Todos os capítulos de Married to the cold CEO: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

As the elevator doors glided shut behind Elena, she pressed her back against the mirrored surface and exhaled. The day had been suffocating—Damian’s temper, his unspoken secrets, Adrian’s warning in the hallway. Every second inside the Cross mansion felt like walking a tightrope above an abyss. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Tonight was supposed to be simple. Dinner with Cassandra Hale, Damian’s “old family friend.” Adrian had delivered the invitation with his usual clipped efficiency, but Elena could tell even he was uneasy. Cassandra wasn’t just another socialite. From the way staff whispered her name, Elena gathered Cassandra was both dangerous and indispensable—a woman who never entered a room without stirring ripples. The elevator chimed. Elena squared her shoulders and stepped out into the dining wing. The hall was awash with golden light from chandeliers, but the air carried a strange chill. The table stretched long, set with crystal glasses and whit

A chill ran down Elena’s spine as she sat across the vast dining table from Damian, the silence between them louder than the clinking of silverware against porcelain. A chandelier glittered overhead, its crystals scattering fractured light across the polished wood, yet none of its brilliance reached him. He ate with precise, measured movements, every gesture deliberate, controlled, as though nothing in the world could pierce the armor he wore so effortlessly. She hadn’t touched her food. The fork in her hand felt heavy, useless. Her appetite had evaporated the moment his eyes—icy and unreadable—landed on her as she walked in. Finally, she broke the silence. “You followed me last night.” His fork paused mid-air. “I protected you.” Her fingers tightened around the utensil. “Protected me or kept me under surveillance?” Damian’s jaw flexed. “Julian Crane is not a man you entertain. He’s poison, Elena. Every word he spoke to you was designed to wedge a crack between us.” Her laugh ca

Moonlight spilled across the marble floors of the Cross mansion like broken glass, its pale reflection a reminder of how fragile everything felt inside. Elena stood near the window of her bedroom, restless, her mind looping back to Damian’s journal, his words carved into her thoughts like scars she couldn’t unsee. She wanted to hate him, to keep her distance, but curiosity gnawed at her ribs. What had made a man so powerful write about betrayal as though it was his closest companion? What shadows lingered in him that he refused to let anyone touch? A knock interrupted her spiraling. Sharp. Firm. “Elena,” Damian’s voice carried through the heavy door, steady as stone. She froze. It was late, nearly midnight. What could he possibly want now? Gathering what dignity she could, she opened the door. He stood there, still in his black shirt and tailored trousers, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked carved from shadows, eyes burning with an unreadable intensity. “You’re awake,” he

I couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet, and quiet in this mansion never meant peace—it meant thoughts had space to grow wild, to spiral into fears and questions I wasn’t ready to face. My body lay stretched across the enormous bed, but my mind was pacing the floor, replaying every look, every word from dinner earlier. Damian’s silence, sharp as glass. His warning, cold as the marble floors. Careful, Elena. You’re forgetting your place. A knot twisted in my stomach. My place? Did he even know what he meant by that anymore? Because neither of us seemed sure of the roles we were playing. He wanted obedience, but he was the one cracking, not me. The clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight. I sat up, restless, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. That was when the phone hidden in my nightstand vibrated. The sound was small, but in this silence, it might as well have been a thunderclap. My heart raced. Almost no one had this number. I unlocked the phone, the screen

What kind of truth could possibly shatter the cold fortress Damian had built around himself? That question seared through Elena’s mind as the minutes ticked down toward midnight. The folded note inside her clutch seemed heavier than gold, as though it carried the weight of decisions she wasn’t ready to face. Around her, the charity dinner began to dissolve into smaller clusters of laughter and plotting, crystal glasses clinking as alliances were sealed under the guise of good wine. Damian remained unreadable, engaged in conversation with a senator whose smile was too wide to be genuine. He hadn’t looked at Elena in over fifteen minutes, yet she still felt his presence like a shadow wrapped around her. Her palms dampened against the silk of her dress. She thought of ignoring the note. She thought of tearing it into pieces, letting the words scatter like ashes. But curiosity had always been her weakness—and her strength. If someone knew something about Damian, she needed to know. She