On His Bed

~Nextday morning~

Elena woke up to the smell of antiseptic and .  

For a second, she thought she was back in the east wing bedroom. Then the pain hit. Her back felt like it had been flayed open and stitched back together with fire. She bit down on a groan and forced her eyes open.  

White ceiling. IV stand. A doctor in scrubs packing up a bag.  

“Easy,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “You’re awake. No permanent damage. But don’t move too fast for the next 48 hours.”  

Elena tried to sit up.  

“Why am I here?” Her voice was hoarse.  

“You were flogged,” the doctor said bluntly. “Your husband stopped it before you lost consciousness. I was called in an hour ago.”  

Husband.  

Damien.  

He’d stopped it. But only after eight strikes. Only after she’d gone limp.  

“Who paid you?” Elena asked.  

The doctor hesitated, then said, “Not your husband. A man who said if I didn’t come, he’d have my license reviewed.”  

He left a bottle of painkillers and a note on the bedside table. No name. Just: _Take one. Eat. Sleep._  

Elena didn’t argue. She took the pill, drank the water left for her, and fell back asleep.  

When she woke again, the sun was high. Her back was wrapped in bandages. Someone had bathed her, changed her clothes, and left a plain cotton dress on the chair.  

She dressed slowly, every movement a reminder.  

The house was quiet when she stepped out. Too quiet. No staff. No Sophia’s voice. Just the echo of her own feet on marble.  

She found Damien in the foyer, adjusting his cufflinks, ready for work.  

“Morning,” he said without looking at her.  

Elena stopped three feet away.  

“Who was the doctor?”  

“None of your business,” Damien replied. He glanced at her, then away fast. His jaw tightened when he saw the way she held herself. “You’re to scrub the whole house clean today. Top to bottom. Kitchen, halls, east wing, my office. If I come home and find a speck of dust, you’ll do it again tomorrow.”  

He walked out before she could answer.  

The front door closed.  

Only then did Elena notice the other man in the sitting room.  

He was tall, mid-thirties, in a dark suit that didn’t look like security. He’d been sitting in the corner chair the whole time, silent. Now he stood.  

“You’re awake,” he said. His voice was calm. No cruelty in it.  

Elena stepped back instinctively.  

“Who are you?”  

He didn’t answer right away. He studied her face, the bandages under her collar, the way her hands trembled.  

“Can you sit?” he asked.  

“I asked who you are.”  

“Victor Hale,” he said. “Damien’s cousin. And yes, I’m the one who called the doctor.”  

Elena blinked.  

“You…”  

“I also had food sent up,” Victor continued, gesturing to a covered tray on the coffee table. “Eat. You haven’t eaten in 18 hours.”  

Elena didn’t move.  

“Why?”  

Victor’s expression didn’t change.  

“Because leaving you to bleed on a concrete floor would make me no better than him.”  

He said it flatly, like he was discussing the weather.  

Elena’s throat tightened.  

“Why are you helping me?”  

Victor smiled faintly. It didn’t reach his eyes.  

Elena frowned.  

“What does that mean?”  

Victor shook his head.  

“Not today. Eat first. Be a good girl and keep your strength up.”  

Be a good girl.  

The words should have irritated her. Instead, they felt oddly safe. Like he wasn’t trying to break her.  

“Who are you really?” Elena asked again.  

Victor checked his watch.  

“Damien’s cousin. His only family left. And the only person in this house who isn’t afraid to call him an idiot to his face. I’ll tell you the rest another time.”  

He walked to the door, paused, and looked back.  

“Finish the food. If Damien asks, tell him you scrubbed the kitchen first. He likes to think he’s in control.”  

Then he was gone.  

Elena stood there for a full minute, listening to the silence.  

Then she went to the tray.  

Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, bread still warm. She ate standing up, because sitting hurt too much. The food tasted like the first real meal she’d had in months.  

She thought about Victor’s words on the way to the laundry room.  

Has Damien had been married before?  

She pushed it down. One problem at a time.  

Downstairs, Victor slid into the passenger seat of Damien’s car.  

Damien was silent, driving too fast down 

“What did you say to her?” Damien asked finally.  

Victor kept his eyes on the road.  

“Good words. Not death words.”  

Damien’s jaw clenched.  

“Don’t start.”  

“When will you stop this act, Damien?” Victor said quietly. “Do you want her to die like your first wife?”  

The car swerved slightly.  

Damien said nothing for a long time.  

Then: “She’s not her.”  

“No,” Victor agreed. “She’s stronger. That’s why you’re treating her like this.”  

Damien didn’t answer. 

~Evening, Damien mansion~

The house was massive.  

Elena started in the kitchen. Scrubbing floors on her knees made her back scream, but the painkillers dulled it to a dull throb. She worked slowly, methodically. If she focused on the grout, she didn’t have to think about Sophia’s smile or Damien’s order.she moved to the halls,the east wing.  

By 6 PM, she was in Damien’s room.  

She hated this room.  

It was too big, too cold, too full of him. His scent was still on the sheets. The bed was unmade from that morning. She told herself she’d strip it, wash it, remake it, and leave.  

But her legs gave out before she finished.  

Elena sat on the edge of the bed.  

It was soft. Softer than anything she’d slept on since she left her parents’ house at 18. She hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat down.  

Just a minute, she told herself. Just to catch her breath.  

She lay back.  

The mattress cradled her like she’d been missed. Her eyes closed before she could stop them.  

Minutes passed.  

She didn’t hear the front door open.  

Didn’t hear footsteps in the hall.  

Didn’t hear the door to this room click shut.  

She woke up because there was weight on the bed.  

Elena’s eyes snapped open to find Damien above her.  

Drunk. Again.  

His eyes were unfocused, his tie loosened, his jaw clenched like he’d been fighting with himself all evening.  

“Damien,” she said, scrambling back. Pain flared through her back and she hissed.  

He didn’t stop.  

He followed her, climbing onto the bed, bracketing her with his arms so she couldn’t move. His breath smelled like whiskey and something darker. Anger.  

“Get off me,” Elena said, voice shaking.  

Damien didn’t answer.  

He reached out and turned her face toward him, thumb brushing her cheek like he was checking if she was real.  

“You’re still here,” he murmured.  

Elena’s heart pounded.  

“Get off me, Damien.”  

He leaned closer.  

Inches.  

His face was right there. She could see the bloodshot in his eyes, the exhaustion etched into his skin.  

He was going to kiss her.  

Elena felt a lump rise in her throat. fear.   

His eyes flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes.  

Elena pressed more to the bed slowly, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her back screamed in protest.