Chapter Three: Rules of the Ice Palace
1279 Words
The sun broke through the velvet drapes in slanted gold streaks, flooding Aria’s room with warmth she didn’t feel.
She’d barely slept.
Too many thoughts had fought for space in her mind—the wedding, the contract, the ice in Damian’s eyes. Her father’s survival. Her own sacrifice.
She lay on the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s skin.
At 8:00 a.m. sharp, a soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse.
The door opened quietly. A woman in her mid-fifties entered, dressed in a black uniform with the Blackwood crest stitched in gold. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said, bowing slightly. “My name is Greta. I’m the head of household staff. I’ll be assisting you with everything you need.”
Mrs. Blackwood. The words rang strange in Aria’s ears, like someone had labeled her with a title she didn’t earn.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound composed.
“I’ve drawn your bath,” Greta continued, “and breakfast will be served in the conservatory at 8:30 sharp. Mr. Blackwood will join you.”
Her stomach turned at the mention of his name.
Greta paused, her tone softening just a fraction. “If I may, ma’am… Mr. Blackwood is a difficult man, but he honors his word. You’ll be safe here.”
Safe.
Not happy. Not welcome. Just... safe.
Aria nodded.
Greta gave a polite smile and exited the room as soundlessly as she’d come.
The conservatory was a glass-walled paradise overlooking the estate gardens. Orchids bloomed on every surface, and the scent of orange blossom lingered in the air. A table for two stood in the center, set with white china and polished silverware.
Damian was already there.
He wore a charcoal suit with a navy tie, his hair immaculate, his posture rigid. Not even a crease on his sleeve dared exist without permission.
“Good morning,” she said as she approached.
He glanced up once. “You’re late.”
“It’s 8:31.”
His mouth twitched. “Punctuality is one of the rules.”
Aria took a seat opposite him, folding the napkin over her lap with slow precision. “Should I expect a handbook soon?”
He sipped his coffee. “If you like, I can draft one.”
The food was stunning—sliced fruits arranged like artwork, croissants still warm from the oven, eggs cooked to perfection. But Aria barely touched anything.
“Are there other rules I should know about?” she asked finally.
Damian didn’t look up. “Several. No media interviews. No speaking about our arrangement to anyone. Appear affectionate in public. And under no circumstances are you to enter the West Wing.”
“The West Wing?” she repeated.
“It’s off-limits.”
His voice made it clear the topic wasn’t up for debate.
She nodded slowly. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Yes. You’ll be required at a charity gala next Saturday. Formal attire. I expect you to be presentable.”
Aria bit back a retort. Presentable. Like she was a statue he’d purchased to polish and display.
“I was told there’d be some freedom in this arrangement,” she said, lifting her chin. “I don’t intend to be a prisoner in your palace.”
He set his cup down and finally looked her in the eyes.
“I don’t care where you go,” he said. “I care how you’re seen. You are a Blackwood now. That name comes with weight. Don’t tarnish it.”
Something about the way he said it—flat, rehearsed—made her wonder if he was talking to her or himself.
She stood. “Noted. Anything else, husband?”
His gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “You’re excused.”
Aria turned and walked out, heels clicking against the marble floor, back straight, heart pounding.
The rest of the day passed in a strange blur.
She explored the east side of the estate, careful not to even glance toward the mysterious West Wing. The house was filled with antique paintings and cold, expensive furniture—rooms too big for comfort, halls too quiet to feel alive.
There was a gym, an indoor pool, a private library, even a spa room. But none of it mattered.
Because none of it was hers.
Late in the afternoon, Aria called the hospital. Her father was stable. His nurse said the bills had been cleared in full that morning. For the first time in months, they weren’t threatening to release him.
She hung up slowly, staring at the phone.
Damian had kept his word.
She hated that it didn’t make her feel any better.
That night, she ate dinner alone.
Damian didn’t show.
She didn’t ask why.
Afterward, she wandered into the library—one of the only rooms that felt warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent of old books filled the air.
She ran her fingers along the spines of classic novels until she found a worn copy of Jane Eyre.
Fitting.
Another woman trapped in a rich man’s house with more rules than affection.
She curled up on the window seat and began to read. For a while, she almost forgot where she was. Almost.
Until the soft creak of a door snapped her back.
She looked up, startled.
Damian stood in the doorway, jacket off, tie loosened. He looked tired, but his posture remained rigid—like even exhaustion had to obey him.
“You’re in my library,” he said.
“I thought it was the estate’s.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “It was my mother’s.”
Aria’s hand tightened around the book. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“She loved this room. It was the only place she smiled.”
There was a shadow in his voice. Something unspoken.
“I can leave,” she said, standing.
“No.” He walked to the bar cart and poured himself a drink. “You’re already here.”
She sat back down, cautiously.
He didn’t speak for a while. Just stood near the fire, staring into it like it held answers he wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Finally, she asked, “Is that why you don’t believe in love?”
He turned to her slowly. “Who said I don’t?”
“You did. In your contract. In every sentence you speak to me.”
He sipped his drink. “Belief and trust are different things.”
“So, you believe in love,” she said, “you just don’t trust it.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s irrelevant. This isn’t a love story.”
“No,” she said softly. “It’s a business deal.”
They fell silent again.
Then, unexpectedly, Damian crossed the room and sat in the chair across from her. Not close. But not distant either.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
Aria tilted her head. “You thought I’d be scared of you.”
“I thought you’d be silent.”
“Well,” she said, folding her arms, “I’m full of surprises.”
He looked at her for a long time.
Then, in a voice lower than before, he said, “Don’t go into the West Wing.”
There it was again.
That sharp edge in his tone. Not a rule.
A warning.
“I won’t,” she said.
But inside, something stirred.
A question.
A door unopened.
And a truth begging to be found.
- Writer
