The room was beautiful. Quiet, too—too quiet. Everything about it looked like a page torn out of a luxury magazine: soft grey walls, pale marble floors, velvet curtains the color of storm clouds. A bed big enough for three people sat in the middle, dressed in crisp white linen and throw pillows arranged with military precision.

I didn’t touch anything.

I just stood there in my wedding dress, staring at the room that was supposed to be mine now, and felt… nothing.

No joy. No comfort. Not even fear anymore. Just a hollow kind of stillness. The kind you feel after a long cry you didn’t let anyone see.

I stepped out of my heels and immediately felt better. Not by much—but better. My feet had been screaming since the ceremony. The dress would come next, but I hesitated. Stripping out of it felt like accepting something. Like acknowledging the marriage had happened and couldn’t be undone.

So I left it on. For now.

A soft knock on the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

I didn’t move.

Another knock, this one more firm.

“Mrs. Moretti?” came a gentle voice from the other side. “Dinner is being served downstairs.”

Mrs. Moretti.

It sounded wrong. Too formal. Too final.

“Coming,” I called out, voice barely steady.

I didn’t check the mirror before leaving. I couldn’t bear to see her again—the girl in the white dress who said yes when everything in her screamed no.

The dining room was massive. It had the same cold beauty as the rest of the house. High ceilings, dark wood, and a chandelier that probably cost more than anything I’d ever owned.

Damian sat at the head of the long table, wine glass in hand. He wasn’t looking at me when I walked in, but I knew he’d heard me. His posture shifted slightly, subtly. Like he was always aware. Always watching.

A butler pulled out the chair next to him.

Of course. No escape.

“Your seat, ma’am,” the man said.

I sat down without a word. The chair was firm and expensive-feeling. A place for someone important. I felt like a child pretending to be a queen.

The table was already set: fine china, three sets of utensils, a folded napkin I didn’t know what to do with. There were no candles, no soft music. Just the clink of silverware and the distant hum of footsteps in another part of the house.

I waited for Damian to say something.

He didn’t.

Finally, after two long minutes of silence, I cleared my throat.

“So… this is dinner.”

He didn’t look up. “Would you prefer something else?”

I blinked. “No, I just thought—”

“You thought this would be romantic?” he asked, finally turning to me.

There was no sarcasm in his voice. Just that same calm coldness that made it hard to tell if he was mocking me or being sincere.

“No,” I said, folding my hands in my lap. “I thought maybe you’d at least pretend to be polite.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching me like I was a riddle he wasn’t sure he cared to solve.

“Polite would imply this is normal.”

I glanced at the room around us. “You’re right. Nothing about this is normal.”

“Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.”

The food arrived then—grilled sea bass, roasted vegetables, a glass of white wine I hadn’t asked for. I wasn’t hungry. I picked at it anyway.

Across from me, Damian ate slowly, methodically. He didn’t speak again until I’d forced myself to take at least three bites.

“You’ll have full access to the east wing,” he said, without looking up. “The library, gym, gardens. Don’t go beyond the second floor without asking.”

“And if I do?”

He finally looked at me.

“I won’t ask twice.”

A beat of silence stretched between us.

“So you’re setting rules already,” I said, giving a dry smile. “Do I get to make any?”

He leaned back slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Alright,” I said. “I want a lock on my door.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Done.”

“And no surprises. If someone in this house is going to put a gun to my head, I’d like a heads-up.”

Now he smirked. Just a little. “Duly noted.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He paused, swirling the wine in his glass. “This house is dangerous, Aria. Not in the ways you think. But in ways that matter.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a fact,” he said. “There are people who think marrying you was a mistake. People who think I’ve gone soft.”

I snorted. “Soft? You?”

He met my eyes. “You’d be surprised what love can make people believe.”

I stared at him. “Is that what this is supposed to be? Love?”

He didn’t answer. And that was answer enough.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. When I was done pretending to eat, I stood up.

“I’m tired,” I said.

He gave a brief nod. “You’ll be escorted back.”

“I can find my way.”

His gaze flicked up, unreadable. “I said you’ll be escorted.”

So that was how it was going to be.

The guard waiting outside my door didn’t say a word. Just stood there like a statue while I walked past and into the room.

When the door clicked shut behind me, I leaned against it and exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.

I stripped off the dress slowly, carefully, letting the fabric pool around my feet. I stood there in my slip, suddenly unsure what to do. Everything in the room was too clean. Too untouched. As if no one really lived here.

The closet was already stocked with clothes in my size.

I didn’t ask how they knew.

There was a handwritten note on the vanity.

If you need anything, tell Clara. – D

No signature. Just that one initial. Like I wouldn’t recognize who it came from.

I picked up the note, held it for a second, then tore it clean down the middle and dropped it in the trash.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay on my side, staring at the moonlight creeping through the curtains, my mind running circles around the same two thoughts:

What have I done?

What comes next?

And somewhere between them, a third whisper found its way in—soft, terrifying, and so wrong I didn’t want to admit it.

He’s not what I expected.