Chapter3
445 Words
Three weeks into the marriage, Élodie had mastered the art of pretending.
At charity dinners, she smiled on cue. At business galas, she clung to Damon’s arm like a real wife would. Paparazzi adored their “chemistry.” Socialites whispered about how “the cold Mr. Vallois” had finally fallen for someone.
But behind closed doors, their mansion in Montmartre was colder than any ballroom.
They barely spoke.
She stayed in the east wing; he stayed in the master suite.
Yet, the silence was starting to shift.
It happened one night after a gala at the Louvre. She stumbled in from the car, her heels digging into her sore feet, hands clutching the hem of her gown. Damon followed behind, unusually quiet. For once, there was no critique about her posture or smile or words.
As she turned to head for her room, he said softly, “You hate this, don’t you?”
She froze.
He never asked questions like that.
“Yes,” she said honestly. “But I love my father more than I hate you.”
A pause.
Then he said, “He’s responding well to treatment.”
Her throat caught.
He didn’t have to tell her that. He had no reason to give comfort. But he did.
When she turned to look at him, he wasn’t as sharp-edged as usual. There was tiredness in his eyes, and for the first time, humanity.
“Why are you really doing this?” she asked. “Why me? Why now?”
He hesitated.
Then he whispered, “Because no one’s ever told me no before. And you did.”
She blinked.
“That’s it?”
“No,” he said. “But it’s the only part I’m ready to admit.”
That night, Élodie didn’t cry before sleeping.
For the first time, she wondered if Damon Vallois still had a heart.
A Shift Begins
Days turned into weeks.
He began joining her for breakfast.
Once, he asked her favorite author. The next day, his assistant delivered a signed first edition of a rare French novel to her study.
They laughed—once—when she caught him trying to cook pasta and nearly setting off the smoke alarm.
And one evening, when she had a nightmare and screamed in her sleep, he rushed in—barefoot, breathless, and worried.
“Are you okay?” he asked, hands on her shoulders.
She was shaking, clutching her pillow. “It was just a dream.”
But his hand stayed on hers longer than necessary.
And when he left the room, she missed the warmth of it.
Something was changing.
In him.
In her.
Between them.
- Writer
