SEPARATE BED, SAME ROOF
1361 Words
Chapter 4: Separate Beds, Same Roof
The morning after the party, Amara woke up with diamond earrings still on the dresser and her heart still racing. She touched her forehead. It was cool now. No trace of Damian’s lips. But her skin remembered.
Downstairs, the dining room was empty. No Damian. No newspaper. Just cold coffee and a note under her plate. _Hospital. 10 AM. Don’t be late._
Amara dressed quickly. Simple jeans and a white blouse. No designer labels today. She needed to feel like herself before she saw her mother. Before the lies started again.
The SUV took her to the hospital. Her mother’s new room looked like a hotel suite. Flowers on the table. A nurse who smiled. Her mother sat up in bed, color back in her cheeks.
“Amara! Look at this place!” Her mother’s eyes were bright. “They said the surgery is Thursday. The best doctor. How did you—”
Amara hugged her before the question finished. “I found help, Mama. Good people.” She couldn’t say _I married your enemy_. Not yet.
Her mother touched her face. “You look tired, my daughter. And thinner. Are you eating?”
“I’m fine,” Amara lied. She was terrible at it. “Just working hard.”
“Working where?” Her mother’s eyes sharpened. Mothers always knew. “Amara Okafor, tell me the truth.”
Amara opened her mouth. The words _I’m married_ stuck in her throat. Before she could speak, her phone buzzed. Damian.
_Done visiting? Car is waiting._
She kissed her mother’s forehead. “I have to go, Mama. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Rest. Get strong for Thursday.”
“Amara—”
“I promise I’ll tell you everything soon,” she whispered. It was another lie. She hated how easy they were becoming.
The SUV ride back was silent. Mrs. Blake sat in the front seat, typing on her laptop. She glanced at Amara in the mirror. “You did well last night, Mrs. Cole. Mrs. Victoria didn’t suspect a thing.”
“I’m not good at lying,” Amara said quietly.
“You’ll learn,” Mrs. Blake replied. “Everyone in that house lies. It’s how they survive.”
Back at the mansion, Damian was in his office. Door open. He didn’t look up when Amara entered.
“Your mother’s pre-op tests came back clean,” he said. “Thursday is confirmed.”
Amara stood in the doorway. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s in the contract.” He finally looked up. His eyes were tired. Dark circles under them. “Clause 8. I provide medical care. You provide a wife.”
Amara flinched. “You could have said it nicer.”
“I could have,” Damian agreed. “But nice doesn’t keep us safe. Remember that.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. “Amara.”
She paused.
“Don’t wear jeans to dinner tonight. We have guests.”
“I’m not your doll,” she snapped.
“No,” Damian said, standing up. He walked around the desk until he was inches from her. “You’re my wife. There’s a difference. Dolls don’t fight back. You do. I like that. But tonight, wear a dress. For your mother.”
He said _for your mother_ and walked past her. The smell of his cologne stayed behind.
That evening, Amara chose a navy blue dress. Long sleeves. High neck. Not revealing. Not fake. She was done pretending to be someone else. If Damian wanted a wife, he’d get her. Not a costume.
Dinner guests arrived at 8 PM. Two men in suits. Business partners. They shook Damian’s hand and barely glanced at Amara until she spoke.
“Please, sit,” she said, her voice steady. “Can I get anyone water?”
One of the men smiled. “Mrs. Cole, Damian never lets his women talk at dinner.”
Amara picked up the water pitcher. “Then he’s been marrying the wrong women.”
Silence. Then Damian laughed. Low, real laughter. “She’s right. Pour the water, Amara.”
She did. Her hands didn’t shake. Across the table, Damian watched her. Not cold. Not calculating. Curious.
After dinner, the men left. Damian walked Amara to the stairs.
“You didn’t wear a revealing dress,” he said.
“You didn’t ask me to be naked,” she replied.
He stopped on the stairs. Turned. “Clause 12 says no public arguments.”
“This isn’t public,” Amara said. “This is us. In your house. So I’ll say it. I won’t dress like your trophy. I’ll be your wife, but I’ll be me.”
Damian studied her face. For a long time. Then he nodded once. “Fine. Be you. But be my wife while you do it.”
He walked up the stairs, leaving her confused and angry and something else she didn’t want to name.
Later that night, Amara couldn’t sleep. The mansion was too quiet. Too big. She got out of bed and walked down the hall. No destination. Just moving.
A light was on under Damian’s office door. She knocked softly.
“Come in,” his voice said.
He sat behind his desk, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Papers scattered. A glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked without looking up.
“Can you?” Amara replied.
Damian gestured to the chair across from him. She sat. The silence stretched.
“My father and yours were partners once,” Damian said suddenly. “Before the fallout. Before the companies split. Before the hate.”
Amara looked up, surprised. “You never talk about that.”
“There’s nothing to say. He destroyed my father. My father destroyed him back. And we’re left with the mess.” He took a sip of whiskey. “That’s why I need you, Amara. Not for love. For leverage. Your family name still means something in old circles.”
Amara’s chest tightened. “So I’m just a name to you.”
“You’re a contract,” Damian said. Then he met her eyes. “But you’re also the only person in this house who looks at me like I’m not a monster.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Amara stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Amara,” he called as she reached the door. “Separate bedrooms was your rule, not mine. Clause 7.”
She turned. “I added it because I don’t trust you.”
“Smart girl,” Damian said, raising his glass. “Keep not trusting me. It’s safer that way.”
Back in her room, Amara lay in the huge bed and stared at the ceiling. Separate beds. Same roof. Same contract. Same lie.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Damian. No words. Just a photo. Her mother sleeping peacefully in the hospital bed, monitors showing steady lines.
Amara stared at it until her eyes burned. Then she typed back: _Thank you._
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then: _Don’t thank me yet. Thursday is the hard part._
Amara set the phone down and pulled the blanket to her chin. Thursday meant surgery. Thursday meant her mother might not wake up. Thursday meant she’d owe Damian everything.
She closed her eyes and whispered into the dark, “I can do this. Just six months.”
In the room down the hall, Damian poured another glass of whiskey. He opened the contract on his desk and ran his finger over Amara’s signature. Small, slanted, defiant.
Separate beds, he thought. But her presence filled every room. Every silent dinner. Every cold hallway.
He drank and told himself it was just business. That the forehead kiss at the party meant nothing. That her anger at dinner meant nothing. That the way she looked at him like he wasn’t a monster meant nothing.
He was lying. And for the first time in years, Damian Cole hated himself for it.
Six months, he thought. Just six months with her under his roof.
It felt like a lifetime.
- Writer
