First Crack in His Armor

Sunlight spilled across the polished marble floors of the Cross penthouse, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to linger in every corner. Elena Harper sat at the breakfast table, staring at the untouched plate before her. The omelet was perfect, the toast buttered just right, but her appetite had vanished the moment she woke to silence.

Damian hadn’t come home last night.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She told herself it didn’t matter. This was a marriage of convenience, not companionship. And yet, the emptiness of the apartment, the knowledge that she didn’t even know where her so-called husband had gone, gnawed at her.

She forced herself to sip her coffee, bitter and strong, when the sound of the front door opening pulled her gaze up.

Damian walked in, sharp in a tailored navy suit, hair immaculate as though the night hadn’t touched him. He carried the scent of rain and something darker, something she couldn’t name. His tie was slightly loosened, his jawline shadowed, but his expression gave nothing away.

“You’re up early,” he said, setting his briefcase on the counter.

“I could say the same,” Elena replied, her voice even.

Their eyes met for a moment too long before Damian looked away, reaching for a glass of water. His movements were precise, controlled—until she noticed his hand tremble slightly when he set the glass down.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but Elena caught it. A crack.

“You didn’t come home last night,” she said carefully.

Damian’s gaze snapped to hers, hard and unyielding. “Do I need to account for my whereabouts?”

“No,” she said, refusing to flinch. “But you might consider how it looks. The cameras saw us together yesterday, smiling. What will they think if you’re already disappearing overnight?”

He smirked, though it didn’t hide the flicker of something else in his eyes. “Are you worried about appearances, or about me?”

Elena’s cheeks warmed, but she held his stare. “Both.”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might lash out, remind her of the rules he’d set. Instead, he exhaled slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from her.

“Appearances are my business, Elena. Don’t concern yourself with them.”

“Maybe they should be my business too,” she countered softly. “If this marriage is supposed to look real, shouldn’t I be part of that plan?”

Damian studied her, silent, as though weighing whether her words carried defiance or logic. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the toast on her plate, breaking off a piece.

“You’re sharper than I thought,” he murmured.

Her heart stumbled at the comment—not a compliment, not really, but the closest thing to acknowledgment she had received since they’d wed.

Still, his hand lingered on the crust longer than necessary. The faint tremor returned. Elena noticed again.

“Damian,” she said quietly, “are you alright?”

His head lifted, eyes flashing. “Do not mistake curiosity for intimacy. I don’t need your concern.”

Her lips pressed together, but inside, the spark of defiance flared. He wanted to hide, to bury whatever haunted him, but she had seen it—the crack in his perfect, ruthless armor.

And cracks, no matter how small, always widened.

Later that afternoon, Elena was escorted by Adrian Cole through the bustling halls of Cross Enterprises. Every step echoed power, every glass wall whispered secrets of billion-dollar deals. Employees glanced at her with thinly veiled curiosity—whispers followed in her wake.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“He doesn’t let anyone close, why her?”

Adrian leaned closer. “Ignore them. People at Cross Enterprises eat gossip for breakfast.”

She gave him a faint smile, grateful for his presence. Unlike Damian, Adrian’s warmth wasn’t a mask. He had an ease about him, though Elena often caught shadows in his eyes too.

When they reached Damian’s office, the massive double doors stood slightly ajar. Adrian hesitated. “He doesn’t like being interrupted.”

Elena peeked in. Damian stood at the window, staring out at the skyline, his shoulders tense. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t speaking. Just gripping it too tightly, knuckles pale.

She was about to turn away when his voice cut through the stillness.

“You ruined everything.”

The words weren’t meant for her. His tone was raw, unguarded, and unlike anything she’d heard from him before. She froze.

Damian tossed the phone onto his desk, the crack of glass against wood sharp in the air. He pressed a hand to his temple, eyes shut, jaw clenched.

Elena had never seen him like this—vulnerable, almost broken.

Then his gaze flicked up, catching her in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” His voice snapped back to its usual sharpness, but she had already seen too much.

“I came with Adrian,” she said softly. “He wanted me to see where you work.”

“I don’t recall approving that.”

Her pulse raced. “You don’t have to approve everything. I’m your wife, not your prisoner.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re here because of a contract, Elena. Don’t confuse duty with freedom.”

