The next morning, I woke to the sound of voices.

Muffled, distant—two men speaking somewhere outside my door. I didn’t recognize the tones, but I caught a single word as I sat up and strained to listen.

“Her.”

The rest was lost in a hushed exchange, followed by the sound of footsteps fading down the hall.

I swung my legs out of bed slowly. The sheets were cold, untouched on the other side. I’d slept curled in one corner of the massive mattress, wrapped in silence and shadows, unsure if I was more afraid of being alone… or not being alone.

I padded barefoot to the door, pressed my ear gently against it, and waited.

Nothing.

Just the emptiness of a house too used to secrets.

Clara came in an hour later with breakfast—fruit, eggs, and toast arranged on a silver tray I didn’t ask for.

“You don’t have to knock?” I asked her.

She smiled politely. “Only when Mr. Moretti is inside.”

“He wasn’t last night.”

“No, ma’am.”

She placed the tray on the low table near the window. Her uniform was pressed perfectly, hair pulled into a neat bun. But there was a kindness in her eyes, soft around the edges, like she wasn’t just another one of his machines.

“Clara… Can I ask you something?”

She paused, hands folded neatly in front of her. “Yes, Mrs. Moretti?”

I winced. “You can call me Aria.”

She hesitated. “Alright, Aria.”

I sat down, plucked a grape from the bowl, then changed my mind and put it back.

“Why did he marry me?” I asked.

Clara blinked, surprised. “I think you know the answer.”

“I know what I signed,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know why he needed me. He could’ve hurt my brother, made a statement, moved on. He didn’t need a wedding for that.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “Mr. Moretti doesn’t do anything without reason.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”

She gave a polite nod and left the room before I could ask anything else.

Later that day, I wandered the east wing alone. I told the guard—Marco, I think—that I didn’t need a shadow trailing me around the house. He didn’t argue, just kept his distance, lingering down the hall.

The Moretti estate was somehow colder in daylight. Every room looked untouched, as if the staff cleaned constantly but no one ever lived here. The paintings were beautiful but impersonal. Landscapes. Classical portraits. Nothing that told me who Damian actually was.

Until I reached the library.

The door creaked when I pushed it open. Inside, it smelled like old paper and leather and something else—maybe the cologne Damian wore, lingering faintly on the air.

Books lined every wall. Real ones. Worn spines. Dog-eared pages. Not just for decoration. I ran my fingers along the edge of one shelf. Philosophy, poetry, international law… and surprisingly, fiction. Dozens of novels in different languages, some I recognized, others I didn’t.

There was a large desk near the window, heavy and dark. On top sat a framed photo, turned slightly inward, like it was meant to be hidden unless you were sitting there.

I looked closer.

The photo was old. A woman, young and striking, with thick dark hair and sharp cheekbones. She wasn’t smiling, but something in her eyes was familiar.

She looked like Damian.

Before I could think too hard about it, a voice broke the silence behind me.

“You're not supposed to be in here.”

I turned quickly.

Damian stood in the doorway, dressed in another dark suit, no tie. Always no tie. His jaw was tight, but not angry—yet.

“You said I could explore the east wing,” I said.

He stepped into the room slowly. “This isn’t part of the east wing.”

I folded my arms. “Your directions weren’t that clear.”

He studied me for a moment, then glanced at the photo on the desk. I watched his expression closely—but it didn’t change. Not even a little.

“Was that your mother?” I asked softly.

He looked at me then. “Yes.”

“She was beautiful.”

“She was smart.”

There was something hard in his voice. Not cold. Just… locked away.

“I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

I waited, but he didn’t elaborate. He just walked over to one of the shelves and pulled a book down, flipping through it absentmindedly.

“You read a lot?” I asked.

“When I have time.”

“What do you read?”

He glanced at the book in his hand. “War histories. Memoirs. The occasional Russian novel.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Something cheerful.”

His mouth twitched, just barely. “What do you read?”

I shrugged. “Used to be poetry. Lately? Contracts.”

He actually laughed—soft, low, and too brief. The sound startled me more than it should’ve.

“Come on,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

He closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and walked toward the door. “You’ve been in this house for almost a full day and haven’t asked the one question most people would’ve asked by now.”

“What’s that?”

He didn’t stop walking.

“Where’s your father?”

I followed him, my heart suddenly beating faster. The hallways blurred past as we moved through a different section of the house. He didn’t speak again until we reached a set of tall double doors near the back.

He opened them slowly, and we stepped into what looked like a private sitting room. Warm, surprisingly. Wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, a few framed newspaper articles on the wall.

And there, seated in a leather armchair by the fireplace, was an older man in a gray cardigan.

I blinked.

He looked up. His eyes were bright. Kind.

“Ah,” the man said with a smile. “So this is the bride.”

Damian didn’t introduce us.

The man stood anyway, offering his hand. “Angelo Moretti. Damian’s uncle.”

I shook it cautiously. “Nice to meet you.”

He gestured for me to sit. I did, perching on the edge of the armchair across from him while Damian remained near the window, arms folded.

“Let me guess,” Angelo said. “You’re wondering why you’re here.”

“I think I already know,” I said. “I got married in a deal.”

“No,” Angelo said gently. “You were the deal.”

I stared at him.

“Damian could’ve killed your brother and been justified,” he continued. “But he didn’t. Because this—” he gestured between me and his nephew “—was a long game.”

My throat was dry again.

“Why?” I asked. “What does he get out of this?”

Angelo looked at Damian, who hadn’t said a word.

Then he answered for him.

“He gets power,” he said. “Public. Visible. Legal. Tying himself to the Monroe name—what’s left of it—sends a message. That he controls what was once your father’s. That the old rivalry is over… because he won.”

I looked at Damian. “That’s all I am to you? A trophy?”

He finally met my eyes.

“No,” he said. “You're leveraged.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I just stood up slowly and left the room.

Back in my bedroom, I locked the door. Not because I thought it would keep anyone out—but because it made me feel like something still belonged to me.

I sat on the floor beside the window, knees drawn to my chest, staring out at the garden below.

And for the first time since I married him, I let the thought in fully, without fighting it back.

I’m in trouble.

Not because of the lies.

Not because of the marriage.

But because part of me was starting to see the man behind the mask—and I wasn’t sure I hated him enough anymore.