Emilia
I thought I understood what it meant to feel isolated. For years, I'd lived under the cold, indifferent gaze of my stepmother, always the unwanted shadow in the house. But tonight—tonight, I realize how little I knew about being alone.
The cold weight of the night presses down on me as I sit at the edge of the grand, unfamiliar bed, my fingers absentmindedly tracing the delicate embroidery along the sheets. The room is large, elegant in its dark wood and golden accents, but the space feels empty—utterly empty. The flickering candlelight barely casts any warmth, leaving shadows to creep along the walls like ghosts. I shiver, but I'm not sure if it's the temperature or the strange emptiness in my chest that makes me tremble.
Damien hasn't said a word since we left the chapel. He's barely looked at me, and when he did, it was only to give me a brief, impassive nod as he led me to this room, the door closing behind us with a resounding finality. His presence in the room feels overwhelming, yet it's as though I'm invisible to him. He hasn't even offered me a single word of comfort or reassurance, though I wouldn't have known how to ask for it.
The silence between us is stifling, suffocating. I can feel the heavy weight of it pressing down on my chest, threatening to crush me under the weight of everything unsaid.
I glance toward the far side of the room where Damien stands by the window, his silhouette stark against the moonlight. His broad shoulders are tense, his posture rigid as he stares out into the darkness. His expression is unreadable, his jaw clenched. He hasn't looked at me, not once, and I don't know what to make of that.
I want to speak. I want to ask him about his intentions, about why we're here, why we're both locked in this marriage I don't understand, but the words catch in my throat. I don't think I want to hear his answer. I don't think I could bear it.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he turns toward me, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if to remind me of his presence. He moves slowly, deliberately, like a predator circling its prey.
"You know," he says, his voice low and rough, "this isn't what I wanted."
His words hang in the air, thick and heavy, and I can't help but feel a sting at the admission. Of course, it isn't what he wanted. But what did I want? What choice did I have in any of this?
I don't say anything. I don't know what to say.
Damien steps closer to the bed, his dark gaze never leaving me. He pauses at the edge of the mattress, standing over me like a shadow. "You're just a placeholder," he mutters, the words sharp and cold. "Nothing more. I never intended for this to happen."
My chest tightens. "A placeholder," I echo, the bitterness of it cutting deep. But there's no real surprise in my voice, because I've known this all along. He never wanted me. I'm here because I had no choice. Lillian was supposed to be his bride. Not me.
I rise from the bed, unable to stay still for another moment, the words swirling in my mind. "Then why did you go through with it?" I ask, my voice quiet but desperate for an answer. "If I'm just a placeholder, why am I here?"
Damien doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes a slow step back, as if weighing my question carefully. "Because it was the only way," he says finally, his voice distant, almost detached. "The marriage had to happen. The deal was struck long before you and I ever met."
I don't ask for more details. I don't know if I want to know. The coldness in his tone, the distance in his words, makes my heart ache with something I can't name. It's not love. I know that much. It's something far more unsettling—an emptiness that stretches between us, and yet feels so suffocating that I can barely breathe.
He turns away then, moving toward the other side of the room. He begins to undress with deliberate, mechanical movements, like he's going through the motions of a man who has done this countless times before, but without any real desire or intention. He doesn't look at me as he removes his jacket, his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his back, the faint scars that line his skin. I don't know what I expect—maybe a glimpse of the "crippled" body I had heard so much about—but I see nothing of the kind. His body is as perfect as the rest of him, flawless in the way he carries himself, every movement smooth and practiced.
When he finally climbs into the bed beside me, the space between us feels insurmountable, even though we're mere inches apart. His body is rigid, tense, as though he's physically keeping himself away from me. His breathing is shallow, controlled, and I can feel the distance in every breath he takes.
He turns onto his side, facing away from me, and the coldness between us feels almost unbearable.
I lie there for what feels like hours, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic sound of Damien's breathing. I try to close my eyes, to convince myself that sleep will come, but it never does. Every time I close my eyes, I'm faced with the same unspoken questions. Why am I here? What does he want from me? Why does everything about this marriage feel wrong?
Just when I think I can't take the silence any longer, I feel it—a slight rustling, a shift in the air. My breath catches as I turn my head to see Damien sitting up, his shadowy figure outlined against the dim moonlight coming through the window.
"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper, though I already know there's no answer he'll give that will make me feel any better.
He doesn't respond, just remains still, his form so motionless that it's almost unnerving. His profile is sharp, his features hard to read in the low light, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like heat. He's hiding something. I can feel it deep in my bones.
Then, without warning, he gets up from the bed and walks over to the desk on the far side of the room. He doesn't say a word as he opens a drawer and pulls something out. My heart begins to pound in my chest. What is he doing?
He turns to face me, and for the first time tonight, his gaze locks with mine—intense, piercing. It sends a shiver down my spine.
Then, he speaks the words I never expected to hear.
"There's something you need to see."
Confused, I sit up in bed, my heart racing, as he walks over to me and places something on my pillow—a small, folded piece of parchment. He doesn't say anything more, simply stands there, watching me.
I reach for the paper with trembling hands, unfolding it carefully. The handwriting is elegant, but the message sends a cold chill down my spine:
"Trust no one in this house, especially your husband."
I freeze. My pulse hammers in my ears, my breath catching in my throat. Who wrote this? What does it mean?
I look up, but Damien is already gone. He's left the room without a sound, and the door closes softly behind him, leaving me alone with the letter and a thousand questions I have no answers to.
My hands shake as I clutch the letter. I can't help but wonder—what have I gotten myself into?
And why does it feel like no one is who they claim to be?