The drive from the chapel to Damian's estate was steeped in silence so loud it rang in her ears.
Outside the tinted car windows, the New York cityscape bled into suburbia and then into something else entirely—massive iron gates, manicured gardens, and a mansion that looked like it belonged to an empire, not a single man.
The estate was located in the upper East side, Manhattan.
It reminded Aria of those ancient palaces in European films—elegant, expensive, cold.
Like the man who owned it.
Damian hadn't spoken a word since the ceremony. Not during the brief reception. Not during the drive. Not even as the staff greeted them at the entrance with tight smiles and murmured congratulations that sounded more like condolences.
He simply walked ahead of her, his steps sharp, his back stiff beneath the fine cut of his designer suit.
Aria followed.
This was her life now.
Inside, the house was cathedral-like: all white marble, chrome fixtures, and echoing silence. There were no family photos. No warmth. No clutter. Only space and tension and a cold that sank into her bones.
"Welcome to the house," he said finally, his voice low and clipped. "You'll be given access to the main floor, your designated spaces, and the shared areas. Do not enter any room that is locked. And never ever enter my office."
His tone wasn't cruel. It was worse than that. It was void of emotion. Like she wasn't a bride or a person—but a deal. A transaction sealed in vows.
"I understand," she said quietly.
He turned to look at her then, just for a moment.
That sharp gaze again. Always studying. Always measuring.
"The staff know your name. They'll attend to you. If you need anything, speak to the house manager. Meals are scheduled. I won't be home most evenings for dinner."
"Do we—do we share a room?"
A brief pause.
"Yes. You are my wife." His clipped. "Tho I find it easier to keep track of the people I don't know or trust ."
Heat climbed her neck. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
He turned and walked up the stairs without waiting for her reply.
The bedroom was stunning in a cold, luxurious sort of way. White marble floors, an enormous fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the private lake, and a bed that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel suite. There were two walk-in closets. A chaise lounge. Silk curtains. And a single vase of white lilies on the nightstand.
Her favorite flower.
She blinked.
A coincidence.
Definitely a coincidence.
Damian wouldn't have known what she liked.
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The veil was gone, but her face still looked ghostly pale. Her lipstick had faded. Her curls were falling.
This was supposed to be her wedding night.
Zara would've thrown a fit if she saw this room. She'd march in, call Damian a stone-hearted mannequin, and demand chocolates and candles and jazz music.
Aria gave a humorless laugh. None of that was happening here.
This wasn't a fairytale.
This was survival.
The next morning passed in a haze of introductions. The house manager, Ms. Hayes, was polite but not warm. The housekeeper, Marta, offered a tight-lipped smile when she brought fresh towels. The chef barely glanced at her.
Aria wandered the estate with a kind of quiet curiosity, trying to make sense of her surroundings. There was an indoor garden. A wine cellar. A sunroom she already loved.
But most of the doors were locked.
Not just locked—forbidden.
One hallway in particular caught her attention. It was darker than the rest, tucked behind a column-lined corridor past the west wing. The floorboards creaked differently there, like they remembered footsteps long since vanished.
She paused.
There it was.
A pale cream door, carved with a rose motif. And a small brass plate at the center:
ELENA
Her heart tripped.
Who was Elena?
She raised her hand slowly, not even thinking—just… curious. She wasn't trying to invade. Just having a little peek.
But before her fingers even brushed the doorknob—
"What are you doing?"
She jerked back like she'd been burned.
Damian.
He stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
"I—I didn't go in," she said quickly. "I just saw the name—"
"I told you not to touch locked doors," he snapped, his voice hard now, slicing through the quiet. "Especially this one."
She flinched.
"I wasn't trying to—"
"I don't care what you were trying to do," he bit out. "That room is off-limits. Do not speak of it ever again. Don't go near it."
"Okay, okay. I get it. But—who is Elena?" she asked, the name heavy on her tongue, cold in her chest. "Is she—was she your—"
He took one step closer.
"Stay. Away. From that room," he said, low and dangerous.
And then he turned on his heel and vanished, leaving her in a hallway that suddenly felt colder than winter.
Aria fled.
She didn't cry, not at first. She just ran back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her, her pulse trembling through her veins.
The way he looked at her—like she was a trespasser in her own home.
She wasn't a criminal. Trying to have a little peak couldn't have hurt anyone.
But there was something in that room. Something he didn't want her to know. Someone.
Elena.
The name pressed like ice against her spine.
Was she an ex? A lost lover? A secret wife?
Or was she the reason behind all this—the marriage, the hatred, the unspoken storm she was trapped in?
Aria pressed her hands to her face and sat down at the edge of the bed.
She had walked into a house made of ice.
And something told her… the fire was coming.
She couldn't sleep that night.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the name on the door.
Elena.
Elena.
And Damian's voice—cold, warning, final.
But even more frightening than the mystery… was the way her heart reacted to his fury.
She wasn't just terrified.
She was damn angry.
Angry at being silenced. Angry at being treated like a prisoner.
And that anger… was starting to wake something dangerous inside her.