MARRIED TO MY MISTAKE

Chapter Seven – Always Her

Damian’s Point of View

One month.

That’s how long she’s been here.

Thirty days of irritating calm, perfectly filed reports, and a voice that never trembles—even when I’m at my worst.

Rhea.

She’s everywhere I go. Not intentionally, I know that much. But it’s as if the universe enjoys throwing her in my path just to watch me grit my teeth.

Like this morning—again.

I’d just walked into the elevator when the doors began to close, and of course, a hand slipped in at the last second. Polished nails. A navy-blue blazer. Her.

“Mr. Cole,” she said, her tone too neutral to be friendly and too calm to be intimidated.

“Miss Rhea,” I grunted, not bothering to look directly at her.

The doors slid shut. Silence.

She didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift awkwardly like the others usually did in my presence. No nervous humming. No unnecessary apologies.

Just silence.

Her perfume drifted in the small space—soft, nothing flashy. But noticeable. Of course.

“Third time this week,” she said after a moment. “We keep sharing elevators. Either this building has a strange sense of humor, or someone’s playing matchmaker.”

I glanced at her. Bold. Again.

“I’m not laughing,” I said.

“You rarely do,” she replied, shrugging.

The doors opened. I stepped out first—because of course I did—and she followed. Again.

Even at the executive dinner last weekend, it was the same. I stood by the bar, minding my own business, and there she was, walking in like she owned the damn room. And God help me, I stared. We barely spoke beyond formalities, but I saw the way people looked at her. Like she was something out of a dream.

And I hated that I noticed.

Today wasn’t much different. She was presenting a brief with the marketing team. I shouldn’t have been in that meeting, but someone forwarded the calendar invite to me “by mistake.”

Bullshit.

I watched her from the back of the room, arms folded, face blank.

She spoke clearly, confidently. She wasn’t loud—she didn’t need to be. When she paused to answer a question, the room waited. When she smiled, even slightly, people leaned forward.

How the hell did she do that?

After the meeting, I turned to leave. I didn’t plan to speak to her. But I did.

“You missed a key trend in your projections.”

She didn’t flinch. “I didn’t miss it. I chose not to include it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s bold. Especially when I’m the one reviewing it.”

She met my gaze—no fear. “And yet you stayed the entire time.”

God. This woman.

“Watch yourself, Miss Rhea,” I said coldly.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise, Mr. Cole.”

I walked off before I said something I’d regret.

---

That afternoon, HR sent out an email: Mentorship Pairings for Leadership Development. Apparently, it was an initiative suggested by the board to foster stronger cross-departmental growth.

And who was I matched with?

You guessed it.

Rhea.

I stared at the email for a full minute.

“Is this a joke?” I asked Thomas, my assistant.

He peeked in. “Uh, no sir. Random pairing. System-generated.”

“Unpair it.”

“I tried. The system locked it in.”

Of course it did.

---

That evening, I walked into the private lounge for the mentor kick-off session. Half the room was buzzing with awkward small talk and fake laughs.

And there she was—by the coffee stand, already holding a cup. As if she belonged here more than I did.

She looked up the moment I walked in. That damn calm again.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” she said, walking toward me.

“Apparently,” I muttered.

“Shall we pretend to get along?” she asked, offering a faint smile.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you always like this?”

“Only around people who hate surprises,” she replied, sipping her coffee.

God help me—I almost laughed.

Almost.

---

They say when you try to avoid someone, fate has a funny way of throwing you straight into their path. In elevators. In meetings. In mentorship pairings. In late-night project revisions.

And now?

In my thoughts.

I hate this.

I hate her—or, at least, I should. I hate how she always says the right things. I hate that I’ve begun to notice the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. I hate that she never backs down. That she never flirts or flatters or seeks my attention like everyone else.

And I hate, most of all, that something about her doesn’t add up. Like she’s wearing a mask, and I can’t see what’s underneath.

But I want to.

God help me, I want to.