Chapter 3 CHAPTER THREE
Amelia’s POV
The first morning in the Blackwood penthouse, I woke up alone.
The bed stretched around me, vast and untouched on his side, the sheets still perfectly smooth where Damian had slept. Or maybe he hadn’t. Perhaps he’d been up before dawn, already at work, already chasing numbers and deals that seemed more alive to him than I ever could be.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling as sunlight streamed through glass walls, spilling gold across silk sheets. Everything around me whispered of luxury: the chandelier above, the faint scent of lilies drifting from the balcony, the hum of the city muffled by soundproof windows. It should have felt like comfort. Instead, it felt like silence pressing down on my chest.
Dragging myself out of bed, I padded barefoot across cool marble to the bathroom.
The space gleamed with white stone and gold fixtures, mirrors stretching wall to wall. Steam fogged the glass as I turned on the shower, the spray hitting the marble like rain. I stepped under it, letting the hot water sting my skin, my forehead pressing against the tiles.
This was supposed to be my new life. In a fairy tale, the magazines would say a powerful husband, a palace in the sky. But in the quiet of the shower, all I felt was hollow.
Afterward, I wiped a patch of fog from the mirror and stared at myself. My hair clung damp to my shoulders, droplets racing down my skin. My gaze dropped lower to the stretch marks etched across my hips like pale lightning strikes. Sexy, maybe, thunder across a stormy sky. But to me, they pulsed with insecurity. They whispered of imperfection in a world where Damian seemed flawless, untouchable.
I touched them lightly, tracing the lines with my fingers, and the question surfaced unbidden: Would he ever see beauty here, or only flaws?
A knock startled me.
“Mrs. Blackwood?” A male voice, gentle. The chef. “Forgive me for disturbing. What would you like for breakfast?”
I cracked the door. He stood with a small notepad, a polite smile softening the formality.
“Pancakes,” I said after a pause. “With strawberries.”
His smile widened, bowing slightly. “Consider it done.”
The meal arrived within the hour, flawless and sweet. Golden pancakes stacked neatly, strawberries cut into little hearts, syrup drizzled with care. The chef lingered just long enough to ensure I was pleased.
“Thank you,” I murmured, and he left me in silence once more.
I sat at the grand dining table, fork in hand, staring at food fit for queens. I ate a few bites, but the sweetness turned to ash in my mouth. Everything was perfect. Everything was empty.
By evening, the sound of the front doors opening snapped me from my haze.
Damian.
He strode in with that same sharp presence, his suit flawless, his eyes cool as stone. He placed his briefcase on the desk and finally looked at me.
“You’re awake.” Not a question.
“I’ve been awake all day.”
“Good. Be ready when I get home.”
The words fell like orders, not acknowledgment.
That night, we sat together at the endless dining table. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, a spread that looked like it belonged in a Michelin restaurant. Lobster. Shrimp. Caviar. Platters of shellfish glistening with lemon.
My throat closed the second I smelled it.
“I… I can’t eat this,” I whispered, pushing the plate away. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
Damian didn’t even glance up. “Then have the salad.”
My chest burned. “That’s all you have to say? You order an entire table of food I can’t eat, and you don’t care?”
His knife cut cleanly through the lobster. “This is what I like.” His eyes lifted, gray and cold. “You’ll adapt.”
Adapt. Bend. Break.
My pulse thudded. “This isn’t marriage, Damian. You don’t see me. You don’t care about me at all.”
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “I see you. You’re mine. That’s enough.”
I stood so abruptly my chair screeched against the marble. “I’m not your property.”
He leaned back in his chair, gaze sharp, words dropping like blades. “Legally? You are.”
The air rushed from my lungs, anger and humiliation clashing hot in my chest. I turned and stormed away, heels