First Day As Mrs DeLeon

Violetta did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the bed and the shape of her husband.

He had not moved. Not a single sound. The entire time.

Did he sleep through it? Was it a dream?

The room brightened. The sun rose. It was a new day, her first as Mrs. DeLeon.

The door opened. Eleanor walked in. She saw Violetta on the floor, still in her wedding dress. She didn’t seem surprised.

"Breakfast is ready, Mrs. DeLeon," she said. The name hit hard.

Eleanor led her to a new room, a dressing room. Clothes were laid out on a chair: a soft sweater, dark pants, underthings. All expensive, all wrong.

On top of the clothes lay the contract. A black pen rested beside it.

Eleanor waited. Her message was clear: get dressed and sign.

Violetta’s hands shook. She took off the wedding dress and put on the new clothes. The sweater was soft like butter; it felt like a costume.

She picked up the contract but did not sign it. She carried it with her.

Eleanor took her to the dining room. The table was long enough for twenty people. Damon sat at one end, reading a newspaper. He wore a perfect suit and looked as if he had slept for ten hours.

A plate of food was placed in front of her. Eggs and fruit. She was not hungry.

Damon turned a page of his paper; the sound echoed in the quiet room.

Finally, he looked up. His gaze fell on the contract in her hand and then on her face.

"You have questions," he said, though it wasn’t a question.

He set his paper down, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a black card. He slid it across the smooth table; it stopped right in front of her plate.

The card was heavy, black matte, with no numbers or name—just a simple silver crown.

"A spending card," he said. "Unlimited. Buy what you want—clothes, jewels, anything. It doesn’t touch the money from the contract. That money is separate; it’s yours."

He glanced at the unsigned contract. "Sign the paper. The card is active."

Violetta looked from the card to his face. He was trying to buy her again—with a piece of plastic.

She found her voice; it was small. "Why?"

One of his eyebrows moved, just slightly. "A wife of mine must look the part."

She looked down at the contract. Her gaze found the line that scared her. She pointed to it; her finger shook.

"What does this mean?" she asked. "What 'situations' call for sharing a room?"

Damon looked at her, calm on the surface, but his eyes revealed his true feelings.

He gave her a simple, terrifying answer.

"Situations," he said, "like last night."

He knew. He had been awake the entire time, heard every word. He did nothing.

The air left her lungs. The room felt smaller. "You were awake," she whispered.

Damon remained silent. He sipped his coffee, and his calm was frightening.

"Who was he?" The question burst out. "The man from last night. What game was he talking about? The only game that matters?"

Damon set his cup down; it clicked sharply against the saucer. "His name is Lucian," he replied flatly. "He is my brother. You will stay away from him."

That was it—no explanation, no game.

Before she could speak again, a smooth voice filled the room.

"Little brother! Holding court without me?"

Lucian stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He was a mirror image of the night before, his smile sharp and dangerous. He looked at Violetta and then at her full plate, his eyes dancing.

"The happy couple," he said as he walked into the room. He pulled out the chair right next to her and sat down too close. "And how was your first night together? Cozy?"

Damon’s face was stone, but his knuckles were white around his fork.

Lucian reached over, plucked a single grape from the fruit bowl, and popped it in his mouth. He never looked away from Violetta.

"I was just thinking of you," he said slowly. "I had a call from Father."

At the word "Father," the air vanished. Damon went very still.

Lucian savored the silence, drawing it out.

"He heard the news about the wedding." His eyes flicked to Damon, issuing a challenge. "He was surprised. He didn’t know you were looking for a wife."

He turned back to Violetta, his voice mockingly kind. "He’s so excited to meet his new daughter."

He leaned toward her, dropping his voice to a whisper he knew Damon could hear.

"He arrives tomorrow."

Lucian leaned back and smiled, directing his gaze at Damon.

And for the first time, Violetta noticed it. Damon’s mask didn’t just crack; it shattered.

His face drained of color. His eyes, always cold and certain, widened. For a heartbeat, they showed pure, undiluted fear.

Then it vanished. His face became a blank wall again. But she had seen it, had seen the terror.

Lucian saw it too. His smile turned into a grin. He stood up and patted her shoulder—a possessive, awful touch.

"See you tomorrow, little bride," he said, winking at his brother before turning to leave, whistling.

The dining room fell into silence. 

Violetta looked at her husband, the man who never showed fear.

He was staring at the door Lucian left through, and he looked scared.