Chapter 5
1274 Words
*Chapter 5: Public Property*
*Arielle’s POV*
Damian didn’t believe in “dates.”
He believed in meetings with better lighting.
But after the boardroom bloodbath, his PR team insisted. “You two need a public appearance that isn’t a funeral or a press conference. Dinner. Paparazzi. Make Manila forget Tristan for 24 hours.”
So here she was. Dressed in black this time. Simple, elegant, no red dress drama. She picked it herself. No Damian assistant, no box with a note. Just her.
The restaurant was rooftop. Manila skyline glittering below. String lights, live piano, people pretending not to stare. Damian wore a dark suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up once. Casual for him. Dangerous for everyone else.
“Smile,” he murmured as the cameras flashed. “You look like you’re planning my murder.”
“I’m planning Tristan’s,” she whispered back, sliding into her seat. “He’s not done.”
As if she summoned him, Tristan appeared.
Not at their table. At the table beside theirs. With a woman. Blonde, influencer type, phone already out recording.
“Fancy seeing you here, brother,” Tristan said loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “On a date with my ex’s replacement? Bold.”
Damian didn’t look up from the menu. “You’re interrupting dinner, Tristan. That’s rude. Even for you.”
“Just wanted to catch up.” Tristan leaned forward, grin sharp. “Tell me, Arielle. How’s it feel knowing he married you for your company’s patents? Not for you.”
Arielle’s fork froze mid-air. Damian’s jaw ticked once. That was it. One tick. That was Damian’s version of a scream.
“Tristan,” Damian said quietly. “Leave.”
“Make me.” Tristan turned to the influencer. “Babe, get this. Billionaire buys wife to save face. She probably cries herself to sleep.”
The phone camera swung to Arielle. Live. Comments already popping up.
Arielle stood. Slow. Controlled. She’d played the victim once. Never again.
“You want a show, Tristan?” she said, voice clear. “Fine. Let’s give them one.”
She walked around the table, stopped right in front of him. Then she smiled. Sweet. Deadly.
“My husband,” she emphasized the word, “married me because I’m the only person in this city who doesn’t flinch when he walks in a room. You? You flinched in a board meeting. Who’s the replacement now?”
The crowd made a noise. Half gasp, half applause.
Tristan’s face went red. “You’re nothing without him.”
“And you’re nothing without Daddy’s name,” she shot back. “ difference is, I earned mine back. You lost yours.”
She turned to walk away. That’s when Tristan grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t you—”
He never finished.
Damian moved faster than thought. One second he was seated. Next second Tristan was shoved back, chair screeching, hand ripped off Arielle’s wrist like it burned him.
“Touch her again,” Damian said, voice low, deadly quiet. “And I’ll make sure you never use that hand again. Brother or not.”
The entire rooftop went silent. Piano stopped. Phones recorded.
Damian didn’t look at the cameras. He looked at Tristan like he was nothing. Less than nothing. A mistake.
Then he turned to Arielle. His hand came up, thumb brushing over her wrist where Tristan had grabbed her. Checking for marks. His touch was careful. Almost gentle. For Damian, that was a confession.
“You okay?” he asked. Only her. Not the room.
Arielle nodded, heart hammering. “I’m fine. But dinner’s ruined.”
“Good,” Damian said, sliding his arm around her waist. Possessive. Claiming. “I hate public dining anyway. Let’s go home.”
He led her out, hand firm on her back, past Tristan who was still rubbing his wrist. Past the cameras. Past the whispers.
Behind them, the influencer’s livestream hit 2 million views. Title: _Damian Cortez Threatens Brother Over Wife. Marriage Real?_
---
*Damian’s POV*
He planned to stay calm.
He planned to ignore Tristan.
He planned to treat this like another PR problem.
Then Tristan touched her.
Red filled his vision. Not anger. Possession. Primal. The same instinct that made him say “Mrs. Cortez. Say it” in front of the board. The same instinct that made him put his blazer on her shoulders.
No one touched what was his. No one.
Dragging Tristan back wasn’t strategy. It was reflex. The thought of that hand on her skin made him want to break things. Break people.
And when she looked up at him after, not scared, not grateful, just steady, like she trusted he’d handle it… something in his chest shifted.
Clause 4. No romantic involvement.
He was failing it spectacularly.
In the car, silence. Arielle stared out the window. He stared at her wrist. No bruise. He exhaled.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said finally. “The threat. The whole scene.”
“Yes, I did,” Damian replied. No hesitation. “He needed to learn. You’re not leverage. You’re not a pawn. You’re mine.”
“Mine,” she repeated softly. “You say that a lot.”
“Do I?” He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. “Must be the contract.”
“Contract doesn’t make you put your hands on people for me.”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Instinct does.”
She turned to face him then. Streetlights sliding over her face. No makeup. Hair messy from his grip. She looked real. Not Mrs. Cortez. Just Arielle.
“Damian,” she whispered. “What happens when the 12 months are up?”
He should’ve said “divorce.” That was the deal. Cold price. Clean exit.
Instead he said, “Let’s not discuss expiration dates on a night I almost killed my brother.”
Arielle laughed. Small, startled, real. “You’re terrible at this.”
“I’m terrible at everything that isn’t business,” he said. “Except protecting you. I’m very good at that.”
The car stopped at the penthouse. Before she could open the door, he caught her hand. Pressed another kiss to her knuckles. Slower this time. Not for cameras. For himself.
“Don’t let him get to you,” he murmured. “He talks because he has nothing left. You don’t talk. You win. That’s why I chose you.”
Arielle’s breath caught. “You chose me?”
“I chose the fight,” he corrected, letting go. “Now come inside before I start believing my own press.”
Upstairs, she changed and found him on the balcony again. Whiskey untouched. Same spot as last night.
She stood beside him. This time she didn’t keep distance.
“Tristan won’t stop,” she said.
“No,” Damian agreed. “But neither will I.” He glanced down at her. “You were incredible tonight. Fierce. Smart. Mine.”
There it was again. Mine.
Arielle looked at his profile. Cold. Controlled. And yet his hand found hers on the railing. Fingers threading through hers like it was natural.
Clause 4 was crumbling. And neither of them was trying to fix it.
Tristan’s POV!
Tristan watched the livestream replay in his apartment. Damian’s hand on Arielle’s waist. Damian’s voice: “Touch her again.”
He threw his phone. Shattered screen.
“She’s supposed to be his weakness,” he muttered. “Not his weapon.”
He opened a new tab. Drafted an email. Subject: _Plan B_.
If he couldn’t break them apart with rumors… he’d break them apart with truth.
- Writer
