Always make you mine

Episode Eighteen

Damien’s private jet landed at The Airport just after 7 PM. By 8:15, the elevator doors to the penthouse opened and he stepped inside, still dressed in his tailored black suit from the London meetings. Exhaustion from the transatlantic flight lingered in his shoulders, but his expression remained as cold and composed as ever.

Martin had already informed him that Evelyn was waiting as requested. Dinner had been prepared.

He found her in the dining area, standing near the windows overlooking the glittering city. She wore a simple soft gray dress that fell modestly to her knees. Her dark hair was loose, and she looked smaller somehow against the vast backdrop of the penthouse.

Evelyn turned when she heard his footsteps. “Welcome back,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the visible tension in her posture.

Damien gave a curt nod. “Sit.”

They took their usual places at opposite ends of the long dining table. Lily and Eleanor served the first course — herb-crusted salmon with roasted vegetables — before disappearing discreetly.

The silence was immediate and heavy, even thicker than their first shared dinner.

Evelyn tried to break it after a few minutes. “How was London?”

“Productive,” Damien replied flatly, cutting into his salmon with precise movements. “A new energy partnership. Nothing that concerns you.”

Evelyn nodded, pushing food around her plate. “Your mother called while you were away.”

Damien’s hand paused for half a second before continuing. “I’m aware. She left several messages. What did you tell her?”

“Only the basics. That it happened quickly. I didn’t mention the contract or the company.” Evelyn looked up at him. “She wants to have lunch with me when she returns to New York in two weeks.”

Damien’s sharp gray eyes met hers across the table. “You will go. Be careful what you say. My mother is perceptive. She suspects this isn’t a conventional marriage.”

Evelyn swallowed. “And what should I tell her if she asks more questions?”

“Tell her what she wants to hear. That we’re adjusting. That it’s private.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “Do not complicate things.”

The rest of the main course passed in near silence. The awkwardness felt suffocating. Evelyn kept stealing glances at him — this man who was now legally her husband but felt like a complete stranger. He ate with the same controlled efficiency he did everything else, barely looking at her.

After the plates were cleared, Evelyn gathered her courage. “Would you like to see something?”

Damien raised an eyebrow slightly.

She stood up. “I’ve been painting while you were gone. In my room. If you’re interested…”

For a moment she thought he would refuse. Then he rose from his chair and followed her down the hallway.

Evelyn led him into her bedroom — In the corner near the windows, several canvases leaned against the wall. She picked up the latest one she had finished: the lone figure on a glass balcony overlooking a cold, beautiful city.

Damien stood silently, studying the painting. His expression remained unreadable, but he looked at it longer than she expected.

“You have talent,” he said finally, his voice low. It wasn’t warm praise, but it wasn’t dismissive either. “This one… it’s honest.”

Evelyn felt a small flutter in her chest despite herself. “Thank you. Painting helps me… process everything.”

Damien’s gaze shifted from the canvas to her face. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his cold gray eyes — curiosity, perhaps — before it vanished.

“Don’t let it distract you from your responsibilities,” he said, turning away. “We have a charity gala in ten days. You’ll attend as my wife. Martin will arrange appropriate attire.”

Evelyn nodded, the brief connection already gone. “Of course.”

Damien paused at the doorway, his back to her. “Good night, Evelyn.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

He left without another word.

Evelyn sank onto the edge of her bed, heart still racing from the short interaction. He had actually looked at her painting. He had called her by her name again. Small things, yet they felt significant in the vast emptiness of their arrangement.

Damien’s POV

Damien closed the door to his master suite and loosened his tie. The penthouse was quiet once more.

He poured himself a Scotch and stood by the window, staring out at the city. The image of Evelyn’s painting lingered in his mind — the lonely figure on the balcony. The brushwork was raw but skilled. It revealed more about her state of mind than she probably realized.

He took a sip of the drink.

She was adapting. Painting instead of crying. Lying to her family with surprising composure. Asking careful questions during dinner without pushing too far.

Most women in her position would have demanded more — more attention, more money, more emotion. Evelyn asked for almost nothing.

It was… refreshing.

He set the glass down harder than necessary.

It didn’t matter. Refreshing or not, this was still a contract.

A temporary solution to multiple problems: his mother’s pressure, the board’s whispers about his image, and the convenient acquisition of the Hayes land parcels without a hostile takeover.

He had fulfilled his side. She was fulfilling hers.

Still, as he prepared for bed, a small, intrusive thought remained:

She had looked almost hopeful when he commented on her painting.

He pushed it aside ruthlessly.

The next morning, Evelyn woke early again. She returned to her painting corner, adding small details to a new piece — a fractured foundation with flowers stubbornly growing through the cracks.

Lily brought her coffee and smiled gently. “Mr. Blackwood left for the office before dawn. He’ll be gone most of the day.”

Evelyn nodded, both relieved and strangely disappointed.

She spent the day painting, reading in the library, and avoiding Eleanor’s curious glances. In the late afternoon, she received a message from Martin Kane with details about the upcoming charity gala: designer dress fitting scheduled, etiquette notes, and expected public behavior as Mrs. Damien Blackwood.

The reality settled heavier on her chest.

She was no longer just hiding in the penthouse.

Soon, she would have to appear in public as Damien Blackwood’s wife.

Evelyn picked up her brush again, letting the colors bleed across the page.

One day at a time.

One painting at a time.

One awkward dinner at a time.

She just had to survive the year.

But as the sun began to set over the Manhattan skyline, painting the room in golden light, Evelyn couldn’t help but wonder how long she could keep pretending before the mask started to c***k.

Later That Evening

Damien returned to the penthouse after 10 PM. The lights were dim. He walked past Evelyn’s room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Soft lamplight spilled into the hallway, along with the faint scent of paint.

He paused for a moment, looking in.

Evelyn was asleep at her small desk, head resting on her arms, a half-finished painting in front of her.

Damien stood there longer than he should have.

Then he continued to his own room without a sound, closing the door firmly behind him.