The Orphan Bride Of The Town's Richest Man

FIRST DAY AS MRS. BLACKWOOD

EPISODE 7

Freya's pov

I woke up in a house that wasn’t mine.

The bed was bigger than my old room.

White sheets. Cold air from the AC.

And on the nightstand... a ring box.

Inside: A diamond so big it could pay my mother’s hospital bills for a year.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: 7:00 AM. Car downstairs. Dress code: Black. Event tonight. -D

Damien.

Right. I’m Mrs. Blackwood now.

---

The driver didn’t speak.

The mansion didn’t feel like home.

It felt like a museum.

Staff bowed when I walked in.

"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood."

I almost laughed. I’m 22. I scrubbed floors 3 years ago.

Breakfast was already laid out.

Damien wasn’t there.

A note next to my plate. His handwriting. Sharp. Angry.

Meeting in Tokyo. Back Friday. Don’t embarrass me. -D

No "good morning". No "how are you".

Just rules.

I ate alone. The food tasted like nothing.

---

At 10 AM, a woman showed up.

Late 30s. Red suit. Clipboard.

"Ms. Freya, I’m Clara. Mr. Blackwood’s assistant. I’ll be handling your schedule."

"My schedule?"

"Yes. As Mrs. Blackwood you have 3 charity events this month, 2 galas, and a meeting with Vogue."

She paused. "Also, you need a new wardrobe."

I looked down at my jeans and old blouse.

"Is this not okay?"

Clara’s eyes softened for 1 second. "Mr. Blackwood wants the world to believe you belong."

Belong.

Like I ever could.

---

The shopping trip was hell.

Stores closed just for me.

Dresses that cost more than 1 year of rent.

Shoes. Bags. Jewelry.

"Put it on Mr. Blackwood’s account," Clara said 10 times.

I wanted to scream. I wanted my 300-shilling shoes back.

But then I saw it.

In the corner of a boutique.

A simple white dress. No brand. 2,000 shillings.

I grabbed it.

"I want this."

Clara blinked. "Mrs. Blackwood, we have Chanel—"

"This one," I said firmly. "For the orphanage visit tomorrow."

For the first time, Clara smiled. Real.

"Yes ma’am."

---

That night was the gala.

Black dress. Hair up. Heels that made me 5’9.

I looked like a stranger in the mirror.

The car ride was silent.

Damien was back from Tokyo early.

He didn’t look at me. Just scrolled through emails.

"You didn’t have to come back for this," I said.

"I did," he said. "Or people will talk."

"About what?"

"About why my wife isn’t at my side."

There it was.

I was an accessory.

The gala was full of sharks in suits.

"So you’re the new Mrs. Blackwood," a woman said, sipping champagne.

"How did you two meet?"

Damien’s hand found the small of my back.

"She rescued me," he said. Lie so smooth it scared me.

"From boredom."

Everyone laughed.

I smiled. Because that’s what wives do.

---

But then I saw her.

Victoria.

Damien’s stepmother.

Red dress. Red lips. Red eyes when she saw me.

"Well well," she said, walking over. "The orphan finally got her payday."

The air went cold.

Damien’s hand tightened on my back.

"Watch your mouth, Victoria."

"Or what? You’ll divorce her in 11 months?" She laughed. "Good luck with that. She’s just like your mother. Weak."

Something in me snapped.

I stepped forward.

"Mrs. Hale," I said, voice steady. "Thank you for the advice.

But I’m not weak.

Weak people don’t survive what I survived.

Weak people don’t work 3 jobs to bury their father.

And weak people definitely don’t get chosen by Damien Blackwood."

The whole room went silent.

Victoria’s face twisted.

Damien... Damion looked at me. Really looked.

For the first time, there was something other than ice in his eyes.

Pride.

"Come," he said, and pulled me away.

We didn’t talk in the car.

But when we got home, he stopped me at the door.

"That was... good," he said.

"Thank you."

It was the first time he ever said it to me.

He walked to his office and closed the door.

And I stood there, in a 2-million-shilling dress,

holding a 2,000-shilling dress for the orphanage,

wondering which version of me he married.

---

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.

I went to the kitchen for water.

The lights were off.

But someone was there.

Damien.

Sitting on the floor. Back against the cabinets.

A photo in his hand.

I crept closer.

It was me.

Age 19. Scrubbing floors in the rain.

He didn’t hear me.

He was whispering.

"I didn’t know how to ask, Freya.

So I made a contract instead."

My chest hurt.

I backed away before he saw me.

Because Damien Blackwood doesn’t cry.

And I wasn’t supposed to see it.

But now I knew.

This marriage... it wasn’t just about money.

Not for him.