CHAPTER 4: FIRST NIGHT

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The car wound up the circular drive, tires crunching on gravel. The Blake mansion rose before me like something from a gothic novel, all dark stone and imposing windows that seemed to watch as we approached. My single suitcase sat in the back, holding the pathetic remains of my old life, while I sat rigidly beside my new husband. The silence between us had grown heavier with each passing mile, choked with words we hadn’t said and accusations we had.

Damien’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The platinum wedding band on his finger caught the passing light, a foreign and ominous object. My own felt heavy on my hand, a shackle disguised as jewelry.

The car stopped. The engine fell silent. Neither of us moved.

"This is home now," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "For the next year, anyway."

Home. The word tasted like copper in my mouth. This wasn't home—it was a beautiful prison with thread counts higher than my credit score.

"Right." I reached for the door handle, my wedding dress rustling around me like expensive chains. "Home."

The front hall was exactly what I expected—marble floors that echoed our footsteps, a crystal chandelier casting prismatic light across walls lined with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. A grand staircase swept up to the second floor, carpeted in deep burgundy, and I could already imagine myself climbing it every night to my temporary room in my temporary life.

"Mrs. Blake." A woman in her fifties appeared, dressed in crisp black slacks and a white blouse. She had a kind face, worn at the edges with years of quiet professionalism. "I'm Margaret, the housekeeper. Welcome to Blackwood."

Even the house had a name. Of course it did.

"Thank you." I managed a smile that felt like cracking glass. "It's beautiful."

"Mr. Blake asked me to prepare the blue suite for you." Margaret's voice was kind but professional. "Second floor, east wing. You'll have complete privacy there, with your own sitting room and bathroom. I hope you'll be comfortable."

Complete privacy. The words hit me with a dull thud. Translation: you'll be kept separate from the real family. I wasn't a wife—I was a guest who was overstaying her welcome by about eleven months.

Damien finally spoke, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "I'll show her up."

We climbed the staircase in silence, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The walls were lined with family portraits—generations of Blakes staring down with expressions ranging from stern to serene. None of them smiled. I fit right in.

"This is you." Damien stopped before an ornate door, his hand on the brass handle. "I'm down the hall if you need anything. Margaret will take care of meals, laundry, whatever you need."

He opened the door, and I stepped into a room that made my throat tight with its luxury. The room was beautiful—all blues and creams, with a massive four-poster bed that could sleep six people comfortably. French doors led to a private balcony overlooking manicured gardens. There was a sitting area with a fireplace, a walk-in closet bigger than my old apartment, and a bathroom that belonged in a five-star hotel.

"It's..." I searched for words that didn't reveal how overwhelmed I was. "It's very nice."

Nice. Like describing the Sistine Chapel as "pretty."

Damien watched me from the doorway, not crossing the threshold. Something about his careful distance made me look at him sharply. He was giving me space, I realized. Respecting boundaries I didn't even know I'd set.

"Margaret stocked the closet with basics—clothes in your size, toiletries, whatever she thought you might need. If there's anything else..."

"I'm sure it's fine." I set my suitcase on the luggage rack, the single bag looking lost in all that space. "Thank you."

We stood there for a moment, newlyweds who were strangers, husband and wife who were really just business partners. The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

"Well." Damien cleared his throat. "I'll let you get settled. Breakfast is at seven if you want to join me. If not, Margaret can bring you something."

"I'll be there." The words surprised me. I hadn't planned to play the dutiful wife role any more than absolutely necessary.

Something flickered across his face—surprise? Relief? Hope? But it was gone before I could analyze it.

"Good. That's... good." He stepped back into the hallway. "Goodnight, Aria."

"Goodnight... Damien."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone in my beautiful cage. I sank onto the edge of the massive bed, still wearing my wedding dress, and tried to process the surreal turn my life had taken. Twelve hours ago I was Aria Chen, struggling graduate student drowning in someone else's debt. Now I was Mrs. Blake, living in a mansion that probably had its own zip code.

My phone buzzed against my clutch. Kyle.

How's married life? Beautiful house from the outside. You okay? I'm worried about you, angel. ♥

I stared at the message, at the casual way he mentioned seeing the house. Had he driven by? Was he watching from somewhere outside these walls?

I'm fine. Going to bed early.

Sweet dreams, Mrs. Blake. Remember—you'll always be my angel first. What we have is special. Sacred. Nothing can change that. ♥

Sacred. The word made my skin crawl. There was something possessive about his messages tonight, more intense than usual. Like my marriage to another man had triggered something territorial in him.

I deleted the conversation and looked around my new room—at the fresh flowers on the nightstand, the expensive art on the walls, the kind of luxury I'd only seen in magazines. It was everything a woman could want.

So why did I feel like I was suffocating?

I walked to the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The gardens stretched out below me, lit by strategically placed lights that turned the landscape into something from a fairy tale. In the distance, I could see the lights of the city—my old life, already feeling like something from another century. The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the scent of roses and jasmine.

Somewhere in the house, I could hear the faint sound of a piano—classical music drifting through the halls like a ghost. It was beautiful, haunting, and somehow familiar...

The music surrounded me like water, gentle and soothing. I was small, maybe seven or eight, sitting on a piano bench beside someone whose face I couldn't see. Their hands moved over the keys with practiced grace, and I tried to copy the movements, my small fingers stumbling over the melody.

"Like this," a young voice said, placing warm hands over mine to guide my movements. "Feel the music, don't just play it."

I looked up into dark eyes filled with patience and something deeper—affection so pure it made my chest tight with emotion. "Will you teach me?"

"Always," the voice promised. "I'll teach you everything."

But the face remained blurred, like looking at someone through frosted glass...

The memory faded, leaving me disoriented and strangely bereft. The piano music had stopped, and the night was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the whisper of wind through the trees.

I went back inside, closing the French doors against the night and whatever ghosts might be lurking in my fractured memory. The wedding dress felt like a costume now, beautiful and foreign and wrong. I changed into the silk pajamas Margaret provided—expensive, soft, in exactly my size. Like everything else in this house, they fit perfectly.

The bed was enormous, piled high with pillows and covered in sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent. I crawled in, feeling lost in all that space, and tried to imagine a year of nights like this—alone, isolated, playing a role I never auditioned for.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from an unknown number.

Welcome home, little star.

Little star. The words hit me like a physical blow, dragging up memories I couldn't quite grasp. Someone used to call me that—someone whose voice was gentle, loving, safe. But the memory slipped away like smoke, leaving only the echo of comfort I hadn't felt in years.

I deleted the message and turned off the phone, pulling the expensive covers up to my chin. But sleep didn't come easily in this strange bed, in this strange life, with the ghost of a voice whispering endearments I couldn't quite remember.

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