Chapter 3 The Conditions

The morning after their impromptu wedding, Aria awoke in a room that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of an interior design magazine. Everything gleamed under soft morning light-white marble floors, a muted gray chaise lounge, a towering glass window overlooking manicured gardens. It was perfect. And it felt utterly foreign.

She sat up slowly in the king-sized bed, the silk sheets rustling beneath her. A cool hush blanketed the space, amplifying the uneasy silence in her chest. The events of last night came rushing back-the rushed vows, the brief kiss, Damien's unreadable expression. Her name had changed overnight. Her reality hadn't caught up.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Come in," she called, her voice hoarse from sleep.

A refined woman entered, mid-forties, elegant in a crisp black blouse and tailored slacks.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair. I'm Elena, the estate's house manager. Mr. Sinclair has requested your presence for breakfast in the solarium."

Aria flinched at the formal title. "Thank you, Elena. I'll be down shortly."

Elena nodded and disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine.

The solarium was drenched in sunlight, its floor tiled in intricate mosaics, and tall windows revealing lush green beyond. Damien sat at the far end of the table, dressed in a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He didn't look up when she entered.

"Good morning," he said, eyes fixed on the tablet in his hands.

Aria slid into the seat opposite. "Morning. Did we get married or sign up for a political alliance?"

He didn't smile. "Something like both."

The table was set with military precision-perfectly folded napkins, fine china, and breakfast that looked too symmetrical to eat. Aria took a sip of coffee, trying to steady herself.

"I assume this is where you lay down the rules of our...arrangement?"

Damien finally looked at her. "Yes."

She leaned back. "Hit me."

He placed the tablet down. "Rule one: appearances. We attend social events together, maintain the illusion of a real marriage. No visible tension. No public missteps."

Aria arched a brow. "You want me to play the role of adoring wife?"

"I want discretion and poise."

"Same difference."

He continued, unfazed. "Rule two: privacy. No media interviews, no public confessions, and no social media presence. My world operates on perception. One wrong word can cost millions."

"Relax. I barely use a phone."

"Good. Keep it that way."

She crossed her arms. "What exactly are you so afraid of, Damien?"

His jaw flexed. "My life is layered with contracts, shareholders, and vultures. This marriage provides stability. That's all you need to understand."

"But why me?" she pressed.

Damien looked at her long and hard. "Because you're unconnected. No ambitions to climb, no obsession with my wealth, and enough grit to survive it."

That stung more than it should have.

"Rule three," he went on, "separate lives under one roof. You'll have your own suite. No romantic expectations. No intimacy."

She snorted. "You really think I'm desperate to crawl into your bed?"

"Not desperate," he replied, voice low. "Just...curious. People always are."

"Well, save your ego the trouble. I'm not curious."

A flicker of something-amusement? disappointment?-passed over his face. Then he said, "The marriage lasts twelve months. After that, we part ways. Clean break. No ties."

"Sounds romantic."

"It's practical."

She stood. "So is a business merger. At least those come with signing bonuses."

"You've already been compensated," he said, tone clipped.

She stared at him for a long moment, then walked out.

The rest of the day unfolded like a parade of surreal moments. She wandered through rooms she could get lost in-art halls, a music conservatory, a sprawling indoor garden. But no matter where she went, the air felt too controlled, too still. Like the house mirrored its master.

In the afternoon, she met Jenna Royce, Damien's image consultant. A force of energy wrapped in designer silk, Jenna wasted no time.

"We'll need to update your wardrobe, rework your posture, and soften your tone," Jenna said while circling Aria like a stylist with a mannequin.

Aria quirked a brow. "What's wrong with my tone?"

"It's too honest. We'll fix that."

By the time the meeting ended, Aria felt like she'd been placed on an assembly line of elegance. Clothes would arrive in the morning. A stylist had been booked. Public appearances would begin in two weeks.

Back in her suite, Aria sat by the window, watching the sun dip below the trees. The silence pressed against her like an invisible wall.

A soft knock broke through it.

She opened the door to find Damien there, casual now in slacks and a navy sweater, a glass of scotch in his hand.

"May I?" he asked.

She stepped aside.

He walked in slowly, glancing at the books on her shelves, the canvases she'd started unpacking. "You're settling in."

"I'm trying to remember who I am before you have me remade."

He exhaled. "That's not my goal."

"Isn't it?" she said, voice soft but sharp. "You want a wife who knows the script, not a woman with questions."

Damien looked out the window. "It's not personal, Aria. This marriage-it's armor. A performance to protect everything I've built."

"And what about what I've built?" she asked, stepping closer. "My freedom? My identity?"

He turned to her, expression unreadable. "You'll have it all back. One year from now."

She searched his face, trying to find something real beneath the layers. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," he said quietly, "we survive each other."