chapter two

Chapter Two

Obedience Isn’t Love

The days blurred together like a dream she couldn’t wake up from.

Sienna did everything she was told. Every morning, she dressed in soft colors. Every afternoon, she helped the staff prepare tea for the Westwood women. And every night, she returned to an empty bedroom with perfectly fluffed pillows and untouched sheets.

The only evidence Damien had ever been there were the fading colognes on his shirts left tossed over a chair.

He never spoke to her. Only looked at her occasionally, like she was a painting he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t take down.

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On the fifth day of their marriage, the Westwood matriarch, Eleanor, summoned her.

She stood by the grand piano in the sitting room, her jewelry glinting beneath the chandelier, her lips pursed in that usual tight-lipped disapproval.

“You will attend the charity gala next week,” Eleanor said. “Wear something that doesn’t shame our name. And try not to speak unless spoken to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sienna said quietly.

Eleanor's eyes narrowed. “You may be Damien’s wife now, but don’t confuse a ring with value. He had options. You were not one of them.”

Sienna’s nails dug into her palms. “Understood.”

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Later that night, Sienna passed by Damien’s study.

She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop—but then again, maybe a part of her was.

The door was ajar, and his voice slipped through the crack. Cold. Sharp.

“I told you, stop calling me.”

A pause.

“No. I don’t care what he said. That part of my life is over. Dead. Like he should’ve been.”

Another pause.

Then something shattered—glass or a bottle—followed by footsteps.

Sienna rushed away from the hallway before he caught her.

She didn’t ask questions.

But the name he stayed with her.

Who was he talking about?

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Two nights before the gala, Sienna wandered into the Westwood library—a place she’d always admired but had never been welcomed in.

Books lined every wall, old and new. Dusty, rich with history.

She found an old yearbook tucked between two financial reports.

Westwood Academy, Class of 20XX.

She flipped through the pages and froze when she saw him.

Damien Westwood. Young, smiling. A rare expression. His arm was thrown over another boy’s shoulders—same dark hair, same sharp jawline.expression.

They looked like brothers.

The name beneath the photo read: Dante Westwood.

Who is Dante?

She reached for her phone, but before she could search the name, a soft voice startled her.

“What are you doing here?”

She turned sharply.

It was Damien.

Hair slightly damp, a towel around his neck like he’d just returned from a run. His shirt clung to his chest, eyes narrowed at her.

“I—I was just… looking.”

He walked toward her, gaze flicking to the book in her hand.

His expression changed.

In a flash, the yearbook was snatched from her grasp and tossed across the table.

“You don’t go through my family’s things.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Next time you’re curious,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “ask. Don’t snoop.”

He turned to leave, but paused.

Then, as if something inside him slipped past the ice, he added, “Don’t go near that name again. It won’t bring you peace.”

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That night, Sienna couldn’t sleep.

Dante Westwood.

Dead?

Missing?

A secret the Westwoods didn’t want touched?

And why did Damien’s voice crack when he said his name?

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