Chapter 3: A Stranger's Home
634 Words
The mansion loomed ahead like a modern-day fortress—glass, steel, and cold precision perched on the edge of a private cliff. Lena sat stiffly beside Damien in the backseat of the sleek black car, her hands resting on the silk folds of her gown.
“You live here alone?” she asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“I prefer it that way,” Damien replied without looking at her.
Great, she thought. A silent castle. A brooding billionaire. And a year of pretending to be his loving wife. What could go wrong?
When the car rolled to a stop, the front doors opened before they even stepped out. A sharply dressed housekeeper greeted them with a polite nod.
“Welcome, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said.
Lena froze for half a second before nodding back. “Thank you...?”
“Genevieve,” the woman offered. “I run the house. Let me know if you need anything.”
Damien didn’t slow as he climbed the marble steps. “Lena’s things are arriving tomorrow. Set her up in the west wing.”
Genevieve nodded. “Of course, sir.”
Lena glanced between them. “West wing?”
He turned at the top of the stairs. “We agreed: no intimacy. Separate rooms. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
Heat rose in her cheeks, but she met his stare evenly. “Not a chance.”
---
The west wing was gorgeous—sleek furniture, ocean views, and a walk-in closet bigger than her entire apartment. Still, it felt more like a high-end hotel than a home.
She sat on the edge of the bed, tugging off her heels, the silence pressing down on her. For a moment, she thought about calling her father… but what would she say?
*Hey, Dad. I saved the company by marrying the devil in a custom-tailored suit.*
Instead, she wandered into the art studio—yes, her new quarters had a studio. Apparently Damien had included it as part of the arrangement. She ran her fingers along the blank canvas. Her brushes would arrive tomorrow.
But would inspiration?
---
Later that night, dinner was silent. A private chef served grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and red wine, but the food might as well have been cardboard. Damien barely looked up from his tablet.
“So,” she said finally, “do we at least pretend to talk like a married couple when we’re alone?”
He set the tablet down. “Only if you want to.”
“Why did you pick me?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze settled on her, unreadable again.
“You were desperate. And not a gold-digger. That combination is rare.”
Her fork froze midair. “Wow. Romantic.”
“You wanted honesty.”
Fair enough. She took a sip of wine. “What happens when the year ends?”
“I wire the final payment to your account. We sign divorce papers. You move on. I move on.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, we keep the story believable. I suggest a few staged photos, a public dinner or two. Otherwise, we stay out of each other’s way.”
Lena set her glass down carefully. “Fine. But let’s get something straight—this may be fake, but I’m not your employee. I’m your equal.”
His eyes flickered with something dark—respect, maybe, or warning.
“Understood.”
---
That night, Lena stood alone on the balcony of her room, the ocean breeze tugging at her curls. Somewhere inside this massive house, her husband was no doubt brooding over spreadsheets and boardroom betrayals.
This wasn’t the life she’d wanted.
But it was the one she’d chosen.
And she was determined to survive it.
- Writer
