Chapter 2 The Unspoken War Begins

The next morning, Lena woke to silence.

Not birds. Not a hum of traffic. Not even the buzz of an espresso machine. Just the eerie stillness of wealth-where even noise had been priced out.

She blinked against the soft London light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Goose-feather sheets. Pillowcases stitched in gold. A bed that stretched wider than her doubts.

But it was empty.

Damon Kingsley was gone.

And somehow, that annoyed her more than waking up next to him ever could.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples. There were no hangovers in a contract marriage. Only consequences.

Her eyes flicked toward the red folder still on the side table.

> RULES.

As if she needed a reminder of how absurd this arrangement was. No scandals. No touching. No falling in love. A checklist for pretending, really.

Lena scoffed and threw off the sheets. If Damon wanted a wife in name only, fine. She could play that role better than any of the champagne-soaked heiresses in Knightsbridge.

She padded to the ensuite bathroom. Italian marble. Gold fittings. A mirror that didn't just reflect her face-it scrutinized her.

What are you doing, Lena Whitmore?

She wasn't sure anymore.

But one thing was clear.

She wasn't going to let Damon Kingsley win.

---

Downstairs, the smell of black coffee hit her like a memory she didn't own.

He sat at the dining table in crisp navy slacks and a white shirt unbuttoned just enough to be infuriating. A broadsheet newspaper in hand. A croissant on the plate. His existence? Cinematically irritating.

"Good morning, wife," he said without looking up.

She rolled her eyes. "You don't have to say it like it's a curse."

He turned the page with surgical grace. "I wasn't aware you were sensitive to semantics."

She walked to the espresso machine, every step echoing off polished marble. "I'm sensitive to arrogance. But I'm guessing that's not in your rules folder."

He glanced up, finally. "Rule four: sarcasm before 9 a.m. comes with a penalty."

She raised a brow. "Oh? And what's the punishment?"

A smirk tugged at his mouth. Dangerous. Handsome. The worst kind of man to fake-marry.

"You'll find out soon enough."

---

They rode to the Kingsley Foundation Gala together that evening.

Public appearance clause. Rule one.

He wore a tux that probably had its own security detail. She wore a red gown with a thigh-high slit that made his gaze flicker just long enough for her to feel powerful.

The car ride was silent.

Except for the tension.

Except for the memory of her hand brushing his when she reached for the champagne in the limo-only for him to pull away like she'd burned him.

Except for how, when they walked into the gala, his fingers found the small of her back.

It was for the cameras. She knew that. But still...

It lingered.

They posed. They smiled. She laughed at a joke he didn't tell. He whispered things in her ear that made her look like she was blushing.

It was all fake.

Except it didn't feel like it.

Not when his hand stayed there, firm and possessive.

Not when the CEO of Whitmore International, her father, came up to them with his signature scotch breath and said, "You two are doing brilliantly. Just keep it up for the press."

Not when Damon replied, without missing a beat, "We always do."

---

By the end of the night, Lena felt two things.

Exhausted.

And watched.

She caught the woman's stare before she even fully turned around. Blonde. Tall. Bone structure that could slice glass. The type of woman who didn't compete-she conquered.

"Damon," she purred, like the name belonged to her.

Lena tilted her head. "And you are?"

"Isabella. Damon and I... go way back."

Damon's jaw ticked. "That's ancient history."

Isabella's gaze didn't move from Lena's. "Some histories don't stay buried."

Before Lena could respond, Damon slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her close. His lips brushed her temple in the smoothest performance she'd seen all night.

"Excuse us," he said, guiding her away.

When they were out of earshot, she turned to him. "Ex-girlfriend?"

He nodded once. "If that's what we're calling manipulative social climbers these days."

She arched a brow. "Jealous?"

"Protective."

"Of your image?"

"Of my wife."

That word again.

It hung in the air like perfume-expensive, lingering, and not entirely real.

---

Back at the penthouse, she peeled off the gown and dropped it on the floor without care.

Damon stood at the bar, pouring himself a nightcap.

She walked past him in a silk robe, intentionally casual.

"That woman," she said, not looking at him, "She still wants you."

He sipped. "A lot of people want things they can't have."

She paused, then turned. "And what about you? What do you want?"

He looked at her over the rim of his glass. The silence stretched like tension wire.

"I want this contract to work. And for both of us to come out of it with what we need."

"And what do you need, Damon?"

He didn't answer.

Not in words.

But his eyes... they flicked to her lips.

And lingered.

---

That night, she dreamed of fire and ice.

Of champagne glasses shattering.

Of rules breaking one by one.

When she woke up-

He was in bed beside her.

Fully dressed.

Fast asleep.

On his side of the bed.

But closer than he should've been.