The morning came with the reluctant warmth of a shy sun, spilling golden light across Eliana's room. It stirred her from sleep slowly, gently, like a whispered memory slipping through a foggy veil.
Her brows furrowed in her sleep, lips parting as she turned slightly. She was dreaming.
In the dream, she was small again—maybe seven or eight—running through a field of wildflowers. Laughter echoed around her. Two figures stood at the top of a small hill: a woman with a long, graceful braid and a man with kind eyes. Her parents. She couldn't see their faces clearly, but she felt them. Their presence wrapped around her like sunshine and safety.
"Eliana," her mother called, arms outstretched. "Come to us, baby."
She ran harder. Faster.
Then the dream shattered—like glass splintering into sharp, irretrievable pieces.
"Eliana, ma'am?" A soft knock pulled her fully into consciousness. "Breakfast is ready. Mr. Damon requests your presence downstairs."
Eliana blinked at the ceiling, her heart beating unevenly.
"Alright," she answered groggily. "I'll be down soon."
The servant's footsteps faded away, and silence reclaimed the room. Eliana slowly sat up, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. That dream… It wasn't just a dream. It felt like a piece of herself trying to resurface.
She rose and walked to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. The estate stretched beyond the glass—manicured gardens, stone paths, and the glittering pool below. But none of it felt real. Not when pieces of her own identity were still lost in the shadows.
She got dressed in silence, slipping into a soft, cream-colored dress one of the maids had laid out. The fabric hugged her frame lightly, but it did little to comfort the weight she carried inside.
As she descended the stairs, she was greeted by the faint clinking of silverware and hushed voices of the staff setting up the final touches on breakfast. The dining room doors were open, sunlight spilling across the long table set with fruits, croissants, and a carafe of fresh juice.
Damon stood at the far end, already dressed in a sharp, navy blue shirt. No jacket. He looked casual, but his eyes were unreadable. And in front of her seat was a small box. A gift.
"Good morning," he said quietly.
Eliana gave a short nod and took her seat without a word.
The air between them was strained—like taut strings waiting to snap. Damon tried to fill it with calm gestures: pouring her juice, offering her a plate. But Eliana's silence spoke louder than either of them expected.
"I brought you something," he said, finally, gesturing to the box.
She opened it, revealing a sleek new smartphone nestled inside. The screen flickered to life, displaying a single contact already saved: Damon.
Eliana blinked. "Is this… new?"
"Yes. It's registered to a private number. Just in case you need to reach me anytime."
She stared at it, unmoving. "Where's my old phone?"
Damon hesitated. "It was… damaged in the accident. Beyond repair."
Her eyes narrowed. "What about my contacts? Messages? Photos?"
"They were unrecoverable," he said too quickly.
She set the phone down slowly, as if it might burn her fingers. "Convenient, isn't it?"
"Eliana—"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Her voice rose slightly. "You give me a new phone with only your number? No access to anyone else in my life?"
"I was only trying to make things easier for you—"
"Easier? Or controlled?" she snapped.
Damon's mouth pressed into a line. "You told me before the accident that you didn't want anything to do with your family. That you severed ties on your own."
"Maybe I changed my mind."
"Eliana, this isn't helping."
"No. What's not helping is being treated like a fragile doll in a glass case. You say I'm your wife, but I feel more like a possession you're keeping hidden."
His face darkened, and he stood abruptly. "I've lost my appetite."
He strode out of the dining room, leaving Eliana staring after him with a mixture of confusion and fury. Her heart thundered. Something wasn't right. Damon was hiding something—she could feel it.
---
Inside his chambers, Damon slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, jaw clenched.
He was angry.
But beneath the fury was guilt. A gnawing, hollow ache that no amount of denial could silence.
She was slipping through his fingers. Again.
He strode to the window, gripping the sill so tightly his knuckles whitened.
If only he could tell her the truth. That he'd married her out of necessity.That he had struck a deal that changed both their lives forever. That somewhere along the line—he had fallen for her. Not the idea of her, not the version she presented to the world—but the fire, the defiance, the honesty.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing.
"I can't lose her," he muttered to himself.
The phone on his dresser vibrated. Without thinking, he grabbed it and dialed.
"Jimmy," he said when the line connected. "We need to talk."
He didn't wait for a response before ending the call.
For a moment, Damon stood in silence, staring at his own reflection in the windowpane.
What had started as a business arrangement… had become something else entirely.
But would Eliana ever forgive him if she learned the truth?
Would she stay if she found out what brought them together in the first place?
He didn't know.
But the storm was coming. And Damon could feel it in his bones.
One secret at a time, everything was beginning to unravel.
---
Meanwhile, Eliana sat alone at the breakfast table, her untouched plate cooling in front of her. She stared at the phone again, lips pressed into a thin line.
Who was she before all this?
And why did Damon feel more like a jailer than a husband?
She needed answers.
And if Damon wouldn't give them to her willingly…
She would find them herself.
With a deep breath, she rose from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor. She glanced at the sleek new phone once more, its blank screen staring back like an accusation, then turned and walked away, her steps slow, deliberate, and heavy with the weight of questions still unanswered.