Tied To His Name by hadia hakim

"I could destroy you with a single word, Isla. You do know that, don't you?" His voice was gentle and calm, almost the type of voice that made promises and broke them in the same breath. Damien Vance stood inches from me, his hand on the wall near my head and his other hand holding a glass of dark, fine wine. He had not touched me. Yet. He didn't have to. The way his eyes nailed mine, the way my back straightened as if I was already caught, that was his touch. I held my breath. I gasped for air. The warmth of his words still raced in the surrounding air. I hated that my heart was racing, pounding against my ribs like a guilty secret. "I didn't do anything," I whispered. "That's your problem." He took a drink. "You were married to a man who stole two hundred billion dollars and conveniently died before we could ask him where he took it. And now here you are. Alive. Breathing. Still bearing his name. I find that suspicious." I winced as though the words had struck me. Perhaps they had. It was barely a month since Julian's car had been discovered burnt and crashed into a metal gate. The fire was too strong to leave anything that could be identified. It was a mechanical fault, according to the police. It was a tragedy, the company lawyers stated. It was bad luck, the family claimed. Nobody called it betrayal except Damien. It was only Damien who appeared at Isla's decrepit porch the days following the funeral, not with condolences or flowers, but a contract and a smirk. "Marry me," he'd said to me, his voice as cold as ice breaking on a lake. "One year. You play the part of the perfect sad widow and become the dutiful Vance wife. And you get safety. A roof over your head. Protection. And I'll not let the press hurt you." I thought he was joking. He wasn't. Now, three days into this strange arrangement, I was in his huge mansion colder than any winter. I was living in a house with servants who refused to even glance at me. I was remarried to a man who looked at me like a crime scene which he had not yet solved. "I signed your contract," I spoke while raising my chin despite all the trembling. "I'm doing exactly as you said. Why are you still threatening me?" Damien bent closer yet, his finger on my cheek as he whispered near in my ear. "Since the more I look at you, the more I get the feeling that Julian told you something. Gave you something. And I don't want secrets in my house." "I don't know anything," I repeated. He stepped backward, watching my face as though waiting for me to reveal a weakness. When he didn't find one, he turned away, setting his glass down on the table without breaking his gaze. The silence that followed wasn't just quiet. It felt dense on my chest, heavier than words. I attempted to breathe slowly but the tension lingered. I did not like this about Damien: how he never screamed or spoke anything truly cruel, but each of his words sliced me down to the bone, and each silent interval brought pain. "I want you to be ready at seven," he said finally, securing the cuff of his white shirt. "We're dining with the Ridleys. You'll smile, you'll dress in black, and you won't speak a word unless instructed to do so." "Like a good little puppet?" I snapped before I could stop myself. He halted. Then he turned, slow, deliberate. His mouth curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Precisely," he breathed. "And if you're good, I might just let you breathe." There was no reply. There was none to make. When I returned to my room, my hands were shaking. The room, a guest room, really, though larger than the entire apartment she'd lived her life in, looked undisturbed. Too clean. Too sterile. There were no photos. No sign. No warmth. Just me and the reminder that I don't belong here. Not really. The ring on my finger was colder than her skin. Damien had made me slip on a new one, not Julian's, just before the press conference that introduced me as his wife. It shone like a lie. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long while, then whispered. "What have you done, Isla?" There was no answer. Not from the mirror. Not from the house. Not from the man who now legally owned my presence. Dinner that night was an act. Damien was the adoring husband, attentive in a way that was suffocating. He pulled out my chair. Pushed my hair behind my ear. Told Ridley's how courageous I was during the tragedy. How proud he was to call me his wife. It was a nauseating performance. And worse, it was credible. I kept myself still, smiled when I was meant to and tried not to break when Damien's hand settled on the back of my neck, like a threat. A warning. A leash. "Isla has always been uncomplaining," Damien replied casually when Mr. Ridley asked after her transition. "It's her quiet strength that I admire the most." His thumb touched the hollow of my throat. I felt like screaming. But instead, I raised my wine glass to my lips with a steady hand and smiled. Because that's what good puppets do. The moment the car door shut behind them, the silence was toxic. The Ridley's had toasted, smiled, and gossiped. Damien had performed with precision, his hand never leaving my back since they entered the room. They were a force to be reckoned with in the world. Money, sorrow, and beauty are contained in ice. Now in the vehicle, Damien Vance no longer needed to