Tangled in his vows.

Chapter 3 {THE VOWS}

Mira didn’t speak to Damian for the rest of the night.

The moment the limousine rolled through the mansion gates, she pushed out of her seat, climbed the stairs without looking back, and locked her bedroom door. She didn’t want to hear him, didn’t want to see the smug tilt of his lips or the steel in his eyes. She needed space to breathe, even if it was only the illusion of freedom behind a locked door.

She stripped off the gown, the veil, the jewels that had weighed on her like shackles. Her skin still burned where his hand had gripped her wrist, where his lips had brushed hers for the cameras. She turned the shower on full heat and stepped under the water, letting the spray scald her shoulders, her arms, her face. The steam filled the bathroom, thick and suffocating, but she stayed until her muscles loosened and the ache in her feet dulled.

But no water, no steam, no soap could wash away Cassia’s smug smile or Damian’s careless indifference.

By the time she dragged herself into a robe and padded to the bed, her body was heavy, but her mind was restless. She saw it before she lay down: an envelope on the pillow. No name, no seal, just her presence acknowledged by ink.

She opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a note in precise, black handwriting.

You handled yourself well tonight. Try not to get used to the compliments.

Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Arrogant bastard.”

But heat crept into her neck anyway, unwelcome and confusing. She crushed the paper into a ball and tossed it aside, burying her face into the pillow as exhaustion claimed her.

The next morning brought no peace.

She had just wrapped her fingers around a steaming mug of coffee when the door opened without a knock. She froze, then set the cup down with deliberate calm.

Damian stood in the doorway. His eyes flicked over her bare legs, her oversized T-shirt, her messy bun. For a moment—so brief she almost doubted it—his gaze lingered, softer, heavier. Then it hardened, his mouth flattening into the familiar mask.

“Good morning to you too,” she said dryly. “Next time, try knocking.”

“This house is mine,” he said. His tone was clipped, as if her irritation amused him. “Privacy is what I allow.”

She rose to her feet, her spine straight. “Not in here. You said I’d have my own space.”

He stepped farther in, hands in his pockets, every inch of him radiating ownership. “And I’m walking through it, not violating it. Big difference.”

Her chest burned. “What do you want?”

He pulled out his phone and handed it to her. “Press request. Exclusive interview with the new Mrs. Cross.”

Her eyes narrowed at the glowing screen. “I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you are.” His voice was even, final. “They want something soft. Personal. A love story. You’ll wear something expensive and smile for the cameras. You’ll tell them I make you laugh.”

Mira stared at him, disbelief curling into sharp laughter. “Do I look like I know how to lie that well?”

“You’re a journalist,” he said. “Lying is second nature.”

She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. He caught it easily, his expression unchanged.

“You have two days to prepare,” he said, turning toward the door.

“I’m not your puppet, Damian!”

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, his words a blade wrapped in silk. “No. You’re my wife. Much harder to control. Much more fun to break.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mira sank onto the bed, her heart pounding. Anger, fear, and defiance tangled inside her until she could hardly breathe. He thought he could use her, parade her, shape her into his perfect ornament. He thought vows gave him ownership.

But she had survived worse. Public humiliation. Betrayal. Blackmail. She would survive him too. And maybe—if she played her cards right—she could tear him down from the inside.

---

When she finally dressed and went downstairs, the mansion hummed with low whispers. Staff moved quickly, keeping their eyes lowered, their mouths tight.

She slowed on the staircase when she saw Damian in the main hall, his posture tense, his voice sharp as he spoke to his lawyer.

“The inheritance hearing is in two weeks,” he said. “She has to play her part until then.”

Mira froze, her breath catching. Inheritance?

Her hands tightened on the railing as the words sank in. Damian hadn’t just married her to punish her. He hadn’t done it only to bind her under his name or silence her after she’d exposed him in print. He needed her.

She was part of something bigger. Something tied to his empire.

Her stomach twisted, but then her lips curved into a slow, sharp smile.

So that was it. That was his game.

And if he thought she would quietly play her role, he had no idea who he was dealing with.

That evening, she walked into the dining hall, her chin lifted, her eyes bright with challenge. Damian was already at the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t stand, didn’t greet her, only tracked her with that stormy gaze as she slid into her seat.

The air between them vibrated with unspoken truths. She could see it in the angle of his jaw, the flick of his wrist as he set the glass down. He knew she had overheard him.

She smiled sweetly. “I was wondering. Why me, Damian? You could’ve chosen anyone. Someone willing. Someone blind enough to worship you.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t need worship. I needed fire. And you, Mira, burn brighter than anyone I know.”

Her breath caught. For a second, she hated herself for feeling the spark beneath his words. She shoved it down quickly. “Be careful. Fire consumes.”

He leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Exactly why I wanted it close. Flames are easier to control when you’re the one holding the match.”

Her jaw tightened. “You think you’re holding me, Damian, but you’re wrong. The cage you built? It’s just as dangerous for you as it is for me.”

He didn’t answer, only watched her with that unreadable expression, as if every word she spoke confirmed something he already knew.

That night, she lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her mind spun through possibilities, strategies, ways to turn his game against him. She would play along with the press, with the cameras, with the inheritance hearing. She would let him think he’d won.

But the truth was simple.

She wasn’t his possession.

She wasn’t his trophy.

She wasn’t his obedient wife.

She was his undoing.

And when the moment came, she would prove it.

Let the games begin.