Elena sashayed into Damian's mansion with a seriousness that tightened her spine and sharpened every deliberate step. The early morning breeze had not been kind to her mood; neither had the restless night she spent replaying the events between them—his tone, his distance, his refusal to look her in the eye for too long. None of it made sense.
Damian was always home this early. Always predictable. Always near her orbit, whether he admitted it or not.
So she convinced herself that coming here—without calling, without warning—was the mature thing to do. A conversation. A chance to clear misunderstandings. Something private, something only they could resolve without their parents stirring trouble.
Damian couldn't possibly forget what they had shared.
Not after years of growing up together, attending events hand-in-hand, being the couple everyone expected to eventually announce an engagement.
He wouldn't just discard all that history.
Not for… her.
The mansion rose before her like something out of a polished magazine—grand, white, and pristine. Two stories of luxury: sleek lines, massive French windows, modern architecture softened with lush gardens, and a sweeping balcony that overlooked the manicured estate. The sight should have soothed her; instead, it made her chest tighten.
This should have been her home.
Everyone already assumed it was.
Inside, the atmosphere was wrong. Too busy. Too loud. Housekeepers moved with a purpose, carrying boxes, wrapping delicate items, rushing through hallways that were usually silent. Damian hated crowds. He only hired cleaners on scheduled days and rarely kept unnecessary staff around.
Something was happening.
Something big.
Something she wasn't informed about—and that alone made her pulse spike.
"Miss Vaughn?"
Alfred, the butler, bowed when he saw her. His voice held the faintest hint of surprise, though he hid it well. Alfred never liked her, but he always respected the Vaughn name.
"Good morning, Alfred," Elena replied, painting a soft smile onto her lips—sweet, calm, composed. She moved toward him gracefully, though her eyes sharpened, tracking the frantic housekeepers. "Why is everyone acting as if the house is under inspection? What's going on?"
The butler hesitated.
Her stomach dropped.
"The young master insisted that your things be moved back to your family mansion," Alfred finally said. Bold. Direct. Almost relieved to say it aloud.
Elena blinked, disbelief shattering through her.
Move… her belongings?
Out?
Her throat tightened as Alfred turned slightly, as though eager to escape before she reacted. But Elena stepped forward, blocking him subtly.
"Why would he do that? Is someone moving in?" Her voice trembled despite her effort to sound casual. This couldn't be happening to her—her—of all people. "There are more than enough spare rooms, Alfred. Damian knows that."
"The young master's wife is moving in, Miss," Alfred deadpanned, and his expression suggested he couldn't be bothered to repeat himself. "And he doesn't want inconveniences."
He took a few steps away before pausing. "Young master is not around."
Then he left her presence.
The words slammed into her chest. Elena's lips parted, but nothing came out. She stood frozen, rooted to the marble floors as though the ground itself had betrayed her.
Wife.
He called that girl his wife.
And he was moving Elena's things because of her?
She nearly choked on her own breath. Rage, humiliation, and disbelief tangled inside her until her fingers trembled.
That girl—that skinny, nobody girl—was taking her place?
Damian was hers. Everyone knew that. Their families knew it. The media knew it. Damian himself knew it.
They grew up together.
They were always photographed together.
She was the one people shipped with him online.
She built her brand with him—deals, sponsors, invites—all because she was the face next to him.
No one would allow this marriage to stand.
Not her.
Not society.
Not the image they'd built.
Hands shaking, she fished her phone out and dialed Damian immediately.
He needed to explain this.
He owed her that much.
Meanwhile…
[Daughter of a drunkard]
The once high-class family now beggars.
Damian stared at the trending post on his phone, jaw flexing. Someone had taken a photo of Alina beside a café, and another of her father clutching an alcohol bottle outside a pub. The captions were cruel, dismissive, meant to embarrass.
Someone was trying to drag her reputation into the mud.
His wife.
His.
Anyone who touched her touched him.
Without a moment's hesitation, he dialed Lucas.
"Boss?"
