Chapter 6 The Broken Bride

The next morning arrived like a slap.

Isla woke in the silk bed alone again, sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains in gold streaks that felt too warm for the cold sinking into her bones.

She didn't remember falling asleep.

But the exhaustion was still there, layered under her skin like bruises she hadn't earned but carried all the same.

And the worst part?

Damien Blackwood hadn't spoken a single word to her since delivering his list of rules the night before.

No explanation.

No apology.

No softness.

He didn't need to raise his voice or his hand.

He only needed silence.

It broke louder than violence.

She stepped out of bed and walked barefoot to the door, heart pounding like she was tiptoeing into a battlefield instead of a hallway.

The penthouse was silent. Not even footsteps echoed.

She moved like a ghost, following the trail of her own breath into the main sitting area-expecting him, fearing him, hating him.

But he wasn't there.

Instead, she found a small breakfast tray set neatly on the table. Covered dishes. Fresh coffee. A folded note, handwritten.

"You have a dress fitting at noon. Behave."

-D.B.

No greeting. No kindness.

Just another command.

Just another reminder that she existed here under his rules, beneath his control.

Isla stared at the note until her vision blurred, then shoved it aside and uncovered the plate-eggs, toast, sliced fruit.

She didn't eat.

She wasn't hungry for anything but freedom.

---

The fitting was scheduled in one of the penthouse's private salons, a space that looked like it belonged on a fashion magazine set-mirrors, white sofas, racks of gowns in garment bags, and a woman with perfect posture and a tighter bun than Isla's self-control.

"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood," the woman greeted coolly. "I'm Marianne. Mr. Blackwood has requested a formal wardrobe for the upcoming season."

"I didn't request anything," Isla said.

"No," Marianne agreed, her hands already moving toward the zipper of Isla's robe. "But Mr. Blackwood did."

The measuring tape snapped against her skin like accusation.

As Isla was fitted into gown after gown-each more opulent and tailored than the last-her mind drifted.

What kind of man ensured she wore diamonds before breakfast but locked every door after dinner?

What kind of man kissed her like she belonged to him but hadn't touched her since?

The kind of man who could make you forget who you were.

And Isla was starting to forget.

That evening, the mask finally cracked.

They were seated in the penthouse dining room-a modern glass table set for two. The chef had served a delicate filet mignon with truffle risotto, candlelight flickering in gold holders.

Romantic to the outside world.

Prison to her.

Damien hadn't spoken much. Just a few murmured instructions to the staff, a nod here or there.

But as Isla picked at her plate, she felt his eyes on her like a brand.

"You didn't eat this morning," he said.

She didn't look up. "I wasn't hungry."

"You're not here to starve yourself."

"No," she snapped. "I'm just here to obey. Smile. Dress. Be kissed like property."

His jaw tightened. "You agreed to this."

"No," she shot back, finally looking up. "I agreed to save my father. Not to disappear."

"You disappeared the moment you signed that contract."

Her hand slammed down on the table, silverware clattering. "Do you even hear yourself?"

He didn't flinch.

"You're angry because I'm controlling," he said. "But you should be grateful I don't do worse."

"Grateful?" she echoed, incredulous. "For what? For the cameras in my room? For being treated like a show pony while you parade me in front of strangers?"

"I'm protecting you."

"No. You're hiding me. You're punishing me for something my father did."

Damien's eyes darkened. He stood slowly, the chair scraping behind him.

And for the first time in days, something in his perfect composure cracked.

"I don't punish the innocent," he said.

"Then why did you buy me?"

His gaze locked on hers. Unblinking.

"Because you remind me of the one woman I couldn't save."

The words hit her like a wave-unexpected and deep.

She didn't understand what he meant. But she saw it-just for a moment.

A shadow.

A grief buried under his steel.

He turned away before she could ask.

That night, she stood again at the window, wearing a silk robe she hadn't chosen, brushing hair she hadn't cut, in a tower she didn't own.

And her chest ached.

Not from fear.

But from something worse.

From the knowledge that he wasn't just a monster. He was a man. And monsters with hearts were harder to hate.

She wanted to keep despising him.

It was safer that way.

But something about the way he'd said the one woman I couldn't save made the walls around her anger start to tremble.

She didn't know who she was anymore.

She didn't know what she was becoming.

All she knew was that this place-this marriage-this man-was changing her.

And she didn't know if she would survive the woman she might become.