로그인By the third day, Arielle stopped counting hours.The honeymoon had blurred into something fluid and unfamiliar, no longer marked by schedules and strategies, no longer defined by pretend. Though they know they were being watched discreetly, some of the staff polite but observant, the occasional people they caught lingering around a second too long, but Arielle had begun to forget why they were here in the first place.And that scared her.Morning came softly, filtered through white curtains that swayed with the sea breeze. Arielle woke to the sound of waves and the faint clink of cutlery somewhere outside. She rolled onto her side, expecting to find Damian asleep across the bed, distant and controlled like he always was.Instead, the bed was empty.She sat up, heart stuttering for no logical reason, and padded toward the balcony.Damian stood there barefoot, sleeves rolled, hair tousled in a way that felt too intimate to witness. A small table had been set, coffee, fresh fruit, pas
The door clicked shut behind Damian with a sound far too final for Arielle’s racing heart. She stood there for several seconds, fingers still curled around the keycard, lips tingling where his mouth had been moments ago. The suite felt warmer now, thick with tension, like the air before a storm. Get it together. She exhaled sharply and followed him inside. Damian had already loosened his cuffs, rolling his sleeves higher as he moved toward the balcony doors. His back was to her, shoulders rigid, as if he were holding something in by force. “So,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice steadier than she felt. “Was that part of the strategy too?” He didn’t turn around. “No.” That answer came too fast. Arielle crossed her arms. “Then what was it?” Silence. She took a few steps closer. “Damian, you don’t get to kiss me like that and then pretend nothing happened.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not pretending.” “Oh really?” she scoffed. “Because walking away felt like pretending to
Arielle never imagined she’d be the type of woman who could stomach a week long honeymoon with Damian Blackwood, her storm of a husband, whose moods cracked the air like thunder and whose presence always sat too heavy in a room. But the moment they stepped through the private terminal of Blackwood Aviation, she felt something else entirely, nerves, The inconvenient fluttering kind. Damian walked beside her, not touching but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his arm. He wore charcoal slacks, a white button down, sleeves rolled to his elbows as if he wasn’t the CEO of a multi billion dollar empire but a man about to steal someone’s heart for fun. And maybe he was, only she wasn’t sure anymore if she was supposed to be the audience to the act, or the unwilling participant. “Relax,” he murmured without looking at her. “You’re stiff.” “I’m about to spend a week pretending to be in love with you. Forgive me if I’m not… bendy.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “
Damian didn’t sleep that night. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Arielle’s breath against his chest… or the warmth of her lip beneath his thumb. It rattled him more than he’d ever admit. He had touched her before, accidentally, reluctantly, in moments that demanded something raw. But that moment was different. He hadn’t been angry. Or desperate. Or trying to stop her from walking away. He had simply… wanted to. That terrified him more than losing any boardroom battle ever could. By the time dawn broke, he was already showered, suited, and leaning against the island counter with a mug of untouched coffee. Arielle padded into the kitchen quietly. Her hair was pulled into a soft bun, her eyes still sleepy, lips flushed from biting them nervously. The same lips he’d touched. “Morning,” she whispered. Damian’s fingers tightened on the mug. “Morning.” They held each other’s gaze for one charged second too long. Then she looked away, pretendin
The house felt different the next morning. Not fixed, not healed, but something warmer drifted through the cracks, like the faintest shift in weather before a new season. Arielle stood in the kitchen doorway, blinking in slow disbelief. Damian Blackwood, the man who hired private chefs, who considered cooking “a survival skill he outsourced” was standing at the stove in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, flipping something in a pan. He looked… human. And alarmingly attractive. She cleared her throat. “You’re cooking?” Damian turned, a spatula in hand. “I was hoping you’d leave before you saw this,” he admitted flatly. She snorted. “It’s a little late for that.” He gave the smallest, reluctant smile, Not perfect, not polished, A real one. And it hit her, this man rarely smiled, and when he did, it felt like something dangerous was blooming in her chest. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she said, stepping inside. “I can’t,” he answered, flipping the omelet again. “But Emma ment
As the door clicked shut behind Arielle, sealing her inside with Damian’s sleepless eyes and the tension that still clung to the air from last night. She stood just a few steps inside the living room, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a declaration. A reminder that she had left… and could still do it again. Damian didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched her, dark circles beneath his eyes, his shirt rumpled, his usually perfect posture slightly slumped. He looked like a man who had paced holes into the floor while waiting for her. “Arielle,” he said quietly. Her heartbeat stuttered, but she forced herself to stay steady. “I said I want to talk.” “I know.” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “And I’m listening.” She didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not after the way he’d spoken to her, the way he’d dragged her out of his company, the way he’d called her a liability. A word she felt still bruising the inside of her ribs. “I meant it,” she said sharply. “I couldn’t stay h







