The storm bled into dawn.
Grey light pooled through the windows, dull and listless like the ache in Ava's chest. She stood at the floor-length mirror, brushing out her hair with slow, even strokes, pretending she hadn't spent half the night replaying the kiss that shattered everything.
Damien hadn't touched her again. He hadn't come back.
And yet, she could still feel him.
His breath against her neck. The grip of his hands. The look in his eyes when he said, "If I don't stop now, I won't stop at all."
Coward.
Or worse—liar.
She stared at herself. Pale skin. Soft lips. Unreadable eyes. Who was she becoming?
The girl in the mirror wasn't helpless anymore.
A knock came at the door.
"Mrs. Blackwood?" It was Lisette, the housekeeper. "There's something you need to see."
Ava set the brush down and opened the door. Lisette held a cream-colored envelope out to her, the kind used for invitations or—more ominously—anonymous letters.
"There was no name," the woman said softly. "It was slipped under the door just minutes ago."
Ava took it, heart tightening. "Thank you."
She shut the door, slid a fingernail under the seal, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy paper.
There were only six words, printed in block letters:
> He's not your husband. He's your prison.
Her blood turned to ice.
No signature. No clue. But the implication was clear—someone knew the truth. Someone was watching.
Her first instinct was to confront Damien, but logic reined her in. If he didn't know already, he would weaponize the knowledge. If he did… well, then she had a much bigger problem than an anonymous note.
She folded it once, tucked it into her robe pocket, and schooled her face into neutrality.
It was time to face him.
---
Damien was already at the breakfast table when she walked in. Crisp navy shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled back just enough to expose those damned forearms. He looked like sin pretending to be civilized.
He didn't glance up when he spoke. "Sleep well?"
"Like a baby," she lied, seating herself across from him. "You?"
"I don't sleep." He took a sip of black coffee. "You should know that by now."
Ava forced a sweet smile. "Right. You're too busy brooding under skylights and making tragic metaphors out of flowers."
His gaze snapped up then—sharp and unreadable. "You say that like you didn't enjoy it."
"I enjoy a lot of things I regret later." She reached for the croissant, cutting into it delicately.
His jaw tensed. "We're back to pretending, then?"
"Weren't we always pretending?" she countered smoothly. "You said it yourself—lines are illusions."
His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and break something at the same time.
A beat of silence.
Then: "Did something happen?"
Ava looked up. "What do you mean?"
"You're different this morning." He studied her with that unnerving precision of his. "Quieter. Still."
"Maybe I'm just finally adjusting to life in my golden cage," she said, spreading jam across her toast. "Some people find Stockholm Syndrome oddly comforting."
His fork clattered down.
"Don't joke about that," he said darkly. "You're not a prisoner."
She leveled a gaze at him. "Aren't I?"
The air between them tightened—like stretched wire, one wrong move from snapping.
Before either could speak again, his phone buzzed on the table. Damien checked it, then stood.
"I have to take this."
She nodded, too calm. "Of course you do."
As soon as he was gone, Ava pulled the envelope from her pocket and stared at it again.
> He's not your husband. He's your prison.
Her fingers clenched.
There was a difference between knowing you were a pawn and feeling it.
And now someone else knew it too.
---
Later that afternoon, Ava sat in the library pretending to read, when Lucien entered. Damien's right-hand man. Too charming. Too careful.
"Mrs. Blackwood," he greeted with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "May I join you?"
Ava gestured to the chair. "Free country. Or so I'm told."
Lucien chuckled as he sat. "I have to say, you're adjusting better than I expected."
"Oh, is there a betting pool? I hope I'm worth at least a few thousand."
His brows lifted slightly. "You're worth more than most give you credit for."
Her gaze sharpened. "Including Damien?"
Lucien was quiet a moment. Then: "Damien sees more than he lets on."
"Does he?" Ava closed the book. "Tell me something, Lucien. What kind of man threatens to destroy someone… and then kisses her like he's drowning?"
Lucien gave her a long look. "The kind who's already drowning."
That hit too close to the truth.
Ava's fingers curled around the book. "If he's broken, he shouldn't drag others down with him."
"He doesn't mean to," Lucien said quietly. "But some storms… they don't ask permission before they hit."
She looked away.
Lucien stood then. "Just be careful. Not everyone in this house wants you safe."
Ava glanced up, startled. "What do you mean?"
But he only smiled. "Enjoy your book, Mrs. Blackwood."
---
By nightfall, Ava stood on the balcony again, the city glittering below like a thousand silent secrets. The wind tugged at her silk robe, carried the jasmine scent from the garden below.
And still—her mind was on that letter.
She thought she was prepared for this marriage. This game.
But the board was shifting beneath her feet.
Enemies she couldn't see. Desires she couldn't control. And a man she was supposed to hate—
But now feared she was beginning to need.