Crashing into your life

Episode Four

CHAPTER Four: BETWEEN PRETEND AND TRUTH

Leah’s pov

I woke to the familiar hum of the security system powering down. The city was still wrapped in dawn’s pale light when I slipped from the bedroom, following the glow to the open-plan living room. There, on the marble island of Damian’s kitchen—part of a vast space that blended seamlessly into living and dining areas—lay a single envelope and a set of car keys.

I pocketed the keys and opened the envelope. No flourish, just:

Leah,Keys are yours all day. Drive yourself. We have a family event at 7. Be ready.

—Damian

I pressed my palm to my ribs—still tender from the accident—but rose anyway. Today would set things right, or I’d at least level the playing field.

Pulling on jeans and a soft sweater, I grabbed the keys and headed to the Jaguar parked in the subterranean garage. The engine growled awake, eager to run. I punched in the café’s address—just blocks from Sunny Meadows Elder Care Center—and drove into the waking city.

The café’s bell tinkled when I entered. Warm light spilled over wooden tables, and the air smelled of roasting beans and sweet pastries. I joined the small morning line and ordered a latte to go and two almond croissants.

When the barista handed me my steaming cup and neatly wrapped pastries, I tucked one croissant into my bag and carried the other to the Jaguar. The pastry’s warmth seeped through the paper, reminding me how small comforts mattered.

At Sunny Meadows, the receptionist greeted me from behind a plexiglass screen. “Ms. Park, we were just about to let your father go. The bill is three months overdue.”

I slid Damian’s card across the counter. “Please clear all outstanding fees, plus two months in advance.”

Her eyes widened. “Thank you… you didn’t have to.”

“He’s my father,” I said, voice thick. “And arrange a weekly fruit basket—on me. He loves bananas and tangerines.”

She rang the payment through, printed receipts, and slid them back with a sympathetic nod. “He’ll be taken care of.”

I tucked the papers into my purse and hurried to Dad’s room. He sat propped on his bed, pale but alert. When he saw me, his face lit up.

“Leah!” he croaked, reaching for the croissant I offered. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” I insisted, brushing a crumb from his hand. “Eat.”

He bit into the pastry, eyes closing in bliss. “This… this is heaven.”

I settled into the plastic armchair beside him. “I’ve been a mess, Dad. But I’m fixing it.”

He took my hand, rough and warm. “I knew you’d come through. I’m proud of you.”

My throat burned. “I won’t let you down again.”

Next I drove to Meridian Boutique on Bromley Avenue. The shop’s heavy doors opened into hush and light. I told the sales associate I needed two dresses: one understated, one bold. She produced a dusty-rose lace midi and a sapphire-blue wrap dress. In the mirror, the first made me look composed; the second, powerful.

“I’ll take both,” I said, handing over (once again) Damian’s card. No questions asked.

By early afternoon I was at Greenfield Market. My cart brimmed with essentials: eggs, cheese, spinach, tomatoes, chicken breasts, whole-grain bread, milk—and a bouquet of daisies for Dad. At checkout, the cashier eyed my haul.

“Cooking for someone special?”

I smiled. “I just love cooking.”

She rang it up and winked. “Good for you.”

By the time I returned from grocery shopping, the apartment was still empty.

I let out a small sigh of relief as I dropped the bags onto the kitchen island. The open-concept living room and kitchen felt less intimidating now that it wasn’t silent with pressure. Everything was ultra-modern, from the voice-activated lighting to the touch-screen fridge that literally greeted me. I’d figured out by now that Damian didn’t cook — didn’t even eat at home, apparently. There were kitchen utensils, yes, but nothing edible. Not even a lonely jar of instant coffee.

I unpacked quickly, and checked the time. It was already past six.

“Crap,” I muttered, kicking off my shoes and jogging to my room.

I threw open the closet and stared at the bags from earlier — the dress I’d picked out was elegant but understated. Classy, not flashy. I didn’t want to stand out. I just wanted to survive the night.

Hair curled. Makeup soft. Dress on. Lip balm, not lipstick — because this wasn’t a date.

By some miracle, I zipped up the back of my dress just as the doorbell chimed. I wasn’t sure why my stomach fluttered when I opened the door.

Damian stood there in a tailored black suit that looked like it had been carved into him. Cold eyes. Zero smile. But his gaze ran over me for half a second too long before he turned away.

“Let’s go,” he said, curt as always.

We drove in silence, though his knuckles tightened against the steering wheel every time his phone buzzed. When we pulled into his grandfather’s massive estate — more castle than house — I had to force my jaw not to drop. Chauffeured cars lined the driveway. There was actual valet service. Wealth clung to the air like perfume.

Inside, the atmosphere was buzzing. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns. Waiters with trays and champagne flutes. And suddenly, every pair of eyes were on us.

Damian’s arm wrapped around my waist like it belonged there. He leaned in and whispered, “Smile.”

