CHAPTER FIVE
1469 Words
"A House Made of Glass"
The phone buzzed on Damon Rourke’s desk like a small, impatient insect.
Sharp, insistent, cutting through the silence of Damon Rourke’s office like a blade. The screen lit up on his desk, casting a pale glow across the sleek glass surface.
He reached for it with a flicker of hesitation. Too brief for most to notice, but Sasha saw it. The screen lit up, and before he could flip it over, her eyes caught the name.
Elena Sloane.
Her stomach tightened. Damon’s expression did not change, but his hand moved fast, pressing the screen facedown. For a heartbeat, something unguarded flashed across his features. Pain? Regret? Before he locked it away behind the same unreadable calm.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he slid the phone into his pocket and looked at her.
“You will be moving in with me,” he said.
The words landed like a blow.
Her brows knitted. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Damon said, his voice clipped but steady and leaving no room for negotiation. “You are my wife now,” Damon replied, his tone clipped and cool. “To the public, this arrangement must appear real. That means you will live with me. Effective immediately.”
Her pulse stumbled. “But... Leo—”
“I’ve already started his bail process,” Damon cut in. “My legal team is handling it. He’ll be out soon. But the press won’t wait. Neither will my board.” His gaze was steady, impersonal. “You living with me removes suspicion. It’s cleaner that way.”
Cleaner.
Like this marriage was a business transaction that needed sanitizing.
Sasha’s mouth went dry. Relief flared in her chest, only to collide with something colder. Resentment. “So I have to move in with you before he is even free?”
Damon’s gaze was steady and unnervingly calm. “You are my wife now. To the world, that has to look real. If you stay alone, people will question the arrangement. Living under my roof removes doubt.”
Her fists tightened in her lap, trying to steady her breathing. She wanted to argue, to tell him she wasn’t some doll he could move around to fit his game of appearances. The idea of sharing space with this man. His cold precision, his intensity unnerved her. But then she pictured Leo behind bars, scared and alone, and her resistance melted into resolve. The truth was brutal and simple: she had no choice.
Leo’s freedom depended on this man.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “I’ll pack a bag.”
Damon gave a single approving nod, then turned away towards the window, toward the skyline. His reflection in the glass looked almost human for a moment, shadowed by something unspoken.
She wanted to ask about the name she had seen on his phone, Elena, but she didn’t. Not yet.
---
The walk back to her apartment felt like trudging through fog.
Her shoebox apartment was silent when she stepped inside, the radiator clanking like it was mocking her. She stood in the middle of the room, staring at peeling wallpaper, the stack of unpaid bills on the counter, Leo’s shoes still by the door.
Her throat tightened.
Normally, she would have left a note for him. Something simple. Something to let him know she had not abandoned him. But he wasn’t here. He was locked behind cold, metal bars, waiting on the man she had just promised herself to.
Her hands shook as she unzipped a small duffel and began tossing clothes inside. She packed quickly, efficiently, as if afraid she might lose courage if she stopped. Jeans, a sweater, her only decent dress, toothbrush, soap. Leo’s photograph, tucked between the folds of fabric before she could second-guess it.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the bag. It felt like packing up the last shred of her life.
Her phone buzzed.
Driver waiting downstairs.
Of course. Damon didn’t wait.
---
The car was black, sleek, and far too polished for her to belong inside it. She slid into the back seat, clutching her bag like it might anchor her.
The driver. A stoic tall man in a pressed suit who moved like he had been trained not to make a sound nodded once in greeting but did not speak. The car pulled away from her crumbling street, rolling toward glittering towers in the distance.
Queens blurred past in a haze of cracked sidewalks and neon bodegas. Then came the bridges, the skyline stretching sharp against a bruised sky. Sasha watched it all with her chest tight, every mile pulling her farther from the only life she had ever known and closer to the life she never knew and is about to experience.
By the time the car swept into a private underground garage, her palms were damp.
This wasn’t just another world. It was another universe.
---
The car glided through Manhattan until the skyline swallowed itself. Then, at last, it stopped beneath the glittering tower that bore his name.
Rourke Tower.
It wasn’t just tall, it was monumental. Slicing into the clouds with sharp, mirrored arrogance. The kind of building that didn’t just hold power, it flaunted it.
The penthouse greeted her with silence.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed Manhattan like a painting. Every surface gleamed—polished marble, sleek steel, glass that seemed to reflect not just light but judgment.
The air smelled faintly of leather and something sharp, antiseptic, like the place had been scrubbed of humanity.
A woman stood waiting at the entrance. Tall, poised, posture perfect, somewhere in her forties. Her dark hair was pulled back into a perfect knot, not a strand of hair out of place. She wore a crisp black suit that looked as though it had been tailored for command.
“Miss Moreno,” she said, her voice clipped but polite. “I am Mrs. Kwan. House manager.”
Sasha nodded, gripping her bag tighter.
Mrs. Kwan gestured for her to follow. “I will show you the layout and review expectations.”
The tour was brisk and precise. The penthouse had the personality of a museum. White walls, clean lines, art pieces that looked very expensive. Guest rooms, private study, entertainment space, kitchen that gleamed like it had never known grease or clutter. Every inch screamed money, from the silk curtains to the minimalist art that probably cost more than Sasha’s entire apartment building.
When they reached the master bedroom wing, Mrs. Kwan paused, her expression unreadable. “This is Mr. Rourke’s private space. Do not enter without his explicit permission.”
Her words were final. A law, not a suggestion.
Sasha swallowed. “And where will I—?”
“You will be staying in the guest suite,” Mrs. Kwan replied, leading her to a smaller but still lavish room. Fresh linens. Plush carpet. A view that stretched forever. “Unpack, make yourself comfortable. But keep in mind. This is Mr. Rourke’s home. Discretion and respect are expected.”
It felt less like being welcomed and more like being admitted to a fortress.
---
When she finally faced Damon again, it was in his office—a place as cold and commanding as the man himself.
He stood by the window, city lights spilling across his frame, his reflection fractured in the glass.
“Sit,” he said.
She did, her heart hammering.
“Here are the rules,” Damon said, his voice low, deliberate. “You will not enter my office. You will not enter my bedroom. Our marriage exists for the world outside these walls, not within them. Do not mistake convenience for closeness. Are we clear?”
His tone was sharp, final.
Something inside her flared. “So I’m a prop,” she said bitterly.
He didn’t blink. “You’re a necessity.”
Her nails dug into her palms. “And what about Elena?”
For the first time, the composure cracked. Just slightly. His eyes hardened, his jaw set.
“That’s not your concern,” he said. The clipped answer was like a door slammed in her face.
But it was enough. Enough to spark something dangerous in her chest. Jealousy. Curiosity. A thousand unspoken questions.
Before she could push further, his phone buzzed again.
He ignored it.
But later, when she left the office, she froze in the hallway. Damon’s voice carried low and sharp through the c***k of a door.
“I told you not to call me here. Not about her. Not about Elena.”
Sasha’s breath caught.
The words hung in the air like a blade, and suddenly she knew whatever this marriage was, she had just stepped into a storm far bigger than herself.
- Writer
