen back home had been cramped, messy, and warm.
This place was spotless. Cold.
Nothing like home.
My eyes burned.
I blinked hard.
"I'll get through this," I whispered.
I had to.
When I finally carried my plate into the dining room, I nearly dropped it.
A note sat on the table.
Dinner is at seven.
Breakfast is at eight.
Lunch at one.
It wasn't signed, but it didn't have to be.
Only one person in this house liked to set rules like bullet points.
I know I work up late but I just needed sometime off his eyes. Not all rules must be followed, I hissed.
I sat down slowly, the paper staring at me like another contract.
I pushed it aside aggressively and faced my meal.
I forced myself to eat, chewing mechanically as frustration built in my chest.
Why did everything here feel like a test?
Why did he feel like one?
Later that morning, I wandered through the mansion again, trying to familiarize myself with the maze I'd signed my life into. I passed rooms I hadn't dared to open before — a library with high windows, a music room gathering dust, a gym that smelled faintly of cologne.
Then I reached his office.
The door was half-open.
Not fully. Just enough to tease.
Just enough to tempt.
I froze.
Half of me wanted to walk past. The other half wondered if stepping inside would give me some clue about Damien — about who he was when he wasn't tearing people apart with his tongue.
But curiosity was a dangerous thing in this house.
I pushed the door gently until it clicked shut.
Not today.
I wasn't ready for whatever truths might be on the other side.
By afternoon, the weight of the mansion pressed deeper into me. Every clock tick felt louder. Every window seemed too big. Every shadow felt stretched.
I went back to my room, closing the door behind me with a long sigh.
Silence.
I sat on the bed, staring at my hands, feeling the exhaustion settle in my bones — emotional, mental, physical. My mind replayed last night's dinner, every sharp word, every cold stare.
I hadn't expected comfort from Damien.
But I didn't expect hostility to be this heavy either.
This wasn't a home.
It was survival.
For my father.
For me.
For the deal.
A knock startled me.
I glanced at the door.
A maid stood there holding a neatly folded stack of papers.
"These were delivered for you, ma'am."
"Delivered?" I frowned.
"Yes. From Mr. Damien."
My stomach tightened.
I took the papers, my fingers brushing the crisp edges.
More rules?
More expectations?
More reminders that I was nothing but a contract?
I didn't open them.
Not yet.
I just held them — feeling the weight of my new life in my hands.
When the door closed, I sank onto the bed, staring out the window at the sprawling estate that felt more like a gilded cage.
Maybe tonight would be easier.
Maybe dinner wouldn't sting as much.
Maybe Damien wouldn't—
My thoughts are cut off.
Because suddenly, I didn't believe a single "maybe."
Not in this house.
Not with him.