The note slips between my fingers.
Ask him what happened to Hale.
My pulse stumbles.
The studio is silent, but the air feels disturbed—like someone was just here. The curtains sway although the windows are closed. A faint scent lingers, something sharp and metallic that doesn't belong to my paints.
I turn slowly.
The shadows in the corner look deeper than they should.
A step.
A breath.
Or maybe it's only my imagination tightening around my ribs.
But then—
A soft creak on the floorboards behind the shelf.
Not loud. Not accidental.
Someone is here.
"Who's there?"
My voice comes out thin.
Silence answers.
Silence that feels like someone holding their breath.
I move toward the door, forcing calm into my steps. My fingers grip the brass key in my pocket like a lifeline. I do not look back until I reach the doorway.
When I finally do…
The corner is empty.
The scent is gone.
But the window—
The window is open.
It hadn't been.
Not tonight.
Not ever, unless I opened it.
Someone was definitely in my room.
Someone who knows about Hale.
Someone who wants me to ask Damien about him.
My stomach twists.
MorningI barely slept
When I finally open my eyes, my phone is buzzing—again and again. Notifications flooding my screen like my internet connection was on break, I was confused with the notifications, i picked it up and looked dimming my eyeballs unable to process what I am seeing.
At first, I can't process the words.
Then the headlines sharpen into knives:
"BLACKWELL HEIRESS? OR BLACKWELL SCAM?"
"Sources Confirm: Damien Blackwell's Marriage Contract EXPOSED."
"Wife Bought to Save Sick Father?"
"Anonymous Employee Claims: 'They Don't Even Share a Room.'"
My breath stutters.
The room tilts.
My wedding photo with Damien is plastered across every blog, circled, dissected—"her smile is forced," "he looks bored," "no emotional connection."
Someone even zoomed in on his hand, writing: He's not wearing a ring.
I scroll faster, heart catching on every headline.
Someone posted a video of us leaving the gala, claiming Damien "doesn't even look at her."
The comments are way worse.
Cruel.
Hungry.
Certain they've uncovered the truth.
My throat tightens.
This isn't random.
This is targeted.
Planned.
Timed.
And the worst part?
That note from last night burns in my pocket.
Ask him what happened to Hale.
Whoever broke into my studio…
Whoever left those files…
Whoever opened that window…
They wanted this.
They wanted chaos.
They wanted the story to break.
A name rises in my mind unbidden—
Graham.
But something tells me it isn't only him.
There's a bigger shadow here.
And Hale is at the center of it.
Before I can think further, the bedroom door swings open.
Damien stands there, phone in hand, jaw locked, storm brewing in his eyes.
He stares at me like the world has just shifted beneath his feet.
"It's everywhere," he says quietly.
"Yes," I whisper. "I saw."
His gaze darkens.
"Stay in the house today. Don't talk to anyone. And Eva—"He steps closer, voice dropping into something rawer.
"Don't believe everything you read."
But as I meet his eyes, sharp and unreadable, another thought slips in like poison:
Then what should I believe, Damien?
And beneath that—What happened to Hale?
Servants avoid eye contact.
The chef speaks softly.
Silas gives me a polite nod but does not linger.
Everyone seems to know the rumors.
I feels like a stranger in my own home.
I enter the living room and sees Damien's jacket thrown over the couch — a silent reminder of distance.
He was here… but not with me.
The silence feels heavier than any argument.
Then my Inner thought:
Maybe the world sees the truth we're both pretending not to face.
An anonymous message poped in my phone.
"You should know what kind of man you married."
Attached: screenshots of rumored contracts, half-true statements, and anonymous accusations.
I feels sick already.
I delete the message but it stays in my mind.
I starts doubting everything entirely;
Did Damien marry me for business?
Did he use my father?
Am i only a tool to him?
The loneliness I feel deepens.
—-
Late at night, Damien enters the penthouse.
He looks cold, distant.
I try to speak:"There are rumors… about us."
He doesn't look up.
"I saw," he replies.
I waits for reassurance, thought I know he knows he said that to me before leaving but Damien can be somehow so I have to remind him again.
I stood, hoping but no reassurance was forthcoming.
Instead:"Ignore them. They'll die out."
His voice is flat, emotionless.
But i sees something in the tension of his jaw — he is worried, just hiding it. Because his reaction was different this morning.
Emotional beat: I whisper, "They think our marriage is fake."
Damien's gaze lifts, sharp and unreadable.
"Let them."
The distance between us feels like a glass wall. I don't for sometime if maybe a word I might calm me down will come but it didn't, He just sat there like a sculpture with a book in his hands as always.
He looked at me with the corner of his eyes to be sure if I was still standing there them he looked up with his both hands out in a "you're still here" kind of way. then I walked out.
I return to my studio maybe I would come up with some good art work again admist this saga
On my easel: the half-finished portrait of Damien i was painting earlier, though it hasn't taken a more noticeable form but I could tell since it's my work
The rumors echo in her mind.
I paints a dark stroke across the canvas — a reflection of my confusion.
Outside, camera flashes glow faintly from the street below.
Reporters have gathered.
Everywhere looks busy as I looked out from the window.
The world is watching.
"If this marriage is real," I whispers, "why am I the only one fighting for it?"