I obeyed, though my throat tightened. We were walking into a crowd of wolves, and I was the only one without sharp teeth.

He took me to the table with his grandfather and his uncles and aunties

Meet Leah, my wife

His uncle grinned at me. “Beautiful. And I hear you’re from an excellent family. Studied law, too?” He didn’t even wait for an answer. “Perfect match. I can’t wait for them to start having babies. Make it quick, will you? I need at least two before I can die peacefully!” Grandfather added

The whole room erupted in laughter. I wanted to melt into the marble floor.

As soon as I could, I slipped away.

The backyard was quieter, the pool shimmering under golden lights. I sat on a stone bench near the edge, exhaling slowly. I didn’t belong here — not in this family, not in this dress, not in this lie.

“Is this where you’re hiding?”

The voice startled me. I turned to see a man leaning against the railing, drink in hand. He looked like Damian — same jawline, same sharp features — but his eyes were colder. Crueler.

“You must be the famous sister-in-law,” he said, smirking. “Surprising, really. Damian has a type, and you’re… not it.”

I stiffened. “I didn’t realize there was a checklist.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “No offense. Just saying — Damian’s popular. Has a bit of a reputation, actually. Girls line up for him. Supermodels. Heiresses. And now he’s suddenly married to… someone new.”

I said nothing.

“I heard you studied law?” His eyes gleamed with something — challenge, maybe. “What kind of law?”

Before I could answer, Damian’s voice cut in like a blade.

“Stay away from her.”

I turned. He was standing behind us, fists clenched.

“Relax,” his stepbrother said, shrugging. “I’m just getting to know the woman who managed to tame the untamable.”

“Stay. Away,” Damian repeated. Then without another word, he grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me back inside, out of earshot.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

On the drive home, the silence was heavy, angry.

Eventually, I looked over at him. “It seems like you don’t have a good relationship with your brother.”

His eyes snapped to me, sharp and warning. “Do not cross the line. Mind your business.”

I shut my mouth and stared out the window. When we arrived, I got out before he even turned off the engine.

Back in my suite, I sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to scream. Every time I thought I could breathe, he reminded me of exactly what I was — a pawn.

Later, I heard footsteps outside my door. They paused. Then faded.

He’d come to apologize — I knew it. But pride wouldn’t let him knock.

I woke up starving the next morning.

Still in my robe, I shuffled out into the open kitchen. No one was around. I didn’t hear movement. Just silence and the faint hum of the fridge.

I made waffles and scrambled eggs, added cinnamon, and brewed real coffee. For once, the place smelled like a home.

I was plating breakfast when Damian came out, already dressed for work.

He walked into the kitchen like he owned the air I breathed. Sharp suit. Cold expression. No “good morning.”

“I made waffles,” I said, trying to sound neutral. “And eggs. Do you—”

He cut me off. “I don’t want you cooking for me.”

I blinked.

“You’re here to smile when I need you to, stand beside me, and look like a wife. That’s it. Don’t cross the line.”

Damian’s POV

I left the apartment with the taste of my own words still stuck to the back of my throat. “Don’t cross the line,” I’d said. Cold, clinical. I meant it. She was mine by contract, not by affection — a fact I liked because it kept things tidy. I liked tidy. I liked control.

Still, as the city slid by through the windshield, a small, uncooperative part of me twitched. Maybe I’d been harsher than necessary. Maybe I could have said it softer. Maybe she’d been trying to be kind by making breakfast. I swallowed the thought and tightened my jaw. Agreements were agreements.

The lobby of the building smelled like sanitizer and power. I almost took the private ramp, but my secretary waved me up the elevator door, and I obeyed. Then I saw her — Sienna — planted by the marble pillar like she owned the space. Silk dress. Dangerous smile. The kind of woman who’d been a distraction and a headline in equal measure.

“Sienna,” I said, and meant it to be dismissive.

Her smile widened. “Damian. Fancy seeing you here.” She fell into step, heels clicking. “You disappeared on me.”

“Busy,” I said.

She followed me into the lift and all the way to my floor. She didn’t wait for an invitation when she came into my office. She shut the door with a soft click, like she was making the world smaller and more intimate by force.

“You’ve been impossible to reach,” she said, leaning on the desk with one hip. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You should leave,” I told her. The words were blunt because blunt kept things clean.

She laughed, a sound meant to disarm. “We were good. We had fun. You don’t just ghost someone—”

“I didn’t ghost you.” I didn’t bother to explain. I didn’t want to. I was not in the mood for conflations of pleasure and sentiment. I was not in the mood for complications.

She sauntered closer, slipped onto the edge of my desk, and swung a leg up so it draped over the armchair that sat across from mine. The move boxed me in. Her hand hooked the knot of my tie and tugged, drawing me forward until my sternum brushed against her knee.

For a moment the world did what it always did — narrowed to the heat of her body and the scent of her perfume. The rational part of my brain catalogued the consequences: scandal, distraction, an unnecessary ripple in a week already tight with negotiations.

