It started with silence.
Not the kind that filled grand estates like Damien's the kind polished into perfection, glazed with luxury and a hint of fear. This silence was different. It felt alive, watching her, breathing down her spine as Aria stepped into his study like a girl trespassing into a cathedral built from control.
She hadn't been invited. That alone should've stopped her.
But since when had she followed the rules?
Especially when the man who wrote them had started breaking his own.
The study was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the afternoon sun. Everything was still in its place. Polished. Unbothered. A museum of a man who ruled with discipline and precise intention. And yet, something inside Aria screamed that this room held more than business plans and financial secrets.
It held him.
Not the version he showed the world. But the one he kept locked behind rules, behind silence, behind every cruel command he gave her just to keep distance between them.
She moved slowly, her bare feet silent on the black marble floor. Her eyes scanned the shelves, the desk, the thick volumes of books lined like soldiers nothing gave her away. But the air buzzed with it. The feeling that something had changed.
Then she saw it.
A drawer. Lower right. Carved into the mahogany desk like a secret mouth begging to be opened.
It was locked.
Of course it was.
Aria crouched, heart ticking like a threat. She'd seen the keys before Damien kept them in a glass bowl on the bar cart, thinking no one would dare use them.
She had.
The small brass key slid in easily, a quiet click echoing like gunfire.
She hesitated.
Then pulled.
The drawer creaked open with a groan of protest and inside it, folded neatly in black linen, was a bundle of pages. Not just paper. Not just a document.
It was the original contract.
The one she'd signed.
But older.
Longer.
She unfolded it slowly, expecting the same cold, clinical language. Rules. Clauses. The value of her time calculated to the hour.
But instead… the handwriting stopped her.
It was Damien's.
Not typed. Not formal. Personal.
Her fingers trembled.
The clauses were raw. Rough. Some had been violently crossed out with angry black strokes, like he couldn't stand his own softness being seen in ink.
"Clause 12: She may choose to stay beyond six months if trust is established."
"Clause 14: No other men during the term. Exclusive."
"Clause 17: I will not fall in love with her."
Her breath caught at the last one.
Not she. I.
Her eyes moved faster now, tracing the pages like they were confessions, not contracts. She saw scribbles in the margins, notes he never meant to share.
"She reminds me of fire."
"Control her, or lose yourself again."
"Don't touch unless necessary."
"If she asks to stay… say no."
Aria's throat closed.
This wasn't a contract.
It was a war plan.
Against himself.
Every rule she'd been forced to follow… every cold demand, every cruel silence wasn't just about owning her.
It was about containing him.
The man behind the billionaire mask. The one afraid of chaos. Afraid of wanting something real.
Afraid of her.
And suddenly, all of it made sense.
The collar. The distance. The silences that came not from power, but fear.
He wasn't punishing her because she'd grown too emotional.
He was punishing himself because he was starting to feel.
She heard the door open.
A quiet, final sound that sliced through the room like a guillotine.
Damien stood there, his black suit immaculate, his hands in his pockets but there was something off in his expression. Something not entirely calm.
Something not entirely in control.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't hide the papers.
She stood there in front of the open drawer, holding the pages between them like a weapon and a prayer.
"I was curious," she said softly. "Didn't expect to find your diary."
His eyes didn't waver.
Only his jaw tensed.
"That drawer is locked for a reason."
"And yet," she murmured, lifting one page to her eyes again, "you wrote these rules long before I stepped into your life."
He said nothing.
Just watched her.
Measured. Silent. A man who had built a kingdom on rules and now stood in the ruins of one she was unraveling by hand.
She walked slowly toward him, the paper still clutched in her hand. "Who made these rules, Damien?" she asked. "You? Or the man who hurt you before me?"
That—that—hit him.
It didn't show in his posture, but in his breath.
A pause.
Slight. Sharp.
Then he turned, walked to the desk, and poured himself a drink. Scotch. Two fingers. No ice.
He sipped it like it might erase the moment.
But she didn't let him.
She followed.
"You wrote down every way to keep me out," she said, voice lower now. "But all I see here is a man terrified of being let in."
He didn't look at her.
But his voice cracked when he said, "You think this is about you?"
She smiled, painfully. "No. I think this is about her. The one who broke you before I ever walked in. Or maybe the version of you who broke yourself."
He turned then, finally facing her.
And for a second just a second his eyes weren't stone.
They were glass.
She held his gaze, walked to the desk, and laid the contract pages down except one.
The last page.
She ripped it out.
The sound was soft.
But it echoed like a scream.
Damien's eyes darkened.
"You have no idea what you're doing," he said, low and steady.
Aria folded the page in half, then again. She tucked it into her bra like a sacred threat.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," she said.
"I'm rewriting the rulebook."
She stepped closer, nearly chest to chest with him.
"And in mine…" she whispered, "love isn't banned."
The silence that followed was electric.
Damien stared at her like she was unraveling every thread in the tapestry of his life and worse, like he wanted her to.
But before he could speak, before he could reach for her or stop her, Aria turned.
And walked away.
She didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
Because she could feel the shift behind her like a tremor beneath her feet.
The rules had been his armor.
And she had just torn off his last piece.
---
That night, the estate didn't sleep.
Damien remained in his study, alone, a half-empty glass beside him, the drawer still hanging open like a wound.
Aria sat on the edge of her bed, the torn page in her lap.
She traced the lines of his handwriting with her finger like a map.
"Don't fall for her."
"Don't let her stay."
"Control her. Or lose everything."
She smiled bitterly.
"Too late," she whispered.
Then she struck a match.
And burned that page too.
Letting the ashes fall across her thigh like snow.