Ava didn't sleep.
Not because of the luxurious bed or the unfamiliar silk sheets that whispered against her skin — but because her mind wouldn't stop screaming.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Damien Blackwood's face. That smug, unreadable expression. That voice like velvet over steel. The way he looked at her — not like a person, but like something he owned.
Her wedding night hadn't ended with romance. Or even cruelty.
It had ended with silence.
He hadn't touched her, hadn't even come near her room again. And yet, she couldn't forget how her skin had burned beneath the brush of his fingers when he reached for that damn water bottle.
She hated him for it.
She hated herself more for noticing.
---
The next morning, a knock on her door jolted her out of sleep. Ava sat up, disoriented. She was still in her robe, her hair tangled.
"Mrs. Blackwood," a woman's voice called. "Mr. Blackwood has requested your presence in the dressing suite. You have twenty minutes to prepare."
Ava stared at the door. Mrs. Blackwood.
That name didn't belong to her.
It belonged to someone else — someone who wanted this life. The power. The control.
Not her.
But she went anyway.
---
The dressing suite was larger than some apartments. Ava stepped in to find a stylist, a makeup artist, and a hairdresser waiting.
A glamorous ivory dress with sharp lines hung on a gold rack.
"What is this?" Ava asked warily.
"Today's charity gala," the stylist said with a rehearsed smile. "Your first public appearance as Mr. Blackwood's wife. The press will be watching."
Ava's blood ran cold. "He didn't tell me."
"He doesn't need to," the woman said crisply, brushing her hair. "You're his wife."
That sentence felt like a slap.
---
An hour later, Ava stood in front of the mirror again — transformed into someone unrecognizable. Her lips were painted a deep crimson, her smoky eyes fierce beneath curled lashes. The ivory gown hugged her curves with clinical perfection. Her dark hair was swept into a twisted chignon.
She looked elegant.
Untouchable.
Fake.
---
Downstairs, Damien stood near the car, already dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, a silver tie around his throat like a blade.
His eyes scanned her once. Not with appreciation — with calculation.
"I'm not a doll," she muttered as she approached.
"You are today," he replied, opening the door for her. "Smile when necessary. Speak only when spoken to."
"You really are a bastard," she said under her breath.
"I know," he said, and for the first time, she caught a hint of something dangerous in his voice. Not rage.
Resentment.
---
The gala was a sea of champagne, glitter, and money.
Photographers snapped pictures the moment they stepped onto the carpet. Reporters leaned over velvet ropes, shouting Damien's name — and then hers.
That's when it started.
A whisper. Then two.
"Isn't that Ava Sinclair?"
"Didn't her family go bankrupt?"
"I thought she vanished…"
"Why would he marry her?"
The crowd buzzed with suspicion and cruel fascination.
Ava smiled tightly, like a woman carved from stone.
Inside the venue, more eyes followed her. The vultures of high society circled, baring their perfect teeth. One woman with diamond earrings and a venomous smile approached them with a flute of champagne.
"Damien," she purred, ignoring Ava entirely. "You didn't tell us you were bringing charity to the charity event."
Ava stiffened.
Damien's jaw twitched — the only visible reaction.
Then he took Ava's hand and pulled her against him, so close she could feel the heat of his body through the cold silk of her dress.
"Watch your mouth, Elaine," he said calmly. "This 'charity' is my wife. Disrespect her again and I'll make sure your company drowns before next quarter."
The woman blanched.
Ava blinked.
It wasn't kindness. It was possession.
Like a man defending a luxury item, not a person.
Still, something inside her twisted.
"You didn't need to do that," she said when they stepped away from the crowd.
"I don't like my things insulted," he replied. "And I don't like being questioned."
Ava pulled her hand from his. "Stop calling me that."
"What? My wife?"
"Your thing."
He tilted his head. "Then stop acting like you don't belong to me."
Before she could fire back, another flash of cameras went off. Reporters swarmed, all eyes on the infamous Ava Sinclair and the ruthless Damien Blackwood.
"Mr. Blackwood!" one of them called. "How does it feel to marry the fallen heiress of a ruined empire?"
Ava turned sharply — but before she could speak, Damien's hand slipped around her waist.
Firm. Cold.
And then — he kissed her.
Not tenderly.
Not sweetly.
Like a warning.
Like he was claiming her in front of the world.
When he pulled back, his voice was a weapon wrapped in silk.
"It feels like power," he said. "Because I always take what I want."
---
Back in the car, Ava wiped her lips furiously.
"That was disgusting," she hissed.
"You should be thanking me," Damien said coolly. "Now they'll stop questioning your worth."
She turned on him. "Don't pretend you did that for me."
"I didn't." He looked at her. "But you're my wife now. Your image is my asset. So behave."
"Go to hell."
Damien smiled, just faintly. "Already there, sweetheart. Welcome home."
---
That night, Ava stared at her reflection again. She touched her lips. They still burned from the kiss — not from desire, but from fury.
She hated him.
She hated that he could make the world believe they were something they weren't.
And she hated that a tiny, traitorous part of her wondered…
What would happen if he kissed her again?
This time not to prove a point —
But because he wanted to.