CHAPTER 4
1488 Words
Clara’s eyes glittered with malice as she brushed past the handshake.
“Hmm. How quaint.”
Emery’s stomach twisted, but she stood tall. If Clara expected her to shrink, she would be sorely disappointed.
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Later, when the crowd thinned, Emery slipped away onto the balcony, needing air. Her chest ached from the performance, from the whispers and judgment that clung to her skin like smoke.
She leaned against the railing, staring at the glittering skyline.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
She startled at the low voice. Damian stepped onto the balcony, his presence overwhelming the quiet night.
“That everyone inside knows I don’t belong here,” Emery admitted before she could stop herself.
His gaze sharpened.
“You belong because I say you do.”
She turned to him, frustration bubbling up. “You don’t understand. They look at me like I’m......”
“Less?” His tone was cutting. “You think I care what they see? Their approval means nothing. What matters is that you play your role.”
Her fists clenched. “I’m not some doll you can parade around.”
Damian stepped closer, his voice dropping. “No. You’re far more dangerous than a doll, Emery. Dolls don’t glare back at me. Dolls don’t make me wonder what they’re plotting behind those stubborn eyes.”
Her breath caught. For one dizzying second, she couldn’t look away.
Then a burst of laughter from inside broke the tension.
Damian straightened, slipping the mask back over his features.
“Our performance tonight was satisfactory. Don’t forget , this is only the beginning.”
He offered his arm again. “Shall we?”
Emery stared at him, her heart racing, then slid her hand through his arm.
Because as much as she wanted to hate him, she knew the truth.
The game had just begun.
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The Cole Mansion was too big. Too polished. Too silent.
Emery’s footsteps echoed against marble floors as she followed the butler through the endless hallways. Every chandelier gleamed like frozen fire. Every painting watched her with cold, aristocratic eyes.
This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress.
“This will be your room,” the butler said, stopping before tall double doors. He pushed them open, revealing a suite larger than Emery’s entire apartment ,high ceilings, a king-sized bed, walls in muted shades of ivory and gray.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked manicured gardens glowing beneath moonlight.
Her throat tightened. Ethan would never believe this was real.
“Dinner is served at eight,” the butler continued. “Mr. Cole prefers punctuality.” He gave her a brief nod before leaving her alone.
The silence swallowed her whole.
Emery unpacked slowly, arranging her few belongings in the vast walk-in closet that looked like it belonged in a movie. Her worn jeans and faded tops looked pitiful against the empty velvet hangers.
You don’t belong here.
The thought stabbed deep. She clenched her jaw, pushing it away. She wasn’t here to belong. She was here to survive.
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At exactly eight, she entered the dining hall. The table stretched so long she wondered if Damian had ever actually used it.
He sat at the far end, already eating, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The sight startled her. Without the full armor of his suit, he looked slightly less untouchable. Still terrifying, but human.
“You’re late.” His voice echoed across the hall.
She checked her watch. “By two minutes.”
His gaze lifted, sharp. “Two minutes is late.”
Emery exhaled slowly and took her seat. Silver domes lifted, revealing courses she couldn’t even name. She reached for a fork, only to feel Damian’s eyes on her.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he observed.
“Because I’m eating like royalty when my family…” She bit the words back, stabbing a piece of meat.
“Your family will never want again,” he said flatly. “That was the deal.”
Her jaw tightened. “And in exchange, I play your perfect wife.”
“Exactly.”
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His fork paused midair. “You are. For now.”
Her breath caught. She should’ve felt insulted and she did but beneath the sting was another feeling she hated admitting.
A pull.
A dangerous curiosity about what hid beneath his icy mask.
After dinner, Damian walked her back toward her suite. The silence between them was thick, electric. At her door, he paused.
“Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to the staff. They need to know who you are now.”
Her lips curved bitterly. “Your......”
His gaze hardened, stepping closer until his presence consumed her. “My wife.”
The words slammed into her chest, heavy, final.
She wanted to snap back, to spit fire at him but the truth in his eyes stole her breath. Not softness, not affection, but ownership. And something else she couldn’t name.
“Goodnight, Emery.” His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
He turned and walked away, leaving her heart pounding, her body trembling with a cocktail of fear and something she didn’t dare name.
The next morning, Emery was led through the mansion. Maids lined up, eyes lowered. A chef bowed politely. Security men greeted Damian with clipped respect.
“This is Mrs. Cole,” Damian announced, his hand at her back. “You will treat her with the same regard you show me.”
The words sent a ripple through the staff. Emery stood taller, pretending confidence she didn’t feel.
Later, when they were alone, she muttered, “You didn’t have to make it sound like I’m your property.”
Damian arched a brow. “Do you prefer they treat you like an outsider?”
Her silence was answer enough.
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Days turned into a rhythm. Emery learned the mansion’s corners, the endless rules, the staff’s quiet stares. She attended events by Damian’s side, smiling for cameras, nodding at investors. At night, she returned to her suite, replaying every false smile until her face ached.
And yet… something strange was happening.
Every clash with Damian, every sharp exchange of words, left her restless. The way he watched her, as though she were a puzzle he hadn’t solved, unsettled her more than his anger.
One evening, she found herself in the library, staring at rows of books taller than her. She traced the spines, whispering titles under her breath, until a shadow fell across the shelves.
Damian leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Didn’t take you for a reader.”
“I didn’t take you for someone who reads anything other than contracts,” she shot back.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Touché.”
Their eyes met, holding for a beat too long. Emery’s pulse stumbled. She turned quickly, pulling a book from the shelf.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice tight.
“I won’t get too comfortable in your cage.”
Behind her, his voice was quiet. “Perhaps you should.”
Her fingers froze on the pages. When she turned, he was gone.
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That night, Emery lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her gilded prison.
She hated him. She hated his arrogance, his rules, his control.
And yet…
Her chest ached with something far more dangerous than hate.
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Morning arrived with pale sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains of her room. Emery sat at the small table tucked near the window, sipping lukewarm coffee from the porcelain cup the housekeeper had delivered. Even the coffee tasted expensive, but it carried none of the comfort she remembered from the cheap café near her apartment.
She had just placed the cup down when a knock came. Not a polite knock, not a tentative one. A firm, measured rap that carried authority.
Before she could answer, a deep voice cut through the wood.
“Get dressed. Ten minutes. Library.”
Her hand froze on the handle. She didn’t need to ask who it was. Damian Cole didn’t request,he commanded.
Emery exhaled sharply. “Ten minutes?” she muttered under her breath. “Who does he think he is....”
Still, she moved quickly. Her wardrobe—filled overnight with designer dresses and tailored pieces she couldn’t pronounce—mocked her. She reached for the simplest thing she could find, a pale blue blouse and black trousers, hoping they looked less like wealth and more like her.
By the time she entered the library, Damian was already there. Of course he was.
He stood by the tall windows, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his posture straight and regal. Morning light poured around him like he had been carved from the very marble that framed the mansion.
The sight of him always unsettled her. How could someone look so controlled, so precise, as if even the air bent to his will?
- Writer
