Moving Into The Lion Den
1318 Words
The Cole Mansion looked like something out of a magazine. Glass walls. Marble floors. A fountain out front that cost more than Ava’s yearly rent.
A black SUV pulled up. The driver didn’t speak. He just opened the door.
Ava stepped out with one small suitcase. Everything she owned.
“Ms. Mensah.”
A woman in a grey uniform appeared. The housekeeper, maybe.
“I’m Mrs. Clarke. Mr. Cole said to show you to the guest wing. You will not be using the master bedroom.”
Guest wing. Right. Separate rooms. Rule #1.
Ava followed her through the massive hall. The silence was loud. No family photos. No warm lights. Just art that probably cost more than a house.
“This is your room,” Mrs. Clarke said, opening a door.
It was huge. King bed. Walk-in closet. Balcony overlooking the city.
Ava set her suitcase down. It looked pathetic next to the marble.
“Mr. Cole will be home at 8 PM,” Mrs. Clarke added. “Do not disturb him before then. He’s... not a morning person.”
“Noted,” Ava said, trying not to sound bitter.
The housekeeper left. Ava walked to the balcony. 3 floors up. She was trapped in a palace.
Her phone buzzed. Damien.
Unknown Number: Be at the rooftop at 8 PM sharp. Press is coming. We smile. We lie. We go home.
No hello. No sign-off. Just orders.
Ava typed back: Yes, Mr. Cole.
3 dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then nothing.
At 7:55 PM, Ava stood on the rooftop. The city lights stretched forever.
He arrived at 8:01. Late on purpose.
Damien Cole in a black tuxedo. No tie. Hair perfect. Face cold.
“You’re early,” he said.
“You’re late,” she shot back before she could stop herself.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not supposed to talk unless spoken to. During photos.”
Ava folded her arms. “This is a marriage, not the military.”
“It’s a contract,” he corrected. “Smile.”
A photographer was already setting up.
Damien stepped close. Too close. His cologne hit her. Cedar and money.
He put his hand on her waist. His fingers were cold through her dress.
“Smile, Ms. Mensah,” he said low, only for her. “Or the contract is void. And your mom doesn’t get her surgery.”
Ava’s breath caught. That was low.
She forced a smile. Her best one. The one that said `I hate you` in polite letters.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Perfect,” the photographer said. “You two look so in love.”
Damien didn’t answer. He just kept his hand on her waist until the last photo.
“Done,” he said, pulling away instantly. Like she burned him.
“Same rules as before,” he said, walking to the elevator. “Separate rooms. Don’t follow me. Don’t talk to me unless necessary.”
The doors closed on him.
Ava was left on the rooftop, in a $3,000 dress, married to a ghost.
She whispered, “Six months. I can do six months.”
But when she touched her waist where his hand was... it was still cold.CHAPTER 2
Moving InTo The Lion Den
The doors closed on him.
Ava was left on the rooftop, in a $3,000 dress, married to a ghost.
Well. Not married. Fiancée. Contract. Six months.
The rooftop bar at Blackwood Tower was all glass and cold champagne. Cameras flashed. Strangers clapped. Damien’s hand had been on her waist for exactly 4 seconds during the “announcement” photos. Long enough to look real. Short enough to feel like ice.
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood,” one blogger had shouted.
“Fiancée,” Ava corrected under her breath. No one heard her.
She whispered, “Six months. I can do six months.”
But when she touched her waist where his hand was... it was still cold.
---
The car ride to the penthouse was silent.
Damien sat by the window. Tie loosened. Eyes on his phone. He hadn’t looked at her once since they left the rooftop.
Ava sat on the opposite side, holding the straps of the designer dress like it might run away from her. It wasn’t hers. Nothing here was.
The driver pulled into an underground garage. A private elevator. Fingerprint access.
“This is your floor,” Damien said, finally speaking. “Don’t touch anything on the 39th. That’s my office.”
“Noted,” Ava said.
The elevator opened into a penthouse that looked like a hotel no one lived in. Marble floors. Black leather. One wall of books no one had read.
“Your room,” Damien pointed to a door on the left. “Closet is stocked. Stylist comes Tuesday. Don’t go in the master suite. Don’t use my gym before 9AM. Don’t make noise after 11PM.”
Ava blinked. “Anything else? Don’t breathe?”
Damien stopped. He turned slowly. “You thinkthink this is funny?”
“No,” Ava said, and she meant it. “I think 200,000 cedis comes with a lot of rules.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. He studied her like she was a clause he missed in the contract. “You’re not here to be comfortable, Ms. Mensah. You’re here to be convincing.”
Ava crossed her arms. The designer dress rustled. It didn’t feel like her. “Then give me something to work with. Because right now, you feel like my warden.”
For a second, the penthouse went quiet. Just the humof the city 40 floors down.
Damien’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Then act like it. Because in 6 months, when this ends, I don’t want your tears on my NDA.”
Ava’s throat tightened. “Noted, Mr. Blackwood.”
He turned and walked down the hall. No goodbye.
Ava opened her room.
King bed. White sheets. A closet full of dresses she didn’t pick. One note on the dresser in sharp handwriting:
`Q4 Gala is in 5 months, 29 days. Be ready. -D`
No “Ava.” No “welcome home.” Just `-D`.
She sat on the bed. It was too firm. Like everything in this penthouse.
Her phone buzzed. Mum.
`Ava? Private room. Window. Dr. Amoako. Baby… what did you do?`
Ava’s eyes burned. She typed back fast.
`I got a job, Mum. I’m safe. Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.`
She didn’t say `I’m living with a man who pays me not to love him.`
A knock. Damien, again. He didn’t wait.
“House rules,” he said, holding out a black folder. “12 pages. Memorize them.”
Ava took it. “You’re joking.”
“Rule one: Never alone with staff. Rule two: No guests. Rule three: If press asks, charity gala. 3 weeks. You’re obsessed with me. You say my name like a prayer.”
Ava blinked. “Say your name like a prayer?”
“Practice,” Damien said.
“Now?”
“Now.”
The room felt smaller.
Ava looked up at him. “Damien.”
“Louder. Softer. Like you mean it.”
She stepped closer. “Damien.”
“Again.”
“Damien,” she whispered. “I’m in love with you.”
He held her gaze for one second too long. Then he nodded. “Good. Do that in front of a mirror 50 times.”
He turned to go.
“Damien.”
He stopped. Still didn’t look back.
“Thank you. For her.”
A pause. “Don’t thank me. Don’t get ideas. This is business.”
The door closed.
Ava stood alone in a dress that cost more than her rent, holding a contract and a rulebook.
She touched her waist where his hand had been on the rooftop.
Still cold.
She whispered to the empty penthouse, “Six months. I can do six months.”
---
END OF CHAPTER 2
- Writer
