The days blurred into a carefully orchestrated routine. Damian was gone before Lena woke, his time consumed by meetings and negotiations. When he returned, it was always late, his presence a fleeting shadow in the mansion they now shared.
Lena told herself she didn't care.
Yet, every night, as she lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, she found herself wondering about the man she had married.
That evening, a formal dinner was arranged—Blackwood tradition, as the house staff had informed her.
Lena dressed accordingly, slipping into an elegant emerald gown that hugged her figure without being overly revealing. She wasn't doing it for Damian, of course. If she was going to be paraded around as Mrs. Blackwood, she would do so with dignity.
Descending the grand staircase, she found him waiting in the dining hall, a crystal tumbler of whiskey in hand. His sharp gaze flickered over her, unreadable as always.
"You clean up well," he remarked.
Lena arched a brow, settling into the chair across from him. "Careful, Damian. That almost sounded like a compliment."
His lips curved slightly before he sipped his drink.
Dinner was a quiet affair at first, filled with polished silverware and the occasional exchange of pleasantries. It wasn't until dessert arrived that the conversation shifted.
"You haven't asked about your family."
Lena stilled, her fork hovering above her plate. "What about them?"
Damian set down his glass. "Your father's debts are being settled as we speak. He won't lose the company."
A mix of relief and frustration stirred within her. "How noble of you."
His gaze remained steady. "You knew the terms of our arrangement, Lena."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Yes, I did. And in return, I was handed over like a business asset."
He didn't flinch. "You were given security."
"Security?" She let out a sharp laugh. "Tell me, Damian, do you even know what it means to truly need something? To fear losing everything?"
A beat of silence passed.
Then, in a voice colder than the ice in his glass, he said, "You think I don't know loss?"
Something in his tone sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't anger—it was something deeper, something buried beneath years of control.
Lena hesitated. "Then tell me."
His gaze darkened, but he said nothing.
Instead, he rose, his chair scraping against the floor as he turned away. "Dinner is over."
She watched him leave, frustration tightening in her chest.
Damian Blackwood was a fortress of secrets.
And whether she wanted to or not, she was beginning to crave the key.