CHAPTER THREE
1270 Words
DINA'S POV
They say the West Wing of this cursed mansion is where silence goes to die, the halls here are wider, darker. Even the light bulbs seem to dim themselves out of respect.
For four days, I stayed as far away from it as possible. So did the servants, their steps would slow near the staircase leading up to his room like they feared disturbing whatever beast slept there.
Now here I am, clutching the railing like it might save me from whatever monster waits beyond the top step.
What if he strangles me in my sleep?
What if this is where women disappear?
What if—
"Move."
I jolt so hard I nearly stumble off the step, that voice...it’s cold, sharp, and way too close.
I turn, and my forehead slams into something solid.
A chest, his chest.
Oh crap.
My heel slips and I yelp as gravity yanks me back, but before I can make an embarrassing dent in the stairs, hands catches me fast and firm. I freeze, blinking up into the icy stare of the devil himself.
He caught me, and God did I hate that he did.
And then? He lets go. Like what was the damn use of catching me in the first place? I hit the last few steps with a thud and groan, more out of pride than pain.
"You shouldn’t have caught me in the first place" I mutter, clutching the back of my head.
"Instinct" he says, brushing past me like I’m a fallen lamp, asshole.
I get up and follow, glaring holes into the back of his perfectly tailored suit. We reach the room, and when he opens the door, my jaw tightens.
Black and white, everywhere.
From the sheets to the curtains, then the walls, the carpet, even the damn lampshade.
It’s like walking into a noir film...if the director had OCD.
And there I stood in bright yellow dress, frizzy curls, skin still flushed from near death—an eyesore, anomaly, wrong.
He fit the room, of course in his black suit and white shirt. "I see you’re allergic to color" I say under my breath.
He doesn’t respond, just walks to the dresser and begins undoing his cufflinks like I’m not standing there.
And for some reason, the worst part is knowing this creepy, colorless coffin is now mine too.
His room, his rules, his wife...fake or not.
"Is it really necessary we... spend the night together?" I ask, hovering awkwardly near the door like the floor might eat me if I go further.
Marcus doesn’t even pause. "We’re not spending the night together" he says with an eye roll. "We’re rehearsing"
"Rehearsing."
"Yes, tonight and tomorrow, you’ll adjust. By the time Evelyne walks through that door, you’ll be a convincing wife. Ideally."
I glare. "You mean emotionally drained, mildly broken, and questioning my life choices?"
He shrugs. "Exactly."
God, I hate him.
He moves toward the closet and begins tugging at his tie then I squint.
"What are you doing?"
He gives me a blank look. "Getting ready for bed?"
"Can you... do that somewhere else?"
"I’m sorry—what?"
"You can’t just undress in front of me" I snap, clutching the edges of my yellow dress like it’s armor. "I’m in the room now."
He blinks. "It’s my room."
"Which I also occupy."
"Temporarily" he says, already loosening the buttons of his shirt.
I gasp, mortified. "You’re seriously just going to—"
And the shirt just comes off.
With his broad chest, rigid ass lines and obviously zero shame.
Goodness.
He tosses the shirt into the laundry basket like I’m not on the verge of combusting. "Why? You act like I’m naked."
"You’re half naked."
"You’ll live."
I slap a hand over my eyes. "You are the worst. Just—just give me a corner of the room where I can build a fort and pretend I’m elsewhere."
"Be my guest" he says, walking past me, utterly unbothered. "So long as you stay on the left side of the bed and don’t touch my watch drawer, and many other things, we’ll get along just fine."
I mutter under my breath, he definitely hears it, God this man has no soul, or shame even, not to talk of... decency.
And apparently, I have no escape.
The bed feels... wrong.
Like dead ass too soft, too big, like luxury was never meant for someone like me, like I’m a stain on pure white sheets.
I lie stiffly, every nerve on edge, listening to the water running in the bathroom like it’s a countdown to my doom.
And right on cue, the door opens.
Marcus walks out, steam curling around him like he summoned it, a towel slung low on his hips...no words, no glances, just unapologetic, dripping muscle and indifference.
I snap my eyes shut.
Lord, take me now.
He moves around the room with practiced ease. Opens the drawers, picks out clothes, dresses with that same lack of urgency he applies to everything, like the world would wait for him to button his shirt.
When the bed dips on his side, I stay still, tugging out the band in my hair.
"Tell me you took a bath" he says casually, as he fluffs the pillow beneath his head.
I pause mid-motion. "Excuse me?"
He turns his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet mine in the dim light. "Because if you’re planning to lie here with whatever grime you dragged from your former accommodations... you’re mistaken."
I sit up. "Are you implying I’m dirty?"
"I’m implying I don’t share my bed with filth. So, either you get up and wash, or I hope the floor isn’t too hard for your delicate sensibilities."
I stare at him, my mouth parted, he doesn’t even blink, so unbelievable.
"I hope you choke on your pillow" I mutter, sliding off the bed with all the grace of a furious cat.
He doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes.
This man has truly unlocked a new level of arrogance.
The bathroom is too clean, the kind of place you feel like you shouldn’t touch anything. I shower quickly, scrubbing harder than usual, like I can peel off the humiliation clinging to my skin.
The towel barely clings to my chest as I step out, steam trailing behind me like guilt.
I think he’s asleep, I pray he’s asleep, spoiler alert– he’s not.
Marcus’s eyes find me immediately.
His gaze is unreadable, too calm and steady, not hungry, not soft either, just… watching. Like I’m an object being appraised.
I freeze mid-step, blood rushing to my face. "Could you not?"
He says nothing like he's f*****g mute.
I hate that I feel smaller under his eyes, I hate that I can’t tell what he’s thinking and I hate that he’s still staring.
I move stiffly to the dresser, pretending I don’t feel his gaze burning into my back. I don’t dare look up into the mirror.
Finally, he exhales, the bed creaks as he leans back, picks up his laptop and begins typing like I vanished from the room.
The tension dissolves slowly, I dress behind the door, then quietly shuffle back to the bed. He’s already on his side, and kept the left side, as promised.
I climb in without a word, lying stiff and unmoving on my side, trying not to touch anything, or not to breathe too loud.
He doesn’t say goodnight, of course he doesn’t.
This isn’t a marriage.
It’s a flipping contract, and I’m just the girl who signed her freedom away.
- Writer
