Episode Nine: Rules
1351 Words
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not normal-house quiet.
Rich-people quiet.
The kind where everything looked expensive enough that you became afraid to touch anything.
A woman in a navy uniform guided Mom upstairs while another staff member carried our bags.
I tried to protest.
They ignored me politely.
Mateo stayed close beside me like security personnel couldn’t be trusted not to kidnap us.
Honestly, fair.
Meanwhile Damian walked through the enormous entrance hall like he barely noticed any of it.
Which was insane.
Because the place looked like a luxury hotel had married a museum.
Tall windows.
Dark wood floors.
Massive chandeliers.
Artwork that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
I stared upward.
“How many people live here?”
“Currently?” Damian loosened his watch slightly. “Four.”
I nearly choked.
“Four?”
“This wing, yes.”
Wing.
Of course the billionaire lived in wings.
Mateo muttered beside me, “I’m gonna steal something before we leave.”
Damian looked genuinely concerned for the first time tonight.
“Please don’t.”
That almost made me laugh.
Almost.
A middle-aged woman approached us moments later.
Elegant posture.
Warm eyes.
Unlike everyone else in this world, she didn’t look nervous around Damian.
“Mr. Vale,” she greeted softly.
“Elena, Mateo,” Damian said, “this is Mrs. Greene.”
The woman smiled kindly at us.
“I’ve prepared rooms for your family.”
Rooms.
Plural.
I suddenly remembered we were poor in surround sound.
“Thank you,” Mom said quietly from the staircase above.
Mrs. Greene’s expression softened immediately when she saw her.
“You must be exhausted.”
Mom looked embarrassed by the attention.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience?” Mrs. Greene sounded horrified. “Absolutely not.”
Interesting.
Either she was genuinely kind or very well paid.
Possibly both.
Damian glanced toward me.
“You should rest.”
I crossed my arms automatically.
“You keep giving orders like people enjoy that.”
“I’m not ordering you.”
“You literally just did.”
A flicker of exhaustion crossed his face again.
“You’ve had a terrible day, Elena.”
The way he said my name should not have affected me.
But somehow it did.
Annoying.
I looked away first.
Mrs. Greene tactfully pretended not to notice the tension.
“Dinner is still available if anyone’s hungry.”
Mateo answered instantly.
“Yes.”
Traitor.
I couldn’t sleep.
Not remotely.
The guest bedroom alone was larger than our apartment living room.
The bed felt too soft.
The silence felt unnatural.
And every time I closed my eyes, camera flashes exploded behind them again.
So at two in the morning, I gave up.
I quietly left the bedroom wearing borrowed sweatpants Mrs. Greene somehow found in exactly my size.
Which was slightly terrifying.
Soft lighting glowed faintly through the downstairs hallway as I wandered through the enormous house.
I wasn’t trying to snoop.
Technically.
I was just looking for water.
And maybe trying to understand how one human being ended up living inside a private resort.
The kitchen alone looked professionally designed.
Marble countertops.
Steel appliances.
A refrigerator bigger than my childhood bedroom.
Ridiculous.
I found bottled water in the fridge and leaned against the counter quietly.
For the first time all day, nobody was watching me.
No reporters.
No cameras.
No hospital administrators.
Just silence.
“You’re awake.”
I nearly launched the water bottle across the room.
Damian stood near the doorway wearing dark sweatpants and a gray shirt.
No suit.
No tie.
No billionaire armor.
His hair looked slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly.
Which somehow made him look more dangerous, not less.
“You walk very quietly,” I accused.
“You scare easily.”
“I’ve had a stressful week.”
Fair.
He walked farther into the kitchen.
I noticed immediately that he also looked exhausted enough to collapse.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
Tension in his shoulders.
The kind of fatigue no amount of money fixed.
“You should be sleeping,” he said.
“You too.”
“I own the house.”
“That’s not how insomnia works.”
For a second, something almost amused crossed his face again.
Tiny.
Brief.
Still annoying.
I took another sip of water.
Then the silence stretched.
Not awkward exactly.
Just strange.
Like neither of us knew what to do when we weren’t fighting.
Finally, I asked quietly, “Did you really mean it?”
Damian frowned slightly.
“Mean what?”
“That things got bigger than they should’ve.”
His expression changed immediately.
The exhaustion returned full force.
“I was angry.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
There was that answer again.
Soft honesty.
No excuses.
No manipulation.
It disarmed me every single time.
Damian leaned against the opposite counter.
“I lost my sister,” he said quietly. “And suddenly the entire world wanted statements and interviews and investigations before we’d even buried her.”
His voice stayed calm.
Too calm.
The kind people used when emotions became dangerous.
“I blamed the nearest person,” he admitted.
The words landed heavily between us.
Because that nearest person had been me.
I looked down at the water bottle in my hands.
“You humiliated me.”
“I know.”
Again.
No defense.
No denial.
God.
Why was that worse?
“You made people think I killed her.”
Something sharp flashed across his face then.
Regret.
Real regret.
“I never said that publicly.”
“You didn’t stop them from thinking it.”
Silence.
Because he knew I was right.
Rain tapped softly against the enormous kitchen windows outside.
Still storming.
Still dark.
The whole world felt suspended somehow.
“I shouldn’t have confronted you at the hospital,” Damian said finally.
That surprised me enough to look up immediately.
The apology clearly hurt him to say.
Not because of pride exactly.
Because he meant it.
And people like Damian probably didn’t apologize often.
“You terrified me,” I admitted quietly.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Enough that I realized he genuinely hadn’t intended that part.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then his phone buzzed loudly against the counter.
The moment he saw the screen, his entire posture hardened again.
Back to businessman.
Back to billionaire.
He answered immediately.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then his jaw tightened.
“No.”
Another pause.
I watched the coldness settle over him piece by piece.
“Delay the meeting until morning.”
More silence.
Then sharply—
“I don’t care what the board wants.”
That got my attention.
Damian rarely raised his voice.
Which meant whoever was on the other end mattered.
His eyes flicked briefly toward me before turning away again.
“No decisions happen tonight,” he said firmly before ending the call.
The kitchen fell silent again.
I stared at him carefully.
“The board?”
“Yes.”
“They’re really this desperate?”
Damian looked tired suddenly.
Not angry.
Just trapped.
“The company lost millions in two days.”
That number barely felt real.
Millions.
People like me thought in overdue bills and grocery totals.
Not millions.
He rubbed a hand across his face slowly.
“They think the marriage fixes everything.”
I swallowed.
Hearing it said out loud still felt surreal.
“You still don’t want it.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Damian looked at me for a long moment before answering.
“No.”
The honesty should’ve relieved me.
Instead, something strange tightened briefly in my chest.
Which made absolutely no sense.
Because I didn’t want it either.
Obviously.
Damian glanced away first.
“But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
The kitchen suddenly felt colder.
“What does that mean?”
His gaze returned to mine steadily.
“It means tomorrow we discuss rules.”
And somehow—
That sounded far more dangerous than the proposal itself.
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