CHAPTER 3: A House That Isn’t Home
1216 Words
Christa didn’t realize how long she had been sitting in silence until the taxi stopped.
The driver had already said something, probably the fare, probably a polite “we’ve arrived,” but she only registered the stillness that followed the engine turning off.
Rain tapped softly against the roof of the car.
Different from the hospital rain.
This one felt… controlled.
She lifted her head slowly.
Through the tinted window, the building stood like it had been placed there to remind the city it could be watched.
Blackwood Towers.
Glass. Steel. Height that didn’t feel like ambition—it felt like authority.
Christa’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
“Miss?” the driver called gently.
She blinked.
Then nodded once. “Yes. Sorry.”
She stepped out.
The moment her feet touched the ground, the air felt different. Cleaner, colder, like the building itself filtered everything before it was allowed inside.
A security guard approached immediately.
“Christa?” he asked.
She hesitated at hearing her name spoken so easily here.
“Yes.”
He nodded once, professionally. “Mr. Blackwood is expecting you.”
Of course, he was.
Damian didn’t wait for things to unfold. He arranged them.
The elevator ride was too quiet.
Christa stood in the center of it, watching the numbers rise without really feeling them. The city dropped away beneath her, layer by layer, until it felt like she was leaving something behind she hadn’t properly said goodbye to.
Sophia’s voice echoed in her memory.
You don’t trust him.
Christa swallowed.
She didn’t need trust.
She needed time.
And survival didn’t usually come dressed in comfort.
The elevator stopped.
Doors opened without hesitation.
A corridor stretched out in front of her minimal, expensive, silent in a way that felt intentional. No clutter. No warmth. No signs of life that hadn’t been carefully placed.
A woman stood at the far end.
Victoria Blackwood.
Christa recognized her immediately from the gala. Sophia had once shown her pictures of a polished, composed, the kind of woman who never looked like she was reacting to anything.
She was waiting.
That alone made Christa uneasy.
Victoria’s gaze moved over her slowly, not rude, but assessing like she was reading something written under her skin instead of clothes.
“So,” Victoria said, voice smooth, “you’re her.”
Christa didn’t respond immediately.
“I’m Victoria,” she added, as if introductions were optional, but manners required completion.
“Christa,” she replied carefully.
A small pause.
Then Victoria smiled not warmly, but precisely. “He didn’t exaggerate.”
That line made something tighten in Christa’s chest.
Before she could ask what that meant, the sound of footsteps interrupted them.
Controlled. Familiar.
Damian appeared at the end of the corridor.
No dramatic entrance. No urgency.
Just presence.
His eyes landed on Christa briefly, then shifted to Victoria.
“Enough,” he said simply.
Victoria didn’t look offended. If anything, she looked entertained.
“I was only welcoming her,” she said lightly.
Damian’s expression didn’t change. “You’re done.”
A pause.
Then Victoria tilted her head slightly, studying Christa one last time.
“Interesting choice,” she murmured, before walking past them without another word.
Her heels clicked softly against the floor until the sound disappeared entirely.
Christa exhaled slowly without realizing she had been holding her breath.
Damian turned toward her.
And for the first time since she met him again, he wasn’t speaking like a voice through a phone.
He was here.
Real.
Close enough that the distance between past and present suddenly felt uncomfortably thin.
“You’re late,” he said.
Christa blinked. “I’m late?”
“You agreed,” he replied.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she said quickly.
A pause.
Then Damian looked at her properly.
Not casually.
Properly.
Like he was confirming something he had already expected.
“You came,” he said.
That was all.
And somehow, it made her feel like the argument was already over.
Christa forced herself to stand straighter. “I needed to see where this was going.”
“Then come,” he said, turning.
No explanation.
No invitation beyond movement.
Just direction.
And for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she followed.
The apartment wasn’t what she expected.
It wasn’t loud luxury. It wasn’t excessive decoration.
It was worse.
It was empty in a way that suggested it had been designed not to feel lived in.
Large windows. Neutral colors. Furniture is placed with intention but no personality. Everything clean enough to look untouched, even if it wasn’t.
Christa stopped just inside the living area.
“This is where I’ll be staying?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Damian replied.
“For three years?”
“If necessary.”
She turned slightly toward him. “You live like this?”
His gaze flicked at her briefly. “Like what?”
“Like no one actually exists here.”
That made some shift in his expression small, but noticeable if you were paying attention.
Then it was gone.
“This is efficient,” he said.
Christa almost laughed. “It’s lonely.”
“I didn’t ask for company,” he replied.
The honesty was sharper than expected.
Christa looked away, moving slowly toward the window. The city stretched below them alive, noisy, unaware of the decisions being made above it.
“This is insane,” she said quietly.
“Contractual,” Damian corrected.
She turned back to him. “You really don’t see the difference?”
“I see results,” he said.
Silence settled between them again.
Not comfortable.
Not hostile.
Just heavy.
Christa crossed her arms slightly. “And what exactly do you get out of this?”
Damian didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, it wasn’t emotional.
“Stability,” he said. “Control. Avoiding complications that don’t benefit me.”
Christa stared at him for a moment.
Then nodded slowly.
“Honest,” she said.
“I don’t lie,” he replied.
“That’s not the same thing.”
That made him look at her again.
Longer this time.
Like he was measuring something he hadn’t fully accounted for.
A knock interrupted them.
A staff member entered quietly, placing a folder on the table before leaving without a word.
Christa watched him go. “You even have people who move like ghosts here.”
“They understand boundaries,” Damian said.
She glanced at him. “Or fear them.”
He didn’t respond.
That silence said enough.
Christa walked further into the room, stopping near the table.
“So what now?” she asked.
Damian’s voice came calmly from behind her.
“Now you decide if you’re staying.”
She turned slightly.
For the first time, the choice didn’t feel like it belonged entirely to him.
It felt like it was waiting for her to define it.
And that was somehow more dangerous.
Because survival was one thing.
But choosing the shape of your survival…
That was something else entirely.
Christa looked around the apartment again.
Then back at him.
And quietly, she said,
“I’m staying.”
Damian didn’t react.
Not visibly.
But something in the air shifted anyway.
Like a line had just been crossed without anyone needing to announce it.
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