Chapter5
1126 Words
The elevator ride to the penthouse felt endless. Elena stood beside Damien in suffocating silence, watching floor numbers climb. Her wedding dress rustled with each breath. Damien stared straight ahead like she didn't exist.
The doors opened on the fiftieth floor.
"This way." He didn't wait to see if she followed.
Elena stepped into the penthouse and forgot how to breathe. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire wall, showcasing the city like scattered diamonds. Modern art hung on exposed brick. Leather furniture that probably cost more than her yearly salary.
Beautiful and cold. Like him.
Damien stood by the windows, hands in pockets, back to her. Elena hovered near the entrance in her wedding dress, feeling like an intruder.
The silence pressed against her ears.
"Before you speak," Damien said without turning, "let me make things clear."
He faced her. His gray eyes were empty.
"The penthouse has three bedrooms. My master suite is on the right. Your guest room is on the left. My office is off-limits." His tone was clinical. "We maintain separate schedules. I leave at six AM, return around eight PM. You can use the kitchen, living areas, gym. But avoid me when possible."
Elena nodded, her mind screaming about Santos and Monday's deadline.
"We'll attend social functions together," Damien continued. "My grandfather will expect visits. We must appear like a real couple in public. In private, we're strangers. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Questions?"
"About the payment," Elena said carefully. "When exactly—"
"Monday. My lawyer processes it Monday morning. The money will be in your account by noon." His eyes narrowed. "Is that a problem?"
Monday noon. Santos wanted payment Monday morning.
"No problem. Just clarifying."
Damien studied her, then dismissed whatever he'd been thinking. "Your room."
The guest room was bigger than Elena's entire apartment. King-sized bed. Marble bathroom. Windows overlooking the city. A closet stocked with expensive dresses in Lucia's flashy style.
"There's a household account card in the nightstand," Damien said from the doorway, refusing to step inside. "For expenses. Food, whatever you need. You won't want for anything material."
Just human connection, Elena thought.
"Thank you."
He turned to leave. Desperation made Elena speak.
"Should we have dinner together sometimes?"
Damien stopped. "What?"
"To get to know each other?" The words sounded pathetic. "We're married. It would be normal—"
"This isn't a normal marriage." His voice was ice. "I work through dinner. Help yourself to the kitchen."
"Right. Of course."
"Don't expect anything beyond the contract." He paused. "We both know what this is."
His door closed with a soft click that felt like a slap.
Elena sank onto the bed, still in her wedding dress. The room was beautiful, perfect, suffocating. She was married to a man who couldn't stand her. Living a lie that could send her to prison. Waiting for money that might not come in time.
What have I done?
She hung the wedding dress in the closet beside clothes that weren't hers, in a life that wasn't hers. The shower was scalding. Elena scrubbed away makeup and the feeling of Damien's cold lips barely touching hers. When she stepped out, her own face stared back. Not Lucia. Just Elena—lost and terrified.
Sleep was impossible. Around midnight, Elena padded through the penthouse, mapping its layout. Damien's door—closed, no light. His office—locked.
In the kitchen, she made tea and carried it to the windows, staring at the city below. Millions of people living normal lives.
A door opened behind her.
Elena spun, tea sloshing.
Damien stood in the hallway wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt. His hair was messy. He looked different like this. Younger. Almost vulnerable.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was softer than before.
"No. It's a lot to process."
He moved to the windows, keeping distance. "This arrangement isn't what either of us wanted."
"Then why agree?"
Damien was quiet. "My grandfather is dying. Stage four cancer. Three months, maybe. His last wish is to see me settled. He thinks I'm too isolated."
"Are you?"
"Yes. But not for the reasons he thinks."
"Because of foster care?" Elena asked softly.
His jaw tightened. "You researched me."
"Wouldn't you research someone you're marrying?"
"I suppose." He glanced at her. "What about you? Why marry a stranger?"
Elena's mind raced. "Family obligations. Financial difficulties. The usual reasons people do desperate things."
"At least we're honest about it being a transaction." Damien's laugh was bitter. "No illusions. Just business."
"Just business," Elena echoed. The guilt was crushing. This man had been abandoned enough to build walls no one could scale. And she was lying to him from the first moment.
They stood in silence. Finally Damien spoke. "I should sleep. Meetings at seven."
"Right."
He turned, then paused. "The coffee maker is temperamental. YouTube has tutorials."
It was so mundane Elena almost laughed.
"Thank you."
His door closed quietly.
Elena stood by the windows until her tea went cold.
—------
Elena woke to sunlight. 9:47 AM. Coffee waited with a note: Help yourself. Won't be home until late. - D
She checked her phone. Seventeen missed calls. Texts from Santos: Tick tock, Mrs. Cross. Payment Monday morning. Not a minute later.
Her bank account showed nothing yet.
Then she saw it. An old voicemail. From yesterday.
Elena's heart stopped when she played it.
"Elena..." Lucia's voice, slurred and broken. "Jen told me everything. You actually married him? You need to get out. Right now. Damien Cross isn't who you think. There's something wrong with that family. His grandfather, the marriage—I found out things. Bad things."
Lucia whispered now. "That's why I really ran. I was scared. If Damien finds out, if his family finds out..." Her voice cracked. "I've destroyed your life. You're in danger and—"
The message cut off.
Elena tried calling back. Disconnected. She tried again. Nothing.
Her phone buzzed. New text. Unknown number.
Welcome to the family, little bride. Let's hope you last longer than the others. - V.C.
A photo loaded. Newspaper clipping from five years ago: "Cross Family Tragedy: Damien Cross's Fiancée Dies in Mysterious Accident Days Before Wedding."
Below was a photo of a woman. Dark hair. Delicate features.
She looked exactly like Elena.
Let's hope you last longer than the others.
Others. Plural.
The phone slipped from Elena's hands.
She'd married a man whose previous fiancée died under mysterious circumstances. A man whose family had secrets worth killing for. A man who looked at her with cold, empty eyes.
Lucia's warning echoed: You're in danger.
The penthouse suddenly felt less like a palace and more like a cage.
Elena stared at the photo of Caroline Westbrook—the dead woman who looked so much like her.
- Writer
