SICK CYCLE

Damien’s POV

The sound of the door slamming woke me up before the alarm could.

I didn’t need to check to know it was her. Elena has a very specific way of making her presence known subtlety was never her style. I stayed in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling. Peace was a currency in this house, and mornings like this meant I was already bankrupt.

Eventually, I got up and made my way down the hall, the cold marble under my feet doing little to ease the tension growing in my spine. I passed by her room, her designated room, and paused.

The door was cracked open.

The first thing I noticed was the mess.

Clothes were strewn across the floor like a storm had passed through. A pair of heels was tossed near the foot of the bed, one overturned. The bed itself was only half-made, pillows scattered, a blanket hanging off one side like it had tried to escape her in the middle of the night. And on the vanity? Lipsticks without caps, jewelry tangled into knots, a half-eaten croissant on a gold-trimmed plate

I had just stepped into the kitchen when I heard it.

“I’m so bored, Mira, what should I do?”

The unmistakable sound of her voice talking to the new maid I had to hire for her

“Good morning to you, too, husband,” she said, sipping from her cup like we were newlyweds exchanging sweet nothings.

“You know what’s funny?” I said, pouring my coffee. “I used to think mornings were peaceful before you moved in.”

“And I used to think silence was golden. Now I just call it a luxury I no longer have,” she shot back.

Mira, who’d been standing awkwardly between us holding a small bottle of almond milk, looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

“You can go,” I told her, waving a hand. “Before your morning gets worse.”

The maid nodded quickly and vanished, leaving just me and Elena exactly what I didn’t need before caffeine.

She was seated at the marble island, in one of her overpriced silk robes that she had delivered like clockwork every Friday. Her hair was pinned back in that deliberately messy bun that probably took twenty minutes to style. She looked like a goddess. A smug, infuriating one.

“You’re up early,” I said.

“Can’t sleep in a house where the air is heavy with control issues,” she said without missing a beat.

I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness settle before I replied. “Then, by all means, feel free to leave. You signed the contract, not me.”

Her smile didn’t waver, but her eyes narrowed just enough to show the flicker of annoyance she was trying to hide. “Oh, I’ll leave when I’m done getting what I want. Trust me.”

That caught my attention. I placed my mug down a little harder than necessary.

“And what exactly is that, Elena? A new car? Another five-thousand-dollar purse to toss on the floor?”

She leaned forward just slightly, her elbows on the counter, her voice low and cool. “You’re confusing me with your fans, Damien. I don’t need gifts to feel important.”

I leaned in, too, matching her tone. “No, you just need to win every argument.”

“Only the ones I’m right about.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp, prickling with tension. We stared at each other like two chess players locked in a never-ending match. Same board. Same pieces. No checkmate in sight.

She was always like this. Always pushing. Always testing the boundaries. And somehow, the more she resisted my control, the more I found myself trying to exert it. It was a sick cycle.

“I’m having people over tonight,” I said abruptly, changing the subject.

Her brows lifted. “That's your polite way of saying ‘don’t come downstairs’?”

“I don’t care what you do. Just don’t ruin the mood.”

She tapped a fingernail against her cup. “You’re afraid I’ll embarrass you.”

I didn’t answer.

She laughed softly. “You think I want to play hostess for your boardroom cronies? You think I want to smile and nod while they ogle me like I’m some prize you bought?”

I clenched my jaw. “Then stay upstairs. No one’s forcing you to be part of my world.”

“Oh, darling,” she said sweetly, “I am your world. Or at least, that’s what you told the press last week.”

I nearly lost it right there. “You don’t get to twist my words.”

“But I do. And I will. Because you made the rules, remember? Public affection. Private disaster.” She stood, carrying her cup to the sink, not bothering to rinse it.

“And you play your part so well,” I muttered.

She turned her head, her expression unreadable. “We both do.”

Her robe swished around her as she turned to leave the room, but I wasn’t done.

“Elena.”

She paused at the doorway but didn’t look back.

“If you’re planning something, whatever it is, don’t,” I said.

Now she turned. Slowly. One hand on the doorframe, her head tilted just slightly.

“Planning something?” she echoed.

“I know you, Elena. You don’t sit still for long. You move pieces. You take risks. You’re not here just to play house.”

She smiled an infuriating, almost pitying thing. “You think too highly of me, Damien.”

“I think you’re dangerous when bored.”

Her eyes glittered with something sharp and unspoken. “And I think you’re scared.”

We stared at each other again. Not a word between us. Just silence thick with accusations neither of us voiced.

Then, she turned and walked away, the click of her heels echoing down the hall until it was just me and the empty kitchen again.

I sat back down, ran a hand through my hair, and stared at the untouched toast on the table. There was a time when I thought a contract marriage would be clean. Predictable. Business-like. Elena was anything but.

And I hated how much that intrigued me.

She was right. We both played our parts well.