Chapter 3 Three

Damian Blackwood's world was never silent, Not empty. never that. His mornings began with schedules delivered to his phone before sunrise. Conference calls with overseas partners. Analysts, attorneys, architects. Negotiations. Decisions. Deadlines. Precision.

Always precision.

He stood by the floor to ceiling window in his office, nursing his third espresso as he stared out at the skyline. It glinted like it belonged to him.

In many ways, it did.

The Blackwood legacy ran through the concrete bones of the city. Hotels. Real estate. Energy. Old money and new empires stitched together by ruthless ambition. He'd inherited the empire, but he'd built his reputation. He wasn't just the heir. He was the king now.

Which was why, when his father told him he had to marry Mia Hart, he didn't see a wife.

He saw a solution, more opportunities.

Although he wanted to resist because he didn't like the idea of his parents making such an important decision for him. He wanted to get married on his own terms.

Until the threat came.

"Marry her, or I sell the shares. You lose majority stake, and you lose everything. Do you really think the board will protect your little legacy?"

He knew his father was dead serious, there was no way Nicholas Blackwood would joke about something like that.

Besides Damian always knew he would never marry for love. He had never been in love in his entire life. So what was the point of causing family rifts.

The Harts' construction business had been bleeding for years. Mia's father too proud to ask for help nearly went bankrupt before the Blackwoods stepped in. Merging the Hart firm under the Blackwood real estate umbrella was brilliant on paper. But it needed a face. A marriage. A united family.

Mia agreed immediately. Without complaint. Without negotiation.

She didn't even ask for a prenup.

Damian had no idea why.

She was a teacher. Soft-spoken. Non-confrontational. No ambition for business, no involvement in her family's company. She had nothing to gain at least nothing obvious. And yet, she signed the papers, wore the dress, and slipped the ring on her finger like she was saying yes to something she'd already decided long ago.

And that unsettled him.

Because Damian didn't like not knowing people's motives.

It wasn't a love story. It was a transaction, born from history and necessity.

The Harts and the Blackwoods went back three generations. Their fathers had been best friends since boarding school, their mothers sorority sisters turned society darlings. Together, they built reputations, wealth, and influence that extended across the world.

Their dream had always been the same: unite the families.

It had seemed inevitable for years. Especially after Mia's mother died.

Damian remembered the funeral the way the air smelled like roses and rain, the way four-year-old Mia clung to his mother's skirt, quiet and wide-eyed. His own mother had wrapped her arms around the girl and never let go.

Mia became a fixture in the Blackwood home after that. She spent holidays in their guest room, wore pajamas picked out by his mother, decorated Christmas cookies beside her in the kitchen. By the time Damian was in college, his mother had long stopped thinking of "Mia" as an outsider but her own child.

His mother had always wanted a daughter.

But complications during Damian's birth made that impossible.

So she chose Mia. Loved her. Protected her. Molded her.

And Damian never gave it much thought. Mia was always... there. A quiet shadow in the corner of his world six years younger, shy, sweet, harmless. A soft-voiced girl who seemed more comfortable with picture books and birthday parties than boardrooms or galas.

They had never run in the same circles.

He barely knew her friends.

She didn't have many.

And she didn't seem to want to belong in the world he lived in.

Later that night, Damian returned home to find the lights off in the entryway. No scent of candles. No faint humming from the kitchen. No sign of her.

He checked his watch. 10:42pm

He was used to it being peaceful, quiet. sometimes though it just felt... hollow.

He walked into the kitchen and found a note on the counter in her delicate handwriting.

Dinner's in the fridge. You can heat it up if you're hungry.

Hope your meetings went well.

Mia

No unnecessary questions about his day. No effort to wait up. No expectation of his presence.

He poured himself a drink and stood in the dim kitchen, staring at the note longer than he needed to.

She hadn't waited up.

Not that she ever should have. He hadn't expected it. Didn't want it.

But still.

Her absence always seemed to echo louder than her presence.

She wasn't like the women he usually dated: ambitious, poised, perfectly trained in playing the games of high society. Mia didn't know how to scheme or charm. She didn't flirt. Didn't manipulate. She wore soft fabrics and smiled at waiters and played with children on a daily basis.

She didn't belong in this life. And yet, she walked through it like she had every right to be here. Quietly. Gently. Steadily.