chapter three

Chapter Three

The Girl in the Gold Dress

Sienna stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the gold silk gown Eleanor had picked out for her.

It shimmered like liquid light, hugging her frame delicately. The neckline dipped just enough to be considered elegant but modest. Her hair had been curled into soft waves that tumbled past her shoulders. A diamond necklace rested against her collarbone—on loan, Eleanor had said, like everything else in this house.

It was the Westwood charity gala. The night she’d been warned about.

The night she had to prove herself worthy of the Westwood name.

Or, at least, obedient enough not to embarrass them.

Her hands trembled slightly as she touched the necklace. Don’t speak unless spoken to.

That phrase had echoed in her head all week.

There was a soft knock at the door. It creaked open, revealing Damien in a black tuxedo and a bored expression.

His eyes skimmed over her quickly—too quickly—then returned to his phone.

“You’re late,” he said coldly.

She nodded and stepped forward.

He didn’t offer his arm. He didn’t even look at her again as they walked to the car.

---

The gala was held in one of Westwood's luxury hotels. Chandeliers dripped crystal from the ceiling. Music flowed softly from the grand piano in the corner. Wealth breathed in every corner of the room.

As they entered, all eyes turned to them.

And for a second—just one—Sienna felt like someone.

Like maybe, just maybe, she could belong here.

But then she saw the look on Damien’s face—blank and distant—and the illusion shattered.

They separated as soon as they were inside. Damien went off to mingle with the board members, and she was left by the champagne tower, holding a glass she had no intention of drinking.

“Mrs. Westwood,” a voice purred behind her. Feminine. Sharp.

Sienna turned and came face-to-face with a tall woman in red satin, perfectly sculpted features, and cruel eyes.

“I’m Cassandra,” the woman said, tilting her head. “Old… friend of Damien’s.”

Sienna smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

Cassandra’s eyes flicked to her gown, then back to her face. “You clean up well—for a maid’s daughter.”

The glass in Sienna’s hand trembled.

But she didn’t speak.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Cassandra said with a smirk. “You think people around here don’t talk? Everyone knows your little Cinderella story. Only problem is, in real life, the prince doesn't love the maid.”

Before Sienna could respond, a hand wrapped around her waist.

Damien.

He stood beside her now, his arm pulling her close, eyes locked on Cassandra.

“She’s not a maid’s daughter,” he said coldly. “She’s my wife. Show some respect, or get out.”

Cassandra blinked.

Then she laughed, high and mocking. “Wow. Did I touch a nerve?”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” he replied, voice dark.

There was a moment of tension, like something ancient and ugly hung in the air between them.

Then Cassandra backed away with a smile. “Fine. Have fun with your… wife.”

When she was gone, Damien dropped his arm and walked away without another word.

But Sienna stood frozen.

Not because of Cassandra.

But because, for the first time since their wedding, Damien had defended her.

---

Hours passed. She danced with men she didn’t know, answered questions she didn’t care about, and smiled until her cheeks ached.

And Damien?

He disappeared.

Again.

She found him later on the balcony, leaning against the railing with a drink in his hand. His tie was loose, hair slightly messy, eyes glazed over with something unreadable.

Beside him stood another woman. Tall. Blonde. Model-thin.

They were close.

Too close.

Sienna’s stomach twisted.

She didn’t know what possessed her to step closer. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was the faint echo of hope still clinging to her ribs.

The blonde woman noticed her first.

“Well, well. Look who’s come to join the party.”

Damien turned, slowly, and his eyes fell on her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either.

Just stared.

“You should go inside,” he said.

“I came to find you,” she replied softly. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

He raised a brow. “So?”

The blonde smirked. “She’s cute. Obedient too, I bet.”

Sienna’s chest tightened.

“Please,” she said, voice quiet. “Can we just go home?”

Damien took a long sip of his drink. Then, to her horror, he turned to the blonde and whispered something into her ear.

The woman laughed, brushing his chest lightly before walking away—on cue, like this wasn’t the first time they’d rehearsed it.

Sienna’s eyes stung, but she refused to cry.

He finally looked at her again. “You agreed to this, remember?”

“I agreed to be your wife,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You agreed to obey. That’s what they wanted. And you’re doing a great job, sweetheart.”

He walked past her, leaving the faint scent of cologne and alcohol in his wake.

She didn’t follow.

Not this time.

---

That night, Sienna locked herself in the bathroom.

She stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the makeup, the tears, the illusion.

Obedient. Perfect. Presentable.

That’s all they want me to be.

But as she stared into her own reflection, a quiet thought bloomed in the back of her mind.

They don’t see me now… but one day, they will.

---

Later that week…

The Westwood mansion was colder than usual.

Damien hadn't come home after the gala. Not that it surprised her anymore.

But something was different this time.

She overheard the staff whispering.

“He was seen at The Silver Room again.”

“He’s not the same since what happened with his brother…”

Sienna paused.

His brother.

Dante.

She returned to the library again that night, and this time, she wasn’t afraid to dig deeper.

Hidden behind a stack of old law books was a thin folder. Yellowed edges. A name scrawled across the front.

Dante Westwood – 20XX

Her heart pounded as she opened it.

Inside were articles—clippings of a car crash, a missing person’s report, and an obituary with no body recovered.

“Young Westwood heir presumed dead after reckless accident on Devil’s Bend.”

No official statement from the family.

No photos from the scene.

Just one scribbled note in someone’s handwriting:

"He died that night. And so did Damien."

Sienna stared at it.

For the first time… she didn’t feel like Damien’s cruelty was random.

It was a shield.

A punishment.

A ghost.

And she would find out the truth, even if it destroyed both of them.

---.