Chapter Five: Beneath the Ice
1697 Words
Zara stood on the balcony of the penthouse, the wind tugging at her satin robe as the city lights blinked below like stars trapped in concrete. It was past midnight, yet sleep refused to come. Too many thoughts clashed in her mind—her mother’s worsening condition, the weight of her deal with Damien, and the coldness that clung to the walls of the mansion despite the luxury it exuded.
Behind her, the glass door slid open with a soft click.
“You always stand out here when you’re overthinking,” Damien’s deep voice broke the silence.
Zara didn’t turn. “Do you watch me now?”
“I live here,” he said simply, stepping beside her. His expression, as usual, was unreadable, but there was no sarcasm in his tone tonight.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t sleep.”
“Because of your mother?”
Zara hesitated, then nodded. “Her condition isn’t improving. The hospital called today. She’s asking to see me, but the doctors are concerned about her mental stability. They think seeing me might trigger more anxiety.”
Damien was quiet for a beat. “Then take precautions. Visit her tomorrow. I’ll arrange for security and medical personnel to accompany you.”
Zara turned to look at him, surprised. “You’d do that?”
His jaw clenched. “This marriage might be a contract, but I don’t make promises I can’t keep. You asked me to help her, and I will.”
For the first time, she saw something flicker in Damien’s expression—was it guilt? Or sympathy?
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Their eyes met and held for a moment, the silence between them heavy but not hostile. Then, Damien turned away.
“You should rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
Zara nodded, though she knew sleep would remain a stranger. As Damien walked back inside, she noticed something different in his gait—slower, more deliberate. Vulnerable, even.
The next morning was a flurry of tension. Zara dressed simply in a cream blouse and black slacks, unsure of how to approach her mother after everything. She hadn’t told her about the marriage—not the real version, anyway. As far as her mother knew, Zara had found love in a whirlwind and married a successful businessman.
The hospital was quiet, the sterile scent hitting her like a wave. Damien’s driver and a nurse he’d hired followed discreetly behind her. Zara’s heart thudded in her chest as she stepped into the private room.
Her mother, Miriam Blake, looked thinner than Zara remembered, her cheeks sunken, her eyes tired. But they lit up when she saw her daughter.
“Zara,” she said, her voice raspy. “Oh, my darling girl.”
Zara rushed forward and embraced her gently, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Hi, Mum.”
Miriam pulled back and studied her. “You look so beautiful. Married life suits you.”
Zara forced a smile. “Thank you.”
Her mother’s hand reached for hers. “Tell me about him. Damien, right? Do you love him?”
The question pierced deeper than she expected.
“He’s… different. But he’s helped us. That’s what matters.”
Miriam nodded slowly, seeming to sense there was more Zara wasn’t saying. “Just promise me you won’t lose yourself in all this. Love is important, but so is your peace.”
Zara blinked back tears. “I promise.”
They talked for a while longer until Miriam drifted off to sleep. Outside the room, Zara leaned against the wall and sighed.
“She’s strong,” came Damien’s voice. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her.
“You came?” she asked, surprised.
“I said I’d arrange things. I also came to see what kind of woman raised you.”
Zara gave him a small smile. “And?”
“She’s braver than most people I know.”
For once, it wasn’t sarcasm. She nodded. “She is.”
As they walked toward the car, Zara glanced sideways at him. “Why did you agree to this marriage?”
Damien didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “Because I needed someone who had nothing to lose.”
That chilled her. “So you picked me because I was desperate?”
“I picked you because you wouldn’t ask questions I didn’t want to answer.”
Zara frowned. “That’s a lonely way to live.”
“I’m used to it.”
They said nothing else on the ride back.
⸻
That evening, Zara explored the house more deeply. She wandered into the west wing—unused and slightly colder. At the end of the hall was a door left slightly ajar. Inside, she found a room filled with books, old photographs, and paintings. One canvas stood out: a portrait of a young woman with sharp eyes and a melancholic smile.
