Chapter 3 The Cold Bed

The night was too still.

Isla stood by the massive window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her bare feet pressing into the cool marble floor. The city glittered far below her-alive, vibrant, free. Everything she no longer was.

Behind her loomed the bed.

Their bed.

She hadn't moved toward it in over an hour.

Every minute ticked by like a blade.

She didn't know what Damien Blackwood expected of her tonight-obedience? Fear? Gratitude?

She gave him none of those.

He hadn't returned since issuing his orders and disappearing into his office. For all she knew, he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere important. Somewhere where her existence didn't matter.

She turned away from the window and caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Red silk clung to her frame-backless, sleeveless, sinful. She hated that it fit her so perfectly. Hated that despite her protests, she looked like the kind of woman who belonged to a man like Damien.

Like she'd been made to be his.

The bedroom door opened behind her.

She froze.

His presence filled the room before he said a word.

He didn't look at her.

Didn't acknowledge her.

He simply unbuttoned his shirt as he walked to the dresser, shrugging it off like he was alone. Moonlight carved lines across his back. Smooth skin stretched over solid muscle, every inch of him honed, brutal, powerful.

And cold.

Always cold.

He draped the shirt neatly over a chair and turned toward the bed, finally meeting her eyes.

"Still awake?" he asked, as if they were any ordinary couple preparing to sleep.

"I don't make a habit of crawling into bed with strangers," Isla said coolly.

Damien raised a brow, unimpressed. "You signed a contract. You're no longer a stranger. You're my wife."

She forced a bitter smile. "Right. The lucky bride."

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Instead, he walked to the nightstand, pulled out a drawer, and retrieved something , a black silk ribbon.

He tossed it on the bed. "Put your hair up. I don't like it getting on my side."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

She stared at the ribbon. Then at him.

"You expect me to sleep inches away from you, wear your clothes, and now... follow hair instructions?"

He met her gaze, calm and direct. "I expect obedience. You can give me that, or we can discuss what punishment looks like in this house."

Her blood turned to ice.

He wasn't bluffing.

But he wasn't cruel for cruelty's sake. He was methodical. The kind of man who viewed control not as dominance but as oxygen.

Without it, he didn't breathe.

Isla lifted the ribbon and tied her hair into a high knot. Not for him.

For herself.

Because if she was going to survive this marriage, she had to choose her battles.

And this wasn't the one.

Minutes later, they were in bed.

On opposite sides.

Silk sheets between them, tension thicker than smoke.

Damien lay on his back, shirtless, unreadable. One arm behind his head. The other resting loosely across his stomach. He didn't look at her.

Not once.

Isla stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore how close he was. How his body radiated heat. How even in silence, he owned the space between them.

"Do you always sleep like a statue?" she asked after a long while.

A pause.

"Only when there's something sharp beside me."

Her jaw clenched.

She rolled to her side, her back to him. "Good. I hope I cut deep."

Damien didn't answer.

But in the quiet, she felt it....his awareness.

He wasn't sleeping.

He was listening.

And she knew then that he didn't fully trust her.

Good.

Neither did she trust him.

---

The hours passed in a strange limbo. Isla drifted in and out of sleep, the luxury of the mattress lost beneath the tension in her spine. She kept expecting him to move-to touch her, to test her, to remind her who held the power here.

But he didn't.

He remained still.

Unmoving.

A cold storm wrapped in expensive sheets.

Sometime after midnight, she whispered into the dark, "Why me?"

No response.

"You could've chosen anyone."

Still nothing.

But then , just as she began to think he'd fallen asleep , his voice came, low and distant.

"Because I knew you'd hate me."

Her breath caught.

"What kind of man chooses a wife he knows will hate him?"

"The kind who doesn't want love."

She turned her head to look at his silhouette.

"You could've just stayed single."

"I could've," he agreed. "But that wouldn't ruin your father."

There it was again, revenge. Always lurking beneath the surface.

"But what do I have to do with that?"

His voice was quiet. "You're the last piece he ever valued."

She stared at the ceiling again, anger curling in her chest like a fist.

"You know this is temporary, right?" she whispered. "Whatever power you think you have over me... it won't last."

A beat of silence.

Then:

"Good," he murmured. "That'll keep it interesting."

---

Dawn crept over the city like a secret.

Isla awoke to cold sheets beside her.

Damien was gone.

No note.

No goodbye.

Only a single gift box on the foot of the bed-wrapped in black, tied with blood-red ribbon.

She opened it with shaking hands.

Inside: a diamond necklace.

And a card.

"Wear this tonight. Be silent. Smile."

-D.B.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the box.

He wanted silence.

But one day...

She would make him beg for her voice.