The Wedding Night

The Bentley didn’t make a sound.

Leather seats. Tinted windows. The whole world outside blurred.

Damian sat next to me. Not touching. Three inches of space between us that felt like a wall.

He was scrolling through emails on his phone. Like we’d just signed a business deal.

Not a marriage.

“Mrs. Cole.”

The word hit me in the chest.

I turned. “Don’t call me that.”

He finally looked up. Those black eyes scanned my face, my white dress, my hands clutching my purse.

“Legally, that’s what you are.” His voice was low. “For 12 months.”

“Legally,” I repeated. “Not in reality.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “We’ll see.”

The car stopped. Cole Penthouse.

The elevator was glass. 60 floors up, the city spread below us.

I watched my reflection next to his. Bride and groom. Strangers.

The doors opened and cold air hit me. Not temperature. Atmosphere.

This was his territory.

Mrs. Ellis was gone. The penthouse was silent. Too big. Too quiet.

My suitcase was already in the guest room. Right next to the master bedroom.

“House rules,” Damian said, walking to the bar. He poured whiskey. No ice. “Breakfast at 7. I leave at 7:30. You don’t follow me. You don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. You don’t—”

“I’m not a child.” The words came out sharper than I meant.

He turned, glass in hand. “Then don’t act like one.”

He took a sip. Watched me over the rim.

“The press release goes out at 9AM. ‘Damian Cole marries Ava Sinclair in private ceremony.’ Our families will be notified. The board will be notified. Your brother’s doctors will be notified.”

He was doing everything.

Because I couldn’t do anything.

“I want to see Liam.”

“You will. Tomorrow. 10AM. Cole Wing. I’ve arranged it.” He set the glass down. “Anything else?”

Yes. Why did you choose me? Why does your hand still feel on my jaw?

No.

I shook my head.

“Good.” He loosened his tie. “Dinner is at 8. Don’t be late.”

And he walked into the master bedroom. The door closed. Soft. Final.

---

8PM.

I wore the only dress I owned that wasn’t jeans. Black. Simple.

The dining table was 12 feet long. For two people.

Candles. Silver. Food I couldn’t name.

Damian was already seated. Shirt sleeves rolled up again. Tie gone.

He looked... less like a CEO. More like a man.

“Sit.”

I sat across from him. 6 feet of mahogany between us.

We ate in silence for 10 minutes.

The only sound was cutlery.

“This is pointless,” I said finally.

He looked up. “What is?”

“Pretending. The dinner. The house. We both know why I’m here.”

He put his fork down. Slow.

“Then tell me why you’re here, Ava.”

“Because my brother is dying and you’re the only one who can save him.” My voice cracked. “Because you hate me and this is your revenge. Because I signed a contract.”

“And?”

“And I’m scared.” The truth slipped out. “Of you. Of this. Of what happens after dinner.”

The room went still.

Damian stood. Came around the table. Stopped behind my chair.

I could feel him. The heat of him.

He bent down. His mouth was at my ear.

“I’m not going to touch you tonight, Ava.” His breath was warm against my skin. “Not unless you ask me to.”

My whole body froze.

“Clause four says ‘customary wifely duties,’” he continued, voice rough. “It doesn’t say when. It doesn’t say how.

I don’t take what isn’t given to me. Even if the contract says I can.”

He straightened. Walked back to his seat.

Like he hadn’t just turned my world upside down.

“Eat,” he said.

I couldn’t. My hands were shaking.

---

10PM.

I was in the guest room. Door locked. Stupid. He owned the building.

The bed was too soft. The sheets smelled like him. Cedar and smoke.

My phone buzzed.

*D: Door’s open.*

My heart stopped.

*D: Not for me. For you. If you need anything. Water. Medicine. Me.*

Me.

That last word did something to me.

I didn’t reply.

11:30PM. Another buzz.

*D: Liam’s vitals are stable. He asked for you.*

Tears. God, I was so tired of crying.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

*A: Can I see him now?*

3 dots. Then:

*D: Yes. Car downstairs in 10. I’ll go with you.*

10 minutes later I was downstairs.

He was waiting. Black coat. No smile.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Cole.”

The hospital was 15 minutes away. Cole Private. All glass and white.

Room 402.

Liam.

He was pale. Tubes. But he smiled when he saw me.

“Avi! You got married! Mrs. Ellis showed me the picture!”

I broke. I sat on the bed and hugged him, careful of the IV.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

Damian stood at the door. Hands in pockets. Watching.

When Liam fell asleep 30 minutes later, Damian stepped forward.

He pulled the blanket up. Gently. Like he’d done it before.

“Best doctor in the country,” he said quietly. “He’ll be fine.”

“Why are you helping him?” I whispered.

Damian looked at Liam. Then at me.

“Because I’m not a monster, Ava. Even if you think I am.”

We walked out in silence.

---

Back at the penthouse. 1AM.

The rain started again.

I stood at the window in the living room. Still in my black dress.

Footsteps behind me.

“You didn’t eat,” Damian said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.”

I turned. He was closer than I expected.

He’d taken off his coat. White shirt. Top two buttons open.

He looked tired. Human.

“The contract says I have to share your bed,” I said. The words tasted like ash. “Is that tonight?”

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Then when?”

“When you stop looking at me like I’m going to hurt you.”

“I am scared you’ll hurt me.”

“I know.” He reached up. Brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered on my cheek. Cold at first, then warm.

“And I know that if I touch you tonight, you’ll regret it tomorrow.

I don’t want your regret, Ava. I want...”

He stopped himself.

“Want what?” I whispered.

“Nothing.” He dropped his hand. “Go to bed.”

“But—”

“Go. To. Bed.”

I did.

---

2:30AM.

I couldn’t sleep. The guest room felt like a prison.

The door to the hall was open. Like he said.

I saw light under the master bedroom door.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

My bare feet on cold marble.

I knocked. Once. Soft.

No answer.

I pushed the door open.

Damian was standing at the window. Shirt off.

Back to me. Broad shoulders. Scars. Tension in every muscle.

He didn’t turn. “Go back to your room, Ava.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Not my problem.”

“Then why did you text me? ‘Door’s open’?”

He turned then. Slow.

His chest was... god. Sculpted. And his eyes.

They weren’t cold anymore. They were fire.

“Because I’m an idiot,” he said. “Because I told myself I wouldn’t want you.

Because I’ve hated your name for 5 years and now it’s on my ring finger.”

He held up his left hand. A simple black band.

“I don’t know what I want from you.”

I took a step in. Then another.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “But I’m more scared of being alone in that room.”

The space between us disappeared.

His hand came up. Cupped my face. Thumb brushed my cheekbone.

“You can stay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “On my terms.”

“What terms?”

“Talk to me. Sleep. Nothing else. Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to be a better man than the one your father made me.”

I nodded.

He pulled back the covers. White sheets. King size.

I climbed in. He got in on the other side. 2 feet between us.

We didn’t touch.

We didn’t talk.

But for the first time since I signed that contract,

I didn’t feel alone.

At 4AM, I felt his hand.

It found mine under the covers.

No words. Just fingers lacing with mine.

Warm. Steady.

And I fell asleep holding the hand of the devil

who promised not to burn me.

Yet.