chapter 7 ~ The Cold Mansion
1102 Words
Adrian's pov
Morning light in Noctis Vale should feel warm.
But in my penthouse… it doesn’t.
It feels like everything is frozen inside polished wood and gold detail.
I wake before she does.
Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s survival.
Maybe it’s the old instinct of a man who learned to never let his guard down near the enemy.
She’s sleeping very peaceful beside me as if something incredible happened to her.
The silence between us was louder than any argument could’ve been.
I made coffee, black, bitter, strong to keep me calm.
The city below is glass and motion and wealth, but feels like nothing.
Not compared to the storm building here.
She comes out around eight.
Bare feet.
Silk shorts.
Loose oversized shirt she probably pulled from her luggage halfway asleep the night before.
Her hair is messy.
Her eyes slightly puffy, like she barely slept.
And the moment she breathes inside this space — I feel everything shift.
Like the walls resent her existence.
Like fate itself just took a seat.
“This place looks like a mausoleum,” she finally says, voice dry, not looking at me, opening cabinets like she’s hunting for sugar.
“It’s a home,” I say coldly.
“For who?” she fires back. “Because nothing about this feels alive.”
Her words hit deeper than they should.
Because she’s right.
A long time ago, this stopped being a place to live — and became a place to sharpen desire into weapon.
She pours herself water, ignoring the tension stretching between us like a loaded trigger.
I should not look at her legs.
I should not look at the soft exposed skin where her shirt drops off one shoulder.
I should not notice the faint scent of something sweet she wears without trying.
But I see.
And I notice.
And that alone makes me furious.
Because she wasn’t supposed to affect me.
She is a Hayes.
The daughter of the man who destroyed my father, my family… who left me standing in blood and ashes with nothing but rage to rebuild myself with.
And yet—
she stands here in my kitchen like a soft reminder that hatred can get complicated.
“Your father’s shareholders will sign the transition agreement today,” I say.
Business. Cold. Sharp. Distance.
She stiffens.
The sound of the glass in her hand goes still.
“So this is who we are now,” she whispers. “Me being paraded like a political tool while my father sinks into debt?”
“You agreed,” I answer.
“You gave me no choice,” she says, voice breaking slightly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”
Silence again.
Heavy.
Intimate in the worst way.
She walks away first. And that alone irritates me.
She shouldn’t be the one to end conversations.
She shouldn’t hold any power here. But she turns her back on me like she owes me nothing.
...................................................................
when I got home the mansion feels colder with her inside it.
I came home from a board meeting and she’s sitting in the private reading room — the only soft place in this entire penthouse.
My father designed it before everything went to hell. Deep mahogany bookshelves, antique lamps with gold engravings, first edition novels behind glass.
She shouldn’t be here.
She doesn’t belong in anything connected to him.
She stands when she sees me — and my breath catches for a split second before I can hide it.
She changed.
She’s wearing a red wine silk robe — short, delicate, tied loosely around her waist.
It’s elegant, subtle sensuality. She probably didn’t plan to weaponise it… but her existence does.
And it infuriates me how much control she has without even trying.
“It’s warm in this room,” she says quietly. “Everywhere else feels like… a funeral.”
“That room was my father’s favorite,” I say blankly.
Her expression softens.
Too soft.
Too human.
And that softness is lethal.
We go to dinner and every second feels like a war we fight without speaking.
She sits across from me, barely eating.
I can feel her nerves, her discomfort, her resentment.
Halfway through, she pushes her chair back.
“Adrian… I don’t want to fight every single day.”
Her voice breaks.
Not dramatic. Not manipulative.
Real.
It shakes something inside me I didn’t prepare for.
She tries walking away again.
And this time — I don’t let her.
I stand, move faster than her, catch her wrist, stopping her before she leaves the dining room.
She freezes, looking up at me like she doesn’t know if I’m going to ruin her or save her.
The kitchen is dim, only the under-light of the marble counter casting gold shadows. I back her slowly against the table. She doesn’t move
. She doesn’t resist physically — but emotionally every wall in her is screaming.
Her breathing is uneven.
“Adrian…” she whispers, voice shaking.
I don’t kiss her gently.
Not soft.
Not tender.
It’s slow but deep — like claiming territory I shouldn’t want.
Like testing a line I swore I’d never cross. Her lips tremble beneath mine. Her fingers clutch the table edge, trying not to respond.
And somewhere in that moment — I feel the line blur.
She closes her eyes —savouring the moment.
Out of fear that she might want to feel something she shouldn’t.
That is worse.
More dangerous.
I pull back slightly.
Just enough that our lips still brush when I speak.
And I whisper the elegant cruelty that slices cleaner than a knife:
“Don’t misunderstand this, Liana. A woman like you was never meant to be loved by a man like me.”
Her breath catches.
Her eyes open slowly.
Pain.
Shock.
Humiliation she tries to swallow.
I step away, my pulse racing harder than it should.
And with colder finality — looking right into her eyes:
“This isn’t a marriage, Liana. It’s a transaction.”
Liana POV
His words echo in the silence long after he walks out of the kitchen.
My chest hurts.
Not because I wanted him to love me — but because a part of me hoped I could survive this without being shattered.
I grip the table harder, trying to breathe normally.
I volunteered to protect my father.
I volunteered to carry the cost.
But no one warned me that the cost… would be my heart.
And just like that — this mansion really does feel like a prison made of gold.
And I’m the prisoner wearing silk.
- Writer