"Take that post down within ten minutes," Damian snapped. "I don't care how. Delete the account. Clear everything connected to it."
"Yes, boss." Lucas hung up immediately.
Damian inhaled sharply. He had suspected Elena at first—she was dramatic, entitled, rash when threatened—but she wasn't stupid enough to smear him publicly. She knew the consequences.
Still, he wasn't ruling anything out.
Alina finished her morning chores and walked into the kitchen, stopping short when she saw Damian glaring at his phone, his aura thick with tension.
She hesitated.
He looked dangerous when angry—controlled, cold, sharp—but never toward her.
When he lifted his head, something in him softened instantly.
Who would dare insult his wife?
Who would call her a beggar when she carried burdens far heavier than anyone her age should?
Before she could ask what was wrong, Damian stepped forward and pulled her tightly into his arms.
Alina blinked, startled.
"What… what are you doing?" she murmured, stiff at first.
But she didn't pull away.
Something about his earlier words lingered in her mind.
His warmth seeped into her.
Her fingers trailed across his back, brushing over the hard lines of his muscles beneath his black sleeves. She paused at his neck, her hand resting there, locking him into the embrace without meaning to.
Damian exhaled against her hair.
"What came over you, Alina? This is new."
His hands slid to her waist, massaging gently, almost instinctively, as though comforting her was second nature.
Alina parted her lips to speak—
—but his phone buzzed loudly on the counter.
She pulled back slightly as Damian reached for the phone.
Elena.
With a heart emoji beside the name.
Alina's heart clenched.
What is their relationship?
She stepped back and sat behind the counter, trying to school her expression.
Damian answered curtly, his patience thin.
"I'm unavailable, Elena."
Alina blinked.
He sounded… irritated.
Back at the garage
Elena leaned against her car, gripping her phone. Rage simmered under her skin.
"Unavailable?" she repeated with a laugh that felt too tight. "That's new. Are you sending me out of your mansion? Cassandra won't like this, Damian."
She didn't dare raise her voice too much. She needed him calm. She needed him pliable. She needed him to remember that she came first.
"Elena," Damian said in that polite, detached tone that made her chest ache. "You've spent five years in my mansion. People already assume we're married. I can't let my wife share a home with another woman. I insisted your things be moved."
He wasn't yelling.
He wasn't angry.
He wasn't emotional.
But his calmness cut deeper than any insult.
Alina looked away when she overheard the conversation, her cheeks warming.
Elena, however, felt something twist violently inside her.
Wife.
He kept saying wife.
As though Elena was no one.
As though the years she spent by his side meant nothing.
Alina spoke, her voice drifting through the phone.
"I don't have a problem with sharing. She's your friend, right? And there are enough rooms. I'm not leaving my family's residence."
Elena's jaw dropped.
Was this girl insane? Acting all good and kind before Damian?
'Shut up, home wrecker!' she wanted to scream.
She wanted to grab the phone and shake it until the girl disappeared.
Damian had never cooked for her.
Never hugged her.
Never dismissed her calls.
Why was he doing things for someone he barely knew?
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I'm hungry," Alina added innocently. "I think I'll do the cooking."
"I'll do it," Damian responded instantly.
And then he hung up.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No reassurance.
No softening of tone.
Elena felt the silence crash around her like cold water. The garage suddenly felt too big, too empty, too hostile. She pressed her back against her car, breathing shallowly, staring at the phone that no longer connected her to him.
Where had she gone wrong?
How did everything start slipping away?
She had been there for him.
Five years living under his roof.
Five years building a future everyone could see forming.
Five years believing he would eventually realize what they were.
But now?
He was slipping out of her reach… and into the hands of a girl with nothing.
Then something inside her steadied.
A thought.
A smile.
There was one person who would support her.
One person who believed she deserved Damian.
One person who would help her fix this.
She stood straight, shoulders lifted, as though she'd just won something.
She was going nowhere.
Not now.
Not ever.
And certainly not because of Alina.