She heard footsteps behind her.
“That’s my mother,” Damien said.
Zara turned, startled. “She’s beautiful.”
“She was. She died when I was twelve.”
Zara saw the tightness in his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
Damien nodded, his eyes distant. “She used to paint in this room. My father locked it up after she died. I only reopened it last year.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized forgetting her wasn’t healing me.”
Zara took a step closer. “Is that why you built walls around yourself?”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t build walls. I inherited them.”
The air between them was thick with truths unspoken. Zara searched his face, wondering how someone so successful could be so lost.
“You don’t have to keep pushing people away, Damien.”
He laughed bitterly. “Everyone leaves eventually. I’ve just learned to do it first.”
Zara felt something stir in her—a mix of compassion and frustration. “I’m not everyone.”
He stared at her for a moment, as if trying to decide if he believed her.
“You should get some rest,” he said at last, turning away.
But that night, for the first time, Zara dreamed not of her mother or her problems—but of Damien Cole’s haunted eyes.
The next few days passed in a blur of routine. Damien went to work early, returning late. Zara spent time on her laptop, researching new treatments for her mother, and occasionally tried to make conversation with the silent housekeeper, Mrs. Carter.
One morning, Damien called her into his study.
“I need you to attend a gala with me this Friday,” he said without looking up from his laptop.
“A gala?”
“Yes. My company is launching a new initiative. I need my wife there.”
Zara hesitated. “Are we still pretending to be a loving couple?”
He finally looked up. “We don’t have to pretend if you’re willing to try.”
The words stunned her.
“Try what?”
“Being a team. At least for the public eye.”
Zara studied him. “And privately?”
“That’s up to us.”
She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she agreed nonetheless. Maybe this was a step forward.
⸻
Friday arrived, and Zara wore a deep emerald gown Damien had picked out. It hugged her curves tastefully, the neckline modest but elegant. When Damien saw her descend the stairs, something shifted in his gaze.
“You clean up well,” he said, offering his arm.
“So do you,” she replied. He wore a black tuxedo that matched his brooding demeanor perfectly.
The gala was held at a luxury hotel. Cameras flashed as they stepped onto the red carpet. Zara kept her smile poised, her hand firmly looped through Damien’s arm.
Inside, guests mingled, drinks flowed, and music played softly. Damien introduced her to business partners, investors, and CEOs—all of whom seemed surprised by her grace.
“You’re a natural,” Damien whispered during a break.
“I used to work events like this as a caterer. Funny how things change.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “You don’t belong in the background.”
Later, while Damien stepped away to speak with a board member, a woman approached Zara. Tall, striking, and draped in diamonds.
“You must be the new wife,” she said with a syrupy smile.
“I am. Zara.”
“I’m Eva Langston. Damien and I go way back.”
Zara tensed. “Nice to meet you.”
Eva leaned in. “Just a piece of advice: men like Damien don’t change. He’ll charm you, break you, then move on. Don’t get too comfortable.”
Zara’s jaw clenched, but she smiled politely. “Thanks for the warning.”
When Damien returned, he saw the shift in her expression.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Stay away from Eva. She likes to dig where she doesn’t belong.”
“So she’s an ex?”
“Something like that. But irrelevant now.”
Zara nodded but made a mental note: Eva Langston wasn’t going away quietly.
That night, back at the mansion, Zara sat by the fireplace, heels off, swirling a glass of wine.
“You handled yourself well tonight,” Damien said, joining her.
“Thanks. You weren’t too bad yourself.”
He chuckled, a rare sound.
Zara turned serious. “Are you always this guarded?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked into the fire. “Because people don’t love without conditions.”
Zara’s voice softened. “Maybe not. But some people still try.”
He looked at her then, really looked. “And you’re one of them?”
“I want to be.”
The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was charged with something new. A beginning.
And as the fire crackled between them, Damien Cole wondered—for the first time in years—what it would feel like to let someone in.
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