The Orphan Bride Of The Town's Richest Man

THE NIGHT IN HIS OFFICE

EPISODE 8

I didn’t mean to spy.

I really didn’t.

But after the gala, I couldn’t sleep.

His words kept replaying: "I didn’t know how to ask, Freya. So I made a contract instead."

2 AM.

The mansion was silent.

Except for one light. From his office.

The door was cracked open.

---

Damien was sitting on the floor again.

Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up.

A glass of whiskey in one hand. A photo in the other.

The same photo. Me. Age 19. Scrubbing floors.

On his desk: Papers. Lots of them.

Hospital bills. With "PAID" stamped in red.

My father’s funeral receipt.

My school transcripts.

Even a picture of the orphanage’s broken gate.

He’d been keeping tabs on me for 9 years.

My heart broke.

And for the first time, I saw him.

Not Damien Blackwood, CEO.

Just Damien. A boy who lost his mom.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

His voice cut through the silence.

I jumped. "I— I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep."

He didn’t look up. "Then go to sleep."

"Are you... okay?"

That’s when he laughed. Cold. Bitter.

"Okay? Freya, I’m 28. My grandfather is dead. My company is being circled by vultures. My stepmother hates me. And the only person I ever wanted... I had to buy her."

The glass hit the desk. Hard.

I flinched.

"I didn’t want your money," I whispered.

"I know," he said. "That’s why I did it."

Finally, he looked at me.

Red eyes. Not from whiskey. From not sleeping.

"Do you have any idea what it’s like, Freya?

To watch someone for 9 years and never be able to speak to her?

To send money anonymously because you’re scared she’ll say no?

To see her drowning and the only way to throw her a rope is to tie it around your own neck?"

I couldn’t breathe.

"Damien..."

"Don’t," he said. "Don’t pity me. I don’t need it."

But I did.

I crossed the room. Sat on the floor next to him.

Not touching. Just... there.

The silence was heavy.

Then he spoke. Voice so quiet I almost missed it.

"My mom used to bake cookies. Every Sunday.

She’d let me lick the spoon.

After she died, I stopped eating sweets."

I swallowed. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. It’s not your fault."

He turned the photo over in his hands.

"I saw you that day. In the rain.

And you were smiling while you scrubbed.

Who smiles when they’re that poor?"

"I was thinking about shoes," I said honestly. "New ones. With no holes."

That made him laugh. Real. Soft.

"You’re insane."

"Maybe," I said. "But you watched me for 9 years anyway."

He looked at me. Really looked.

And for a second, the wall was down.

"Condition three," he said. "No touching unless you say so."

"I remember."

"Do you want to change it?"

My heart stopped.

This was it. The moment.

I thought about the contract.

About the 50 million.

About the girl in the rain.

About the boy who paid hospital bills in secret.

"No," I said. "Not yet."

Relief and pain flashed across his face.

"Okay," he said.

But then I added: "But... you can sit here. With me."

He hesitated.

Then he shifted. Just a little closer.

Our shoulders didn’t touch.

But the space between us felt smaller.

---

We stayed like that until sunrise.

Not talking. Just existing.

At 6 AM, Clara knocked. "Mr. Blackwood, your flight—"

"Cancel it," Damien said, without looking away from me.

"Sir?"

"Cancel all meetings today."

Clara left. Confused.

Damien stood and held out his hand.

Not to hold. Just to help me up.

I took it.

His hand was warm. Calloused.

Nothing like I expected.

"Breakfast," he said. "Then I’m taking you somewhere."

"Where?"

"To meet someone who’s been asking about you."

---

At 9 AM, we were in a car.

Not the Blackwood SUV. A simple black car.

He was in jeans and a t-shirt. No suit.

He looked 10 years younger.

"Where are we going?" I asked again.

"To the Carter house," he said.

My grandparents’ house.

"The one you grew up in," he added. "After your mom died."

I stared at him. "How did you—"

"I told you. 9 years, Freya."

The house was small. Paint peeling. Garden overgrown.

But there were still flowers.

Grandma’s flowers.

An old woman was on the porch.

She stood up when she saw us.

Eyes wide. "Damien?"

"Grandma," he said.

And then he did something I never thought I’d see.

He hugged her.

She cried. "We thought you forgot us."

"Never," he said. Voice breaking. "I just... didn’t know how to come back."

She looked at me. "And this is?"

Damien’s hand found mine.

Not holding. Just resting next to it.

"This is Freya. My wife."

Grandma smiled. Teary. "She has good eyes. Like Elena."

We stayed for lunch.

Soup. Bread. Laughter.

No staff. No suits. No contracts.

On the way home, Damien was quiet.

At the gate, he finally spoke.

"Thank you. For coming with me."

"Thank you for showing me you," I said.

He nodded. Then he paused.

"Freya... about condition three."

"Yeah?"

"I’m not going to push.

But I want you to know...

I’m not good at this.

At being a husband.

At being loved.

But I want to learn.

With you. If you’ll let me."

The car stopped.

I got out.

At the door, I turned back.

"Okay," I said. "Let’s learn. Together."

His eyes widened. Just a little.

And for the first time since I met him...

Damien Blackwood smiled.

Not the cold CEO smile.

A real one.