Living Under One Roof
1022 Words
The first night passed without incident.
No footsteps outside my door.
No knock.
No accidental meeting in the hallway.
Damian Jordan kept his word; distance was his default.
Morning arrived quietly, sunlight filtering through the tall windows of my room. For a moment, I lost my bearings. The bed was too soft. The ceiling is too high. The silence is too complete.
Then reality settled in.
I was married.
Not in the way stories talked about, no warmth, no tenderness, but marriage all the same. Bound by a contract and a name that wasn’t fully mine yet.
Mrs. Jordan.
The thought still felt unreal.
I dressed carefully, choosing a modest blouse and trousers. Maria had laid out clothes for me the night before, everything tasteful, expensive, and impersonal. Nothing felt like it belonged to me.
Downstairs, the mansion was already awake.
Staff moved efficiently, speaking softly. No one stared. No one whispered. But I felt their awareness anyway, as if I were an object they were careful not to touch.
Breakfast was served in a smaller dining room.
Damian was already there.
He sat at the table with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee untouched beside him. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing strong forearms, and his expression was focused, closed off from the world.
I hesitated at the doorway.
“Sit,” he said without looking up.
I obeyed, taking the chair opposite him. The table felt wide, the distance deliberate.
“Today, we are starting to appear married,” he said, scrolling through something on his screen. “There’s a charity board luncheon this afternoon. My presence was expected weeks ago. Now yours is too.”
I nodded. “What do I need to know?”
“You’ll be introduced as my wife. You’ll smile. You’ll say little. You’ll stay beside me.”
I hesitated. “What if they ask questions?”
He finally looked at me then. “They will.”
“And?”
“You’ll deflect. Speak about adjusting. Say whatever keeps things vague.”
He paused, then added, “Don’t improvise.”
I bit back a response. “Understood.”
He took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking over me briefly.
“That outfit won’t do.”
My shoulders stiffened. “Is it inappropriate?”
“It’s invisible,” he corrected. “You’re Mrs. Jordan now. People will expect… polish.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “I’m not trying to attract attention.”
“I know,” he said coolly. “That’s the problem.”
He stood, already done with the conversation.
“A stylist will arrive at eleven.”
Then he left.
The stylist arrived exactly on time.
She was efficient, professional, and warm in a way that made me slightly uncomfortable. She spoke about fabrics and silhouettes while laying out dresses that looked like they belonged in magazines.
“Your husband has obvious preferences,” she said with a polite smile.
I forced one of my own. “He always does.”
The dress she chose was elegant, with soft lines, understated color, and nothing flashy. Still, when I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.
She looked composed. Refined.
Like someone who belonged here.
By noon, the car was waiting.
Damian glanced at me once as I stepped outside.
“Acceptable,” he said.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
The luncheon was held in a private venue overlooking the city. Glass walls, soft music, low laughter. People dressed effortlessly, as if wealth were second nature.
The moment we stepped inside, eyes turned.
Damian’s hand settled lightly on my lower back, not possessive, not intimate, just visible.
For appearances.
“Remember,” he murmured, “stay close.”
I nodded.
Introductions came quickly.
“This is my wife, Aurora.”
Smiles. Compliments. Curious glances.
“How lovely.”
“When did you marry?”
“She’s beautiful, Damian.”
Each word felt like part of a play I hadn’t rehearsed enough.
Aurora smiled. Aurora nodded. Aurora said polite, safe things.
But inside, my heart pounded.
I felt Damian’s attention shift whenever someone lingered too long on me. His jaw tightened when a man laughed too easily at something I said.
Jealousy?
No.
That was impossible.
This was about control.
Still, his hand never left my back.
At one point, a woman approached, elegant, confident, familiar with Damian.
“I didn’t know you’d finally settled down,” she said, her smile sharp.
“So many things you don’t know,” Damian replied calmly.
Her gaze flicked at me, assessing. “You’re very quiet.”
“I prefer listening,” I said gently.
She hummed. “That won’t last.”
Damian’s grip tightened slightly.
“Excuse us,” he said, guiding me away.
Once we were alone near the balcony, he released me immediately.
“You handled that well,” he said.
I blinked. “Thank you.”
It was the first compliment he’d given me.
The silence stretched.
For just a moment, standing beside him with the city spread out below us, something shifted. The distance felt thinner. The air heavier.
Then his phone rang.
And the moment disappeared.
Back at the mansion, exhaustion settled into my bones.
I removed the dress carefully, hanging it away as if it was borrowed, because it was.
That night, as I prepared for bed, a knock sounded at my door.
My heart stuttered.
I opened it slowly.
Damian stood there, his expression unreadable.
“We need to adjust a few things,” he said. “Public perception matters.”
“Of course.”
He hesitated, then added, “You did better than I expected today.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Good night, Aurora,” he said, turning away.
I closed the door gently, leaning against it.
Better than expected.
It wasn’t affection.
But it wasn’t anything either.
As I lay in bed, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, one truth settled quietly in my chest.
Living under the same roof wasn’t the hardest part.
Pretending not to feel anything was.
- Writer
