Two weeks had passed since the funeral, and the Ward mansion felt more like a mausoleum than a home. The hallways were too long, the ceilings too high, and the silence too loud.
Amelia spent most of her days in the sunroom, staring at the garden Ethan had planted for her. She wore his old sweaters, wrapping herself in his fading scent, trying to remember the sound of his voice. But memory is a cruel thing; it was already starting to slip away, replaced by the silence.
But the silence never lasted long, because Damien was always there.
He didn't live in the main mansion–he had his own estate on the other side of the city–but he might as well have moved in. He arrived every morning at 8:00 AM sharp, usually with a box of pastries from the bakery Amelia liked, or a folder of documents he needed to "run past her," though he never actually made her do any work.
He had become the architect of her life.
On a Tuesday afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Gable, a nosy neighbor who wanted to "check in" (which really meant she wanted gossip about the will).
Before Amelia could even rise from her chair, Damien was there.
She watched from the top of the stairs as Damien intercepted the woman at the door. He stood tall, blocking the entry with his broad shoulders. Amelia couldn't hear exactly what he said, but his voice was low and cold. Mrs. Gable turned pale, apologized profusely, and practically ran back to her car.
Damien closed the door and turned around, looking up to find Amelia watching him.
The cold mask instantly melted away, replaced by that soft, concerned expression he reserved only for her.
"I didn't want her to bother you," he said, walking up the stairs. "You need your rest."
"You didn't have to be so harsh, Damien," Amelia said, though a part of her was relieved. She didn't have the energy for small talk.
"I will be as harsh as I need to be to keep the vultures away," he replied. He reached the top of the landing and studied her face. "You haven't been eating. Cook tells me your lunch tray went back untouched."
Amelia looked down. "I'm not hungry."
"Amelia," he sighed, a sound of frustration mixed with affection. "Come. I'm making dinner tonight. Myself."
Amelia blinked. "You cook?"
A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I have many talents you don't know about. Ethan wasn't the only one who knew his way around a kitchen."
An hour later, Amelia sat at the kitchen island, watching the billionaire CEO of Ward Enterprises chopping vegetables with the precision of a surgeon. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, revealing strong forearms. He looked domestic, human, and strangely comforting.
The smell of garlic and rosemary filled the kitchen, chasing away the cold, sterile scent of the house.
"My mother used to make this pasta," Damien said, tossing ingredients into a pan. "She said it could cure a broken heart. Or at least… make it bearable for an evening."
He plated the food and set it before her, pouring two glasses of deep red wine.
Amelia took a bite. It was delicious. For the first time in weeks, her stomach didn't rebel.
"It's good," she admitted softly.
"See?" Damien sat across from her, watching her eat with an intensity that made her cheeks flush. "You need sustenance. You're fading away, Amelia. And I won't let that happen."
They ate in a comfortable silence. The wine warmed her blood, loosening the tight knot of anxiety that lived in her chest.
"Damien," she asked after a while, swirling her glass. "How are you doing? Really? We talk about me all the time, but… you lost a brother."
Damien set his glass down. He looked past her, toward the darkened window. His jaw tightened.
"I manage," he said curtly. "I focus on work. I focus on the family legacy."
"That's not an answer," she said gently.
He looked back at her, his eyes dark pools of emotion. "You want the truth?"
"Yes."
"I feel guilty," he confessed, his voice rough.
Amelia frowned. "Guilty? Why? It was an accident."
"Because," Damien stood up and walked around the island, coming to stand next to her chair. He leaned against the counter, looking down at her. "Because for years, I was jealous of him."
Amelia froze. "What?"
"Ethan was the good one," Damien said bitterly. "The light one. He had the easy smile. He had the charm. And he had… you."
The air in the kitchen suddenly felt very thin. Amelia's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at him, eyes wide.
Damien didn't look away. "I saw how happy he was. Coming home to you. Building a life with you. And I envied him. I wanted that peace. I wanted that warmth."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her face before his fingers gently grazed her jawline. His touch was hesitant, almost reverent.
"And now he's gone," Damien whispered. "And I'm the one here with you. I'm the one sitting in his kitchen. I'm the one taking care of his wife. And God help me, Amelia… I don't hate it. I hate that he's dead, but I don't hate being here with you."
Amelia's breath hitched. It was a confession that should have been wrong. It should have been scandalous. But in the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, fueled by wine and grief, it just felt… honest.
She was lonely. He was lonely. They were two shipwrecked survivors on an island.
"I don't hate it either," she whispered, the confession tumbling out before she could stop it. "Being alone in this house… it terrifies me. When you're here… the ghosts go away."
Damien's eyes flared with something hot and sudden. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He smelled of wine and expensive soap.
"Then I won't leave," he vowed softly. "I'll stay as long as you need me. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever."
He leaned down, and for a terrifying second, Amelia thought he was going to kiss her. Her heart hammered against her ribs; part panic, part anticipation.
But he didn't. He pressed a chaste, lingering kiss to the top of her head.
"Finish your wine, Amelia," he murmured into her hair. "I'll do the dishes."
THE SILENT KEEPER
Amelia sat there, trembling slightly, watching him return to the sink. She felt a profound sense of gratitude for this man who was holding her world together.
She didn't see the reflection in the dark kitchen window. She didn't see the way Damien stared at her reflection as he washed the plate—a look of possession, of calculation, of a hunger that had been starving for years.
He had told her the truth: he had envied Ethan.
But he hadn't told her the whole truth.
He didn't just want Ethan's peace.
He wanted Ethan's life.
And now… he was taking it, one dinner at a time.