Always make you mine

Episode Seventeen

Damien left for London before sunrise the next morning.

Evelyn heard the faint sound of the front door closing and the private elevator descending, but she didn’t get out of bed to say goodbye.

There was no reason to. Their marriage was nothing more than ink on paper, and last night’s awkward dinner had made that painfully clear.

She spent the following days trying to build some semblance of normalcy in the enormous penthouse. Mornings were quiet. Lily prepared breakfast with gentle kindness, while Eleanor handled cleaning with polite efficiency. Evelyn avoided the young maid as much as possible after overhearing her gossip.

Most of her time was spent in the corner of her bedroom she had turned into a small studio. She painted feverishly — cityscapes, abstract emotions, and even a few tentative portraits. The act of creating was the only thing that made the luxurious prison feel bearable. One canvas showed a cracked foundation beneath a glittering skyscraper — a silent reflection of her family’s situation and her own fractured new reality.

On the third day of Damien’s absence, Evelyn was painting when her phone rang. It was Zara.

“Girl, you’ve been ghosting me! How’s the fancy new job? I miss you.”

Evelyn set her brush down and forced a laugh. “It’s good. Really busy though. The collection is huge and they keep me on my toes. I barely have time to breathe.”

“You sound tired,” Zara said, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you okay? You can tell me if it’s too much.”

“I’m fine,” Evelyn lied smoothly. “Just adjusting. The apartment is beautiful, but it’s a lot.”

They chatted for a while longer. Evelyn hated every false word, but she couldn’t risk telling the truth. Not yet.

Later that afternoon, while she was sketching on the terrace, Lily approached with a hesitant expression.

“Evelyn, dear… Mr. Blackwood’s mother just called the main line. She heard rumors and wants to speak with you. I can put her through if you’d like.”

Evelyn’s heart dropped. “His mother?”

“Yes. Should I tell her you’re unavailable?”

Evelyn shook her head. She couldn’t hide forever. “It’s okay. I’ll take it.”

A few moments later, her phone rang. The voice on the other end was elegant, sharp, and dripping with authority.

“Evelyn Blackwood? This is Victoria Blackwood. My son’s mother.”

Evelyn swallowed hard. “Yes, Mrs. Blackwood. It’s nice to speak with you.”

A short, surprised laugh came through the line. “So it’s true. Damien actually got married and didn’t bother telling his own mother. Typical. I had to hear it from one of his useless friends who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

Evelyn’s grip tightened on the phone. “It… happened rather quickly.”

“I expect nothing less from my son. Cold calculations, even in marriage.” Victoria’s tone softened slightly. “Tell me about yourself, dear. Who are you? Where did he find you?”

Evelyn gave a carefully edited version — fine arts background, family in construction, a whirlwind decision. She avoided any mention of the contract or the financial rescue.

She Victoria listened, then sighed. “Well, you sound… normal. Which is more than I expected from whatever arrangement my son made. I’ll be tqreturning to New York in two weeks. We will have lunch. Just the two of us. No excuses.”

Before Evelyn could respond, the line went dead.

She sank onto the terrace chair, feeling overwhelmed. Damien’s mother already suspected this wasn’t a normal marriage. How long before the truth came out?

That evening, Evelyn ate dinner alone again. The penthouse felt even larger without Damien’s distant presence. After dinner, she returned to her painting corner and worked late into the night, pouring her anxiety onto the canvas — dark grays and sharp lines with small bursts of color fighting through.

Meanwhile, in a luxurious London hotel suite, Damien sat reviewing contracts. His phone buzzed with a message from his mother:

“I spoke with your wife today. You have some explaining to do when you return. Don’t think you can hide a marriage from me, Damien.”

He stared at the message, his expression unchanging. Of course Luke had slipped. He had already dealt with his friend’s loose tongue.

Damien set the phone aside and leaned back. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to think about Evelyn. She was alone in his penthouse, painting in that small corner of her room, lying to her family, adjusting to a life she never asked for.

He felt no guilt. This was the deal.

Yet a faint, unfamiliar curiosity lingered. How was she handling the isolation? Had she broken down yet, or was she stronger than he had assumed?

He poured himself a Scotch and pushed the thoughts away.

She had a role to play. He had a business empire to run.

That was all.

Back in New York, Evelyn finished her latest painting — a lone figure standing on a glass balcony overlooking a cold, beautiful city. She signed the bottom corner with a small “E.B.” — her new initials.

She stepped back and looked at the finished piece. It was raw and honest.

Just like her new life.

She cleaned her brushes, climbed into the oversized bed two doors down from her husband’s empty room, and whispered into the darkness:

“One day closer.”

But as sleep claimed her, she couldn’t shake the growing fear that one year might break her long before it ended.

The Next Morning

Evelyn woke to a message from Martin Kane:

“Mr. Blackwood returns tomorrow evening. He expects dinner together. Prepare accordingly.”

She stared at the text, heart beating faster.

Damien was coming back.

Their awkward shared dinner had been difficult enough. Now she would have to face him again — knowing his mother had called, knowing the lies were piling higher, knowing this cold arrangement was becoming more real with every passing day.

She got up and went to her painting corner, picking up her brush once more.

Art was her only escape.

For now.