The first morning after my father's surgery, the world felt new — too quiet to trust.
I stood by his hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall. Machines beeped softly, the rhythm like a lullaby I'd never heard before but at least this time I wasn't scared about the beep unlike some months ago when every beep was monitored, I was particularly scared of missing any movement of his chest wall.
The doctors said he would make a full recovery.
I want to believe them.
When I stepped out of the ward, Damien was already waiting in the corridor. His suit was immaculate, of course — dark, pressed, and emotionless — but the shadows under his eyes betrayed the sleepless nights.
"You didn't have to stay," I said, clutching my sketchbook to my chest.
He shrugged slightly. "You think I'd leave before knowing he'd pull through?"
His words were simple, but the tone — that subtle break in his voice — startled me.
"You care," I said, softer than I intended.
He met my eyes, and for a fraction of a second, I saw something raw — a man stripped of his practiced indifference. But then it was gone too fast like a wind
"I care about what I invest in," he replied coolly. "And I've invested a lot into this... arrangement."
The wall was back up. The mask, firmly in place.
He alway have a way to spoil every thoughtful words initially said by him with nonchalance.
Outside, it began to rain.
We stood under the hospital canopy as the drizzle thickened into silver sheets. I could smell the scent of wet asphalt and coffee from a nearby stand.
Damien took out his phone, scrolling through something unreadable.
I hesitated, then asked, "What are you thinking about?"
He didn't look up. "Numbers. Deadlines. Meetings."
"Lies," I said with a small laugh.
That made him look at me — truly look. His eyes lingered on my damp hair, the paint stains still on my hands, I was tired and coupled with the exhaustion I couldn't hide.
He said quietly, "You shouldn't be out here like this. You'll catch a cold."
"And you shouldn't be pretending you don't have a heart," I whispered back.
His jaw tensed. For a long second, we just stood there — the air thick with unspoken things.
Then, without warning, he took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The scent of his cologne — cedarwood, sandalwood and vanilla — wrapped around me like something forbidden.
The smell was giving Damien in block letters you wouldn't want to imagine less of that cologne would you?
"You're impossible," he muttered
"So are you," I replied, but my voice trembled a little.
Later that night, when we got back to the penthouse, I found myself wandering into the art room — the only place in this glass mansion that felt like mine, I was happy the surgery was successful, I felt lighter and more luminous .
The canvas on the easel was half-finished — a storm breaking over a quiet sea.
I touched the edge of the painting, then glanced at the reflection in the glass — Damien, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.
"Didn't mean to intrude," he said. "You left the light on."
"You never knock," I murmured, brushing a streak of blue across the canvas.
"You never lock," he countered.
For a moment, the tension softened into something familiar — banter, light, fragile.
"I was just... trying to paint how it feels," I said, tilting my head toward the unfinished storm.
He stepped closer. "And how does it feel?"
"Like calm before something big," I admitted. "Something I can't name yet." Though I can feel it i let out a small laugh.
His gaze lingered on the canvas, then on me. "Then finish it," he said quietly. "Sometimes naming it ruins the beauty."
And just like that, he turned and left awkwardly
Did I say something wrong?
No I didn't, well I'm not sure I did he's most times difficult to understand nor predict
His words stayed long after the door closed.
Typical Damien, I murmured.
Two mornings later, he dropped a news, An unsettling one.
"The board wants us at the Blackwell Gala this weekend."
I blinked repeatedly , "The Blackwell Gala?" I asked twice.
"Yes."
The air thickened. That was his family's event — a tradition tied to power, old money, and everything I wasn't.
At that point I started sweating despite the Air conditioned room, I started asking myself a whole lot of rhetorical questions, these are questions that needed answers but then there wasn't any.
How will that day be like?
I'll get to see important people in his life, people that matter even though his non-chalant ass doesn't see it.
How will I talk to them? Can I blend without them noticing, Oh my God it's like I signed up for something I don't think I can keep up with i turned and there he was
He was buttering his toast like he hadn't just detonated a bomb between us.
"I thought... that wasn't for people like me," I said slowly.
He looked up, expression unreadable. "You're my wife, Eva. People like you don't exist anymore."
It should've sounded flattering. It didn't.
"Why now?" I asked.
He hesitated — that split-second flicker I'd learned to catch. "Because there'll be people there who matter. It's important they see us together."
Finally people matter, I murmured
Excuse me? he said
No nothing, I answered he wasn't meant to hear that.
"People who matter," I repeated this one I wanted him to hear. "Or someone in particular?"
No answer. Just silence and a tightening of his jaw.
I should've known.
When I turned to leave, I caught my reflection in the glass cabinet — his hand tightening around his coffee cup, eyes fixed on the window like he was already preparing for a war I couldn't see.
That night, as I painted alone again, the storm on my canvas finally took shape — and I realized I'd painted Damien's eyes into the clouds.