His Mother’s Eyes
1256 Words
Lia had never been to a place where the chandeliers looked like they could whisper secrets.
The Vale estate wasn’t just a mansion—it was a monument. It rose from the hills like a crown, all gray stone and cold beauty, perched above the city as if it looked down on everything beneath it. Including people like her.
The car stopped in front of a marble staircase that looked like it belonged in a royal palace. Lia adjusted the neckline of her emerald dress—a soft, floor-length gown Damien’s assistant had chosen “to look expensive but not loud.” Whatever that meant.
“You look terrified,” Damien said from beside her, still scrolling on his phone.
“I’m not terrified,” she muttered. “Just deeply, deeply regretting life.”
He didn’t smile, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just remember the story.”
“I fell in love with you at a bookstore,” she recited flatly. “Because you asked me for a book and I didn’t recognize you, and you liked it.”
“And we’ve been dating quietly for three months. We kept it secret because your job is demanding and I respect privacy. "We’re in love, and we’re happy.”
“In love,” she repeated, her voice dry. “Right.”
Damien glanced at her then. His eyes, always so unreadable, seemed to search for her face.
“You can walk away now,” he said, voice low. “I’ll still pay you half the contract if you bail today.”
Lia turned her head sharply. “Why?”
“Because this is the hard part,” he said simply. “This is where the game stops feeling like pretend.”
Before she could answer, a butler opened her door.
And it began.
The engagement party was everything Lia imagined hell would be—dressed in designer silk and drowning in champagne.
Everywhere she turned, there were polished smiles, strategic compliments, and conversations that felt like battles fought in whispers. The room sparkled, but it had a sharp kind of shine, like diamonds pressed against the skin.
Damien moved beside her like a well-trained predator, hand on her back, leaning in close when people approached. He never missed a beat. His voice was smooth, his smile curated.
And everyone was watching them.
“You’re doing fine,” he whispered once into her ear, his lips grazing the shell of it.
Lia’s breath hitched, and she hated how easily her body reacted. “You really commit to the act.”
His hand tightened slightly on her waist. “This is more than an act.”
Before she could respond, a hush rippled through the crowd.
“Here she comes,” Damien said.
Lia turned.
A tall, regal woman descended the staircase, her gray silk dress moving like water, her face carved from ice. Her hair was a perfect silver-blonde chignon. Her eyes—sharp, clear, and completely unreadable—landed on Lia like a laser.
“Is that…” Lia began.
“Yes,” Damien said. “My mother.”
“Damien,” the woman greeted as she approached, her voice smooth and aristocratic. “You’re late.”
“Fashionably,” Damien replied. “Mother, this is Lia.”
For a second, there was silence.
Then Mrs. Vale smiled, a slow, calculated expression that didn’t touch her eyes.
“Of course,” she said, her tone sweet but laced with something Lia couldn’t name. “The bookstore girl.”
Lia extended her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Vale.”
“I’m sure it is.”
The handshake never came.
Instead, Mrs. Vale turned to her son. “We need to speak. Alone.”
Damien’s expression didn’t change, but Lia felt his body go still beside her. “Not now.”
“Now,” she said sharply, and walked away.
He followed.
And Lia was left standing in the middle of the most expensive room she’d ever been in, surrounded by people who looked like they’d stepped out of a Vanity Fair article—and she was the misprinted page.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Lia wandered near the bar, clutching her flute of untouched champagne and trying not to shrink. A woman in pearls whispered behind her. A man in a tux laughed very loudly nearby.
She didn’t belong here.
But she had a contract. She had debts. And she had to survive this.
“Excuse me,” a voice said behind her.
She turned and found herself face to face with a man who looked vaguely like Damien—tall, sharp-jawed, but warmer. He extended his hand.
“Adrian Vale. Damien’s cousin. You must be the miracle girl.”
Lia blinked. “Miracle?”
“You got him to bring someone to a party. That’s practically sainthood.”
She smiled weakly. “I guess I didn’t know what I was signing up for.”
“Oh,” Adrian said, eyes kind but amused. “No one ever does.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Brace yourself. Here comes the storm.”
Damien returned then, jaw tight, eyes darker than before.
He moved straight toward Lia, brushed a finger along her back like a silent warning, and murmured, “We’re leaving.”
“But the party just started—”
“My mother just started,” he cut her off. “That’s worse.”
They left without another word.
Back in the car, the silence was heavy.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Lia asked quietly.
“No.”
“Okay. Do you want to—”
“She doesn’t believe you’re real.”
Lia turned to him. “That I’m fake?”
Damien let out a cold laugh. She said—and I quote—" She’s pretty, but she’s a waitress. You can buy it. But you can’t turn her into someone we accept. ”
Lia swallowed hard.
He turned to her then, voice lower. “If this is too much, say so now.”
She lifted her chin. “I can handle it.”
“She’ll test you.”
“I’ve been tested before.”
Damien’s eyes held hers for a beat too long. Then he leaned back, gazing at the window.
“She said the same thing to my ex,” he said.
Lia’s breath caught. “The fiancée?”
He nodded. “Mother told her she’d never fit in. That love was temporary, but family is forever.”
“And what happened?”
“She believed her.”
Lia didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t.
The rest of the ride was quiet.
But somewhere between the lights of the city and the silence in the car, Lia realized something dangerous:
She had agreed to make love with a man who’d been raised to believe no one was real.
And if she wasn’t careful, she’d start wanting to prove him wrong.
The next morning, Lia woke up to a package at her door.
Inside: a designer coat. A handwritten note.
You did well. She’s scared of you.
– D
She stared at it for a long time.
Scared of her?
Or scared of what she meant to Damien?
She wasn’t sure.
But one thing was becoming clear:
This arrangement wasn’t just about press and performance anymore.
It was about power.
And people like Damien Vale never played games they didn’t intend to win.
- Writer