I reached to her hand, pried her fingers from my tie, planted her leg back on the floor. “I said leave,” I repeated, quieter, colder.

She straightened, feigning a disappointed pout. “Fine. Call me when you’re ready to have fun again.”

She left like a practiced flame — quick, loud, and leaving only the faint scent of trouble in the air. The door clicked behind her and my assistant pretended not to look. I sank into my chair and let the silence fill the room.

Why had I sent her away?

She didn’t know about the marriage. No one outside the inner circle did. There was a practical convenience to Sienna: quick, private, and uncomplicated. I could have closed the door and undone the compartmentalization I’d built so carefully — slept with her, walked back out, and Leah would never know. I owed Leah nothing. I owed the marriage nothing but appearances.

Yet when Sienna’s heels had faded, a small, foreign tightening sat under my sternum. I told myself it was propriety. I told myself it was laziness. I told myself anything that would keep me from asking the quieter question: what the hell was I protecting?

My phone buzzed on the desk and I didn’t reach for it at first. When I finally did, my grandfather’s name lit the screen.

I want to have dinner with you and Leah tonight. Just the both of you. I want to know her better.

His messages had way of turning orders into invitations. For a second I imagined the old man prying at the surface, at the seam of things, prodding where a lie could be felt. I didn’t like the idea of anyone—least of all my grandfather—turning a phone into an interrogation.

Okay, I texted back. 7 p.m. I’ll be there.

Then I typed Leah.

Dinner at Grandpa’s. 7 p.m. Meet me there.

No etiquette. No adornment. Efficiency.

When we pulled into the drive at the same time — the synchronization felt staged — my grandfather nearly ran down the porch steps when he saw her. He lit up in a way he never had for me alone. He stepped toward her like a man who’d found a missing piece.

Leah—Leah, not the manufactured persona—moved with a quiet grace into the old man’s orbit. He took her arm, shepherded her straight into the dining room, and they started talking like conspirators. I sat at his left and felt every chuckle peel me farther into the background.

At first it was minor things: his stories about the garden, her comments about a book he’d mentioned. Then the subtle timing of their laughter — too natural for my taste, too settled. Somewhere between the entree and the wine, my phone thrummed with messages again. Old flames, brief dalliances, women I’d left hanging. The curiosity in their texts was a mirror of my own past indiscipline — where are you? we should catch up — a list of interruptions.

I stepped outside to take it. The cool air was sharp in my face. Inside, through the glass, they were close in a way I hadn’t certified. She leaned toward him, animated and warm. He grinned like a boy with a secret. My chest tightened the way it does before a wave breaks.

I walked back in and told him we had to leave.

“No,” my grandfather said with a slow smile. “You’re spending the night. I have catching up to do with my daughter-in-law.”

The phrase lodged in my throat like a bitter pill. He said it with the authority of a man who expected a performance and would not be denied. I’d framed the marriage as convenience; he framed it as family. Somewhere between my intention and his interpretation, we’d created something messier than either of us had negotiated.

That night in the guest room I told her to take the couch. She rolled her eyes.

“I wasn’t going to share a bed with you anyway,” she said.

“Good.” I meant it. I wanted distance. I wanted the border to hold.

She arranged the pillows, a soft fort meant to keep us literal and figurative miles apart.

I woke to a strange weight against my cheek — not the scratch of a pillow or the press of a blanket, but something warmer, softer. My eyes opened and there it was: her hand, resting against my face, fingers curved lightly along my jaw as if she’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

And she wasn’t on her side of the bed.

She was on mine.

For a second my reflex was pure muscle memory — push her off, reclaim the distance. But instead I lifted her hand carefully, almost cautiously, like I was defusing something fragile.

That’s when I saw her face.

I’ve woken up with women beside me more times than I can count. It’s usually the same—hair tangled, makeup smudged, a haze of perfume clinging to the sheets. But this… this was different. Her features were soft even in sleep, lashes damp from whatever dream had her trembling earlier. And her lips — full, a shade that almost made me lean closer without thinking.

I told myself to look away. I didn’t. Not until she stirred. The moment she shifted, I jerked back like I’d been caught staring. She blinked awake, confusion in her eyes, and I didn’t give her a chance to say anything. I was already on my feet, out of the bed, and out of the room before my thoughts caught up with me.

We didn’t speak much after that. On the drive home, she broke the silence first.

“Can we stop at the café near the house?” she asked, voice low but steady. “I want to get some croissants and coffee.”

I didn’t answer right away — just flicked on the indicator and pulled over in front of the little place she’d mentioned. She stepped inside, the bell above the door giving a short, bright chime, and I stayed in the car, scrolling through my phone as if the notifications mattered more than watching her.

But my eyes drifted up anyway.

Through the glass, I saw her at the counter — and then I saw another woman approaching her.