Chapter 2 Cold Beginnings

The grand bedroom was everything a bride might dream of high ceilings, chandeliers, and silk bedding the color of ivory champagne. But to Elena, it felt like a gilded prison.

She stood at the edge of the room, her back to Adrian as the double doors clicked shut behind them. The tension in the air was so sharp it could slice skin.

Adrian unbuttoned his cuffs slowly, methodically, like every movement was rehearsed. He didn't look at her not once since the ceremony. His silence spoke louder than any insult.

"You'll find the guest room across the hall," he said finally, voice low and clipped. "I'll have Margaret bring you something suitable to sleep in."

Elena nodded, her fingers tightening around the edge of her veil. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he snapped, his tone suddenly bitter. "This wasn't my choice."

Her breath caught, but she didn't let him see it. "It wasn't mine either."

He paused, something flickering behind those stormy grey eyes. Guilt? Regret? No just disappointment.

She turned toward the door.

"Elena."

She stopped mid-step, heart hammering.

"I don't care what arrangements your family made," Adrian said, his tone icy. "This is a business transaction. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours. Understood?"

Her lips parted, then closed again. She nodded once. "Understood."

The days that followed were a blur of silence.

Adrian left early each morning before sunrise, returning late after midnight. When he was home, he barely acknowledged her presence. Meals were eaten separately. The only interaction they had was through the house staff-Margaret, who brought her breakfast and reminded her when the tailor or therapist would be coming; Richard, the driver, who took her to scheduled public appearances when required.

To the world, they were the perfect couple. A united front.

But inside the mansion's walls, they lived like strangers. Ghosts orbiting the same gilded cage.

Elena tried to find comfort in small things reading in the garden, learning the names of the kitchen staff, sketching in a hidden alcove by the west window-but nothing filled the hollow ache that had begun to take root in her chest.

Every time she saw Adrian's untouched side of the dinner table, her stomach twisted.

She didn't expect love not from him. But the indifference... that was worse than hate.

One night, a week after the wedding, she found herself awake at 2 a.m. The mansion was silent, wrapped in the stillness of money and marble.

She tiptoed down the hallway and paused by his study. The door was ajar, light spilling into the corridor.

She shouldn't.

But her feet moved anyway.

Inside, Adrian sat in a leather chair, tie loosened, whiskey in hand. He stared at the fire like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

"Can't sleep?" she asked gently.

He didn't look at her. "What do you want, Elena?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe I just wanted to feel like your wife for five minutes."

That made him look up.

For a second, the mask cracked.

"Elena..." he said, her name sounding like a warning.

But she stepped closer. "I'm not asking for your love, Adrian. I'm not that naive. But I'm here. I exist. I bleed. I breathe. I deserve more than to be treated like a ghost."

Silence.

Then, "Don't confuse pity with affection."

The words stung. She felt them settle deep in her bones.

"I never asked for either," she whispered. "Goodnight, Mr. Blackwood."

She turned and left, each step heavier than the last.

Behind her, Adrian raised the glass to his lips-and missed.

The whiskey spilled onto the floor.