The house was silent when we returned.
Not the comfortable kind of silence.
The kind that curled around your throat like a noose.
Damien didn't speak a word on the way back. The car ride felt colder than the winter air outside, and even when he parked in the circular driveway, he didn't bother looking at me. He got out, slammed his door, and walked inside without checking if I followed.
I did.
Like a shadow trailing a storm.
Inside, the mansion was dim. The lights were low, the hallways empty, and the walls seemed to press closer with every step I took. I didn't know whether I was supposed to head to my room or wait for him to dismiss me. So I stood in the entrance like a misplaced ornament, heels aching, heart pounding.
He tossed his jacket on the couch and turned to pour himself a drink.
The silence stretched.
"Why did you bring me there?" I asked quietly.
He paused mid-pour.
The question wasn't loud. It wasn't rebellious. But in this house, even breathing without permission felt like defiance.
"I mean," I tried again, "you didn't want me there. They didn't want me there. So why—"
The glass hit the counter harder than it should've.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't have to.
"Do you think you have the right to question me?"
His tone was deadly calm.
"No. I just—"
"Just what?" he cut in, turning to face me. "You're here to serve a purpose. You exist to wear what I tell you, smile when I say so, and stand beside me like a well-trained dog. That's all. You are not entitled to reasons."
His words sliced cleaner than a blade.
My throat tightened.
I should've shut up. I should've swallowed it like I'd done since the day he put that ring on my finger. But something in me cracked.
"Then why humiliate me?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "If I'm just a pawn, why break me in front of everyone?"
His eyes narrowed.
And in one slow, measured step, he crossed the room.
I backed away instinctively, my shoulder bumping against the doorframe.
He didn't stop until he was inches from me, towering over me, his presence heavy and suffocating.
"You don't get to feel humiliated," he said lowly, each word deliberate. "You lost the right to shame when your father signed you over to me like a parcel. You are mine, Diana. And I'll do whatever I damn well please with you."
His hand lifted—
I flinched—
But he only gripped my chin, hard enough to bruise.
"Say something else," he hissed. "I dare you."
I stared up at him, wide-eyed, breath shaky.
And I said nothing.
Because I knew it wouldn't end with words.
He held my gaze a moment longer before shoving me away like I was filth. My back hit the wall. My shoulder stung. But the pain was nothing compared to what simmered in my chest.
He walked away without another glance, disappearing up the stairs as if I didn't exist.
As if I hadn't just been reminded, again, of exactly what I was in this house.
I didn't move for a long time.
My legs eventually gave out, and I sank to the marble floor in silence. The air tasted like metal. My chest was tight.
And finally—alone, unseen—I let the tears fall.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet rivers down my cheeks as I sat in that cold hallway with makeup smeared and dignity shattered.
But only for a moment.
Because I wasn't allowed to be weak. Not here.
Weakness was a luxury, and I couldn't afford it anymore.
I crawled back to my room sometime after midnight.
There was no dinner left for me. No one checked if I was alive.
I washed my face with cold water. Changed out of the navy dress like I was peeling off another layer of humiliation.
Then I sat on the bed and stared at the door.
Waiting.
Because the worst part wasn't the pain.
It was the not knowing when the next bruise would come—on my body, or on my soul.
And deep inside, something darker whispered back:
If he was the devil,
Then I would become something he didn't see coming.
Something built from silence.
And vengeance.