“Don’t confuse control with strength,” she shot back before she could stop herself.

The room stilled. His stare darkened, but beneath it, she swore she saw the tiniest flicker—pain, guilt, something deeper than arrogance.

Then he turned away. “Get out.”

That night, Elena sat by her window, unable to shake the image of Damian at his desk—haunted, unraveling when he thought no one was watching. Who had been on the other end of that call? What had been ruined?

And why did she care so much?

She opened her journal, scribbling fragments of thoughts:

He’s not just cold, he’s wounded.

Something—or someone—hurt him deeply.

If I can understand the cracks, maybe I can survive this.

Her pen hovered before she added:

Maybe I can save him.

But she crossed it out. Saving Damian Cross wasn’t her responsibility. Protecting Harper and her mother was. Yet she couldn’t ignore the truth—her husband wasn’t made of ice. He was made of glass. And glass, once shattered, could cut deeper than any blade.

The following morning, Damian appeared at the table again, tie knotted perfectly, mask firmly in place. But when he handed her a folder—her schedule for upcoming public events—his fingers brushed hers briefly.

The contact was brief, accidental, yet his hand lingered an instant too long.

Their eyes met.

And for that single heartbeat, Elena felt it—the first crack in his armor widening, reaching for her in silence.

He pulled away instantly, retreating behind his walls. “Be ready by eight tonight. We have a gala.”

No warmth, no softness. Just orders.

But she had seen it.

And he knew she had.

That night at the gala, amid glittering chandeliers and clinking champagne glasses, Elena played her role flawlessly. Smiles, polite conversation, poised elegance. But every so often, she felt Damian’s gaze on her—too sharp, too searching, as though he was daring her to see past his mask.

When Julian Crane approached, slick smile in place, Damian’s hand found hers again, grip firm, possessive. “My wife,” he introduced, voice edged with warning.

Julian’s smirk widened. “So the ice king has melted, after all.”

Elena felt Damian’s hand tense, veins tight beneath his skin. She turned to glance at him—and in his eyes, for the briefest flicker of a second, she saw fear.

Not of Julian.

Of her.

Because she had begun to see him.

Sunlight spilled across the polished marble floors of the Cross penthouse, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to linger in every corner. Elena Harper sat at the breakfast table, staring at the untouched plate before her. The omelet was perfect, the toast buttered just right, but her appetite had vanished the moment she woke to silence.

Damian hadn’t come home last night.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She told herself it didn’t matter. This was a marriage of convenience, not companionship. And yet, the emptiness of the apartment, the knowledge that she didn’t even know where her so-called husband had gone, gnawed at her.

She forced herself to sip her coffee, bitter and strong, when the sound of the front door opening pulled her gaze up.

Damian walked in, sharp in a tailored navy suit, hair immaculate as though the night hadn’t touched him. He carried the scent of rain and something darker, something she couldn’t name. His tie was slightly loosened, his jawline shadowed, but his expression gave nothing away.

“You’re up early,” he said, setting his briefcase on the counter.

“I could say the same,” Elena replied, her voice even.

Their eyes met for a moment too long before Damian looked away, reaching for a glass of water. His movements were precise, controlled—until she noticed his hand tremble slightly when he set the glass down.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but Elena caught it. A crack.

“You didn’t come home last night,” she said carefully.

Damian’s gaze snapped to hers, hard and unyielding. “Do I need to account for my whereabouts?”

“No,” she said, refusing to flinch. “But you might consider how it looks. The cameras saw us together yesterday, smiling. What will they think if you’re already disappearing overnight?”

He smirked, though it didn’t hide the flicker of something else in his eyes. “Are you worried about appearances, or about me?”

Elena’s cheeks warmed, but she held his stare. “Both.”

His jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might lash out, remind her of the rules he’d set. Instead, he exhaled slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from her.

“Appearances are my business, Elena. Don’t concern yourself with them.”

“Maybe they should be my business too,” she countered softly. “If this marriage is supposed to look real, shouldn’t I be part of that plan?”

Damian studied her, silent, as though weighing whether her words carried defiance or logic. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the toast on her plate, breaking off a piece.

“You’re sharper than I thought,” he murmured.

Her heart stumbled at the comment—not a compliment, not really, but the closest thing to acknowledgment she had received since they’d wed.

