The next morning, Arianna woke to the faint clatter of porcelain and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. For a moment, she thought maybe Damien had changed his mind. Maybe last night's frost would thaw into something softer, something… normal.
She pulled on a light robe and stepped into the dining area of the penthouse. The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sleek marble table where Damien sat, reading the Financial Times. A breakfast spread was neatly laid out: eggs, toast, fresh fruit, and coffee served in pristine white china.
The scene looked perfect. Almost too perfect.
"Good morning," she said, forcing a lightness into her voice as she took the seat across from him.
Damien glanced up briefly, gave a curt nod, and returned his eyes to the newspaper.
Arianna cleared her throat, determined not to let the silence win. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
"Enough," he said flatly, not looking up.
"You should try sleeping in the bed. The couch can't be comfortable."
"It serves its purpose."
Her lips tightened. And here we go again.
She reached for the coffee pot, pouring herself a cup. "I was thinking…" she began, keeping her tone casual, "maybe we could go out for brunch this weekend. Somewhere public. It might be good for appearances."
That finally earned her a reaction Damien lowered the newspaper slightly, one brow arched. "Appearances?"
"Yes," she said, meeting his gaze. "You know, to make this arrangement believable. People will expect to see us together."
He smirked faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "You think having pancakes in front of strangers will convince them we're a happy couple?"
"It would at least convince them we're a couple."
The smirk faded. "We don't need to convince anyone. As long as the right people sign the right papers, nothing else matters."
Her hands tightened around her coffee cup. "You really believe that? That life can be reduced to contracts and signatures?"
"It works for me," he said, picking up his fork and cutting into his eggs with mechanical precision.
Arianna took a slow breath, willing herself not to snap. She tried a different approach. "You know, most people talk during breakfast. It's a thing couples do. They share their plans, ask about each other's day…"
"We're not most people," Damien interrupted.
The words were sharp, but it was his tone cool, dismissive that stung.
"I'm trying here, Damien," she said, her voice tight. "I'm making an effort, even if you won't."
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. "And why exactly are you making an effort? Because you care? Or because you think you can change me?"
Her jaw tightened. "Maybe I just don't like living in a freezer."
He chuckled, low and humorless. "Then perhaps you should have thought of that before agreeing to this arrangement."
The comment landed like a slap, and Arianna set down her coffee cup a little too hard, the ceramic clinking sharply against the saucer. "You're unbelievable."
"Correction," Damien said calmly, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, "I'm consistent. You knew the rules before you stepped into this marriage. I told you not to expect warmth from me."
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't empty it was full of unspoken things Arianna wanted to say, accusations she wanted to hurl, questions she wanted answered.
She could have stood up, walked away, ended the conversation there. But something in her snapped.
"Rule three," she said slowly, her eyes fixed on him. "Don't fall in love with you. You keep repeating it like a warning. But maybe it's not about me at all. Maybe you're the one afraid of falling in love."
His gaze locked on hers, sharp and unwavering. "Careful, Arianna."
"Why?" she challenged. "Because I'm getting too close to the truth?"
The air between them crackled with tension, but Damien didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he set down his fork and folded his hands on the table. "You think you understand me after a few days? You don't even know what you're dealing with."
"Then tell me," she said. "Tell me why you're so determined to keep me at arm's length."
He leaned back in his chair, regarding her for a long moment before speaking. "Because if you get too close, you'll see parts of me you won't like. And once you see them, you can't unsee them."
Her heart thudded, but she didn't look away. "Maybe I'd rather see the truth than live in this ice palace you've built around yourself."
Damien's lips pressed into a thin line. "You say that now."
He pushed back his chair and stood, picking up his coffee cup. "Breakfast is over."
Just like that, he walked away, leaving Arianna alone at the table.
She sat there for several minutes, staring at the half-eaten food between them. The warmth of the coffee had faded, but the bitterness in her chest burned hotter than ever.
And as the sound of his retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, Arianna made herself a silent promise: if Damien thought his walls were impenetrable, he was about to find out just how determined she could be to break them.
The clink of silverware had long gone silent, replaced by the faint hum of the city outside. Arianna remained seated at the table, her eyes fixed on the untouched fruit platter. Damien's footsteps had vanished into the distance, but the echo of his words still lingered in the room like frost.
She took a slow breath, gathering herself. You're not going to break me this easily.
Pushing the chair back, she began to clear the plates. The penthouse was eerily quiet without Damien's presence, but she welcomed the silence it was better than the sharp edges of his voice.
As she rinsed the dishes, her mind replayed the morning exchange. Every cold remark. Every calculated pause. But beneath it all, there had been something else in his eyes just for a second. Not anger. Not disdain. Something heavier.
The intercom buzzed, startling her from her thoughts. She wiped her hands on a towel and pressed the button.
"Mrs. Blackwood," the doorman's voice came through, polite and neutral. "There's a delivery for you. Shall I send it up?"
"Yes, thank you."
Moments later, a uniformed attendant wheeled in a sleek black gift box, embossed with the initials D.B. in silver.
Arianna frowned, lifting the lid. Inside lay a tailored cream-colored dress, elegant but understated, accompanied by a note written in Damien's neat, almost mechanical handwriting:
Dinner tonight. Seven sharp. Wear this.
No greeting. No explanation. Just an instruction.
She felt a twinge of irritation another command, another reminder that Damien's world was one of control. But there was also curiosity. Why dinner? Why now, after such a cold morning?
She carried the dress to the bedroom, running her fingers over the smooth fabric. It fit her perfectly, which meant Damien or someone he employed had gone to the trouble of getting her exact measurements.
That thought alone unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
The rest of the day unfolded in quiet isolation. She considered calling her friend Clara to vent but decided against it. Explaining her marriage to anyone outside this penthouse felt impossible. They wouldn't understand the rules, the unspoken boundaries, the way Damien kept himself locked behind walls only he could see.
By late afternoon, she found herself staring out at the skyline, wondering if tonight's dinner was a peace offering… or a trap.
When Damien finally emerged from his office in the evening, he didn't comment on her appearance. His suit was flawless, his expression unreadable.
"Ready?" he asked simply.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
And that was all he said.
The restaurant turned out to be one of the most exclusive in the city high ceilings, soft lighting, waiters who moved like shadows. Arianna expected conversation, but Damien was as silent as he'd been that morning.
It wasn't until dessert arrived that he spoke. "Tomorrow, you'll come to my office."
She blinked. "Your office?"
"Yes. There are people you should meet." His gaze sharpened. "And people who should see you."
Something in his tone made her pulse quicken not with excitement, but with a sense of stepping into unfamiliar territory.
Back at the penthouse, she hung the dress carefully, but her thoughts were anything but orderly.
Tomorrow, she would enter Damien's world on his terms. And judging by the way he'd said it, that world was not going to be any warmer than the breakfast table had been.