pretend. "Next time," he snarled, voice low, "don't look at my guests as if they'll offer you a way out." "I didn't," I told him, my back to him towards the window. "You were," he said, lounging in his chair like a man who needed no defense only to observe. "You smiled too long when Franklin Ridley asked if you missed your old life. Your voice softened when you spoke with his son. You leaned forward a little toward him. You're not subtle." My heart leaped. "You were watching me that closely?" Damien’s voice dropped even lower, and the air inside the car seemed to shrink. “I watch everything I own that closely.” I went still. He didn’t correct himself. “You think this is ownership?” I asked, the words barely in a whisper. "I think," he murmured, his head turning in my direction, "that you signed my name. You wear my ring. You live in my house. And every step you take brings credit to me. So, yes, Isla, I think it's exactly that." His gaze lingered on my face for a torturous extra beat before he looked away, tapping a silent message out on his phone. The drive home was quiet but not serene. I bit my nails so I wouldn't tremble. It wasn't fear that irritated me, not exactly. It was worse. More shameful. It was the manner in which a part of me didn't resent being observed. The moment we were in the house, Damien walked in front of me in silence, removing his jacket and unfastening the top button of his shirt as he went up the stairs. I lingered in the doorway, unsure. I didn't feel like following him, but I also didn't feel like remaining behind either. My fingers ached as I watched him disappear down the corridor. There was something in the house in the evening that made it harder to get my breath. I had this terrible feeling that someone would be there. Lurking. Watching. Waiting. I was not crazy. I could feel it. My hand went instinctively towards my throat, the slender gold chain that used to hold a charm Julian gave her. There was no charm now. The chain was choking me. "Upstairs", Damien's voice commanded from the hall, sharp and commanding. "Now." My legs moved before my mind agreed. His room was cold and contemporary, dark charcoal grays and obsidian highlights pointed at corners everywhere. I walked uncomfortably in the doorway as he removed his cufflinks, threw them in a glass bowl, and turned to me at last. It wasn't desire. It was a calculation. "You wore the dress I selected," he said in a demanding voice. "You ordered your assistant to lay it on my bed with a note." "And you did as you were told." "It wasn't a choice." I struck back. His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Everything is a choice, Isla. You chose to sign. You chose to stay." My voice cracked. "You gave me no other option." He took a step closer. "And yet you did as you were told." I gasped while taking a step back. He didn't stop. "I don't want this," I whispered. "I know," he said, voice low, intimately brutal. "But that doesn't make it any less true that I do." The words paralyzed me. He was inches from me now, not touching but close enough to feel the heat of her body. My heart pounded with anger or fear; I didn't know. I hated him. I hated what he did to her. And he saw it all. "I know what you're doing," I said, gasping for breath. "Do you?" "You're attempting to make me break first. Attempting to make me something other than I am. You believe that the harder you push, the sooner I'll break." He smiled. "No, Isla. I don't need you to break. I need you to bend. Slowly." I struck him. Or tried to. He caught my wrist midway through with fearful ease. And then he edged even nearer and said in cold fear, "Don't ever raise your hand to me again. I won't be so kind the next time." My breath was trapped. His hand remained on my wrist, not tight, but holding with just enough pressure to remind her. Then he released me slowly. I edged back, patting the smart from her eyes, her throat too dry to say anything. "You can stay in your room tonight but from tomorrow onwards, I don't want any more misunderstandings between us." I didn't question what that was meant to be. I didn't want to know. It was hard to sleep that night, gazing up at the ceiling, every muscle knotted. My heart had not stopped racing since dinner. Since the car. Since the room. I felt marked. Changed. I hated that part where I responded to Damien not as I did to Julian, always at arm's length, ill-defined warmth, too busy to pay attention. No, this wasn't that. Damien observed me. Tracked me. Owned me. Not with love. But intent. I didn't want that. And still my body betrayed me in heat and confusion whenever he moved close enough to intrude. I shut my eyes. But just as I started to drift, I heard it. A gentle click. The door. Opening then closing. Quiet assured footsteps crossed my room. I sat up, throat closing. Only to see Damien there in the shadows, his eyes on me. I reached for the lamp, but he caught me faster, his hand around my mouth, keeping it back down softly but firmly. "Don't scream," he whispered. "I wasn't going to," I whispered. He sat for a long, long time. Just looked at me. Then he said, "I had a nightmare." The lie was so obvious, so deliberately out of place. "Damien," I called his name softly. "I wanted to know whether you were still present." I could not think of anything to say. He turned and left, the door open behind him.