Chapter 4: The rules of war

The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the breakfast table set for two. Silverware glinted, the scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and Aria sat quietly, buttering a croissant as if she hadn’t stepped into a cold war disguised as a marriage.

Damian sat across from her, unreadable behind his espresso cup. His dark suit was crisp, his tie immaculate, his hair a little tousled from the rush of the morning—but his eyes weren’t on his phone or the newspaper.

They were on her.

Lingering. Assessing.

She wore a soft blush blouse tucked into high-waisted linen trousers, her long hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck. No makeup, except for a soft rose lip balm. Her skin glowed with a kind of quiet defiance, and there was a graceful elegance in her stillness.

Her beauty wasn’t the loud kind. It whispered.

Soft curves. Intelligent eyes. A mouth that looked like it was made to argue and kiss in equal measure. She made him feel what he didn't want to.

Damian clenched his jaw.

Beautiful. Too beautiful.

He cleared his throat and reached for the sleek black folder placed beside his plate.

“We need to talk about boundaries,” he said without looking at her.

Aria raised an eyebrow, slicing into her fruit.

“Oh good. I was hoping we’d get to the exciting part of this marriage, eventually.”

He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

“First,” he said, flipping the folder open, “you will not enter my study, or any locked room. I believe I made that clear yesterday, but let this serve as a written reinforcement and warning.”

She dipped her spoon into her yogurt. “Why am I not surprised.”

His eyes flicked up. Briefly. The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He continued. “You will not touch, move, or interfere with any of my personal belongings. You will not answer my calls. You will not pry into my affairs—professional or personal.”

“Do I get to make rules too, or is this dictatorship-style?”

“You’re free to exist within your designated areas. Think of it as... cohabitating with a stranger under mutual terms.”

“Charming indeed.” She dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin. “Well then, here are mine.”

He stilled.

“You didn't think I had conditions of my own?” She huffed. “I’m going back to work,” she said, voice calm but firm. “My floral shop needs me. I’m not going to sit around this mansion like a porcelain doll collecting dust. I run a business, and I won’t let it collapse because I married a man who thinks flowers are beneath him.”

He arched a brow. “You think I don’t respect flowers?”

“I know you don’t respect anything you don’t control,” she countered smoothly.

Silence stretched.

Then he leaned back, studying her.

“You’re...not what I expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t,” he said. “It wasn’t one.”

She stood, brushing crumbs from her blouse.

“I’ll be leaving in thirty minutes. I assume you assigned a driver to me?”

“Ms. Hayes will inform him.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back late.”

He tilted his head. “You assume I care?”

“No,” she said sweetly, “but if you come home and I’m not in bed, I wouldn’t want you thinking I broke another rule.”

Then she turned and walked out of the dining room, hips swaying just enough to let him know she wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

And maybe… she never had been.

The shop was a balm.

The scent of roses, peonies, and fresh-cut greenery wrapped around her like an old friend. She greeted her staff, updated inventory, made arrangements for an afternoon wedding delivery, and smiled for the first time in two days.

Here, she was Aria—the creative, soft-spoken woman with calluses on her fingers and ideas blooming in her brain. Not the bride of a billionaire iceberg.

Zara called around noon.

“So,” Zara drawled, “how’s married life with Lord Glacius?”

“Lord glacius?” Aria laughed. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

“That's the only name I could come up with.” Zara said dramatically

“Its Like sharing a bed with an ice sculpture,” Aria said, arranging a bouquet of wild lavender and garden roses.

Zara cackled. “Have you stabbed him with a salad fork yet?”

“Tempting, but no. Though I did stun him with my brilliance over breakfast. I think he taught that I was quiet and dumb. He laid out a manifesto like I was a national security risk, and I told him I was going back to work.”

“Bold. I love it. Does he know how hot you are when you’re in CEO mode?”

“I don’t think he notices anything but control,” Aria muttered, eyeing the clock. “Anyway. I’m surviving. Mostly.”

They chatted for a while before she hung up, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Zara always made her feel braver.

She stayed until the last customer left.

The drive home was quiet. The mansion loomed under the moonlight, grand and cold as ever. The housekeeper had left her a covered dinner on the table—a grilled chicken salad and sparkling water. Damian wasn’t home.

No surprise.

She ate in silence. Showered. Changed into her soft cotton sleepwear—an off-the-shoulder top and shorts—and curled into bed with a worn poetry book.

Her body was tired.

Her heart, more so.

Eventually, sleep claimed her.

At Midnight.

The front door clicked open.

Damian stepped inside, the soft thud of his shoes echoing in the marble foyer. He’d had meetings that bled into late dinners. He hadn’t thought of her.

That’s what he told himself.

But now, standing outside the bedroom door, hand on the knob… he hesitated.

He stepped inside quietly.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and honey. The lights were off, except for the dim bedside lamp she’d left on. And there she was.

Curled on her side. Long hair spread across the pillow. One arm tucked beneath her cheek. Her lips slightly parted in sleep.

He stood there for a long moment, looking at her.

Noticing things he shouldn’t.

The way her breath rose and fell. The faint line between her brows. The curve of her bare shoulder under the sheets.

She looked... peaceful.

Vulnerable.

So innocent.

Not the manipulative woman he believed her to be.

Not the one who ruined his sister.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Don’t fall for her,” he muttered under his breath, voice quiet and rough. “You can’t.”

But even as he crossed the room and sank into the armchair across from the bed…

He knew.

He already was.

Outside the room, in the shadowed hallway, Ms. Hayes watched the door with narrowed eyes.

And in her hand… was a phone with a photo of Elena.

The same face.

But not the same girl.