Still, his hand lingered on the crust longer than necessary. The faint tremor returned. Elena noticed again.

“Damian,” she said quietly, “are you alright?”

His head lifted, eyes flashing. “Do not mistake curiosity for intimacy. I don’t need your concern.”

Her lips pressed together, but inside, the spark of defiance flared. He wanted to hide, to bury whatever haunted him, but she had seen it—the crack in his perfect, ruthless armor.

And cracks, no matter how small, always widened.

Later that afternoon, Elena was escorted by Adrian Cole through the bustling halls of Cross Enterprises. Every step echoed power, every glass wall whispered secrets of billion-dollar deals. Employees glanced at her with thinly veiled curiosity—whispers followed in her wake.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“He doesn’t let anyone close, why her?”

Adrian leaned closer. “Ignore them. People at Cross Enterprises eat gossip for breakfast.”

She gave him a faint smile, grateful for his presence. Unlike Damian, Adrian’s warmth wasn’t a mask. He had an ease about him, though Elena often caught shadows in his eyes too.

When they reached Damian’s office, the massive double doors stood slightly ajar. Adrian hesitated. “He doesn’t like being interrupted.”

Elena peeked in. Damian stood at the window, staring out at the skyline, his shoulders tense. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t speaking. Just gripping it too tightly, knuckles pale.

She was about to turn away when his voice cut through the stillness.

“You ruined everything.”

The words weren’t meant for her. His tone was raw, unguarded, and unlike anything she’d heard from him before. She froze.

Damian tossed the phone onto his desk, the crack of glass against wood sharp in the air. He pressed a hand to his temple, eyes shut, jaw clenched.

Elena had never seen him like this—vulnerable, almost broken.

Then his gaze flicked up, catching her in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” His voice snapped back to its usual sharpness, but she had already seen too much.

“I came with Adrian,” she said softly. “He wanted me to see where you work.”

“I don’t recall approving that.”

Her pulse raced. “You don’t have to approve everything. I’m your wife, not your prisoner.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re here because of a contract, Elena. Don’t confuse duty with freedom.”

“Don’t confuse control with strength,” she shot back before she could stop herself.

The room stilled. His stare darkened, but beneath it, she swore she saw the tiniest flicker—pain, guilt, something deeper than arrogance.

Then he turned away. “Get out.”

That night, Elena sat by her window, unable to shake the image of Damian at his desk—haunted, unraveling when he thought no one was watching. Who had been on the other end of that call? What had been ruined?

And why did she care so much?

She opened her journal, scribbling fragments of thoughts:

He’s not just cold, he’s wounded.

Something—or someone—hurt him deeply.

If I can understand the cracks, maybe I can survive this.

Her pen hovered before she added:

Maybe I can save him.

But she crossed it out. Saving Damian Cross wasn’t her responsibility. Protecting Harper and her mother was. Yet she couldn’t ignore the truth—her husband wasn’t made of ice. He was made of glass. And glass, once shattered, could cut deeper than any blade.

The following morning, Damian appeared at the table again, tie knotted perfectly, mask firmly in place. But when he handed her a folder—her schedule for upcoming public events—his fingers brushed hers briefly.

The contact was brief, accidental, yet his hand lingered an instant too long.

Their eyes met.

And for that single heartbeat, Elena felt it—the first crack in his armor widening, reaching for her in silence.

He pulled away instantly, retreating behind his walls. “Be ready by eight tonight. We have a gala.”

No warmth, no softness. Just orders.

But she had seen it.

And he knew she had.

That night at the gala, amid glittering chandeliers and clinking champagne glasses, Elena played her role flawlessly. Smiles, polite conversation, poised elegance. But every so often, she felt Damian’s gaze on her—too sharp, too searching, as though he was daring her to see past his mask.

When Julian Crane approached, slick smile in place, Damian’s hand found hers again, grip firm, possessive. “My wife,” he introduced, voice edged with warning.

Julian’s smirk widened. “So the ice king has melted, after all.”

Elena felt Damian’s hand tense, veins tight beneath his skin. She turned to glance at him—and in his eyes, for the briefest flicker of a second, she saw fear.

Not of Julian.

Of her.

Because she had begun to see him.