First Sparks
760 Words
The next morning at the Franklin estate dawned crisp and quiet. But Emilia Jones’s thoughts were anything but calm. Her sleep had been restless, plagued by dreams that made no sense—of shadows with eyes, of contracts sealed in blood, of a man with a voice like velvet and teeth like fire.
She found herself wandering through the estate gardens, needing air. The marble paths twisted around trimmed hedges and fountains, leading her farther from the suffocating silence of the mansion.
She hadn't made her choice yet, and Damian Franklin had made no effort to pressure her further.
But the pressure lived rent-free in her chest.
The scent of roses carried on the breeze. Emilia slowed her steps, letting herself forget—just for a moment—that she was owned.
“Enjoying my garden, Miss Jones?”
The voice stopped her cold.
She turned sharply. Damian stood at the edge of the stone path, hands in his pockets, dressed in a charcoal shirt that clung to his build like it had been tailored by sin itself. His eyes—those impossible, ice-and-embers eyes—met hers with a flicker of challenge.
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to walk,” she said coolly.
His lips curved into a slow smirk. “You don’t. But I like to keep track of what’s mine.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not—”
“—a prisoner,” he finished, stepping closer. “Yes, I remember. You’ve said that already.”
The wind stirred her hair as they stood in the open, tension crackling like a live wire between them. She tilted her chin defiantly.
“You act like I have a choice, but it’s just... different cages. Velvet-lined or iron.”
“You have power,” Damian said quietly. “You just haven’t learned how to use it yet.”
Emilia scoffed. “What would you know about giving anyone power?”
“I know everything about control,” he replied, voice low.
“And how to take it. And how to give it—when it suits me.”
The way he said it sent an odd chill down her spine.
She turned away, pretending to admire a rose bush, but mostly to collect herself. “Is this how you charm your... employees?”
“I don’t charm,” he said, stepping beside her. “I offer terms. I keep my promises. That’s more than your precious family ever gave you.”
That struck a nerve. Her shoulders stiffened.
“You think you know me?”
“I know betrayal when I see it. I know a survivor when I meet one. And I know you don’t belong in a world where people sell their own blood.”
Her throat tightened. She turned to face him.
“You’re one to talk. You deal in blood.”
“And yet I’ve never sold family.”
His answer was quiet. Sincere. Not mocking.
That, more than anything, disarmed her.
They stood for a long moment, surrounded by silence, except for the wind in the hedges and the slow rhythm of their breathing.
There was something strange in his gaze now. Not hunger. Not control.
Curiosity.
“Why medicine?” he asked suddenly.
Emilia blinked. “What?”
“Your scholarship. You were going to study medicine, weren’t you?”
She hadn’t expected him to remember. Or care.
“I wanted to fix things,” she said slowly. “People. Maybe even myself.”
His expression softened by a hair. “You don’t need fixing.”
“That’s not your call.”
“It’s not yours either,” he said. “We’re all cracked glass, Emilia. Doesn’t mean we don’t reflect light.”
She stared at him, the air between them thick with something neither of them wanted to name.
She should’ve hated him. She still did.
But why did his voice sound like something she wanted to believe in?
“Why did you really offer marriage?” she asked quietly.
A pause.
Then, softly, “Because I’ve been surrounded by liars all my life. And when I saw your file, I didn’t see a pawn. I saw someone honest. And furious. And strong.”
She swallowed hard.
“I don’t need your compliments.”
“I’m not offering them. I’m giving you facts.”
They stood a moment longer before Emilia pulled herself away, walking past him without another word.
But he didn’t stop her.
And neither of them noticed how their fingers almost touched as she passed.
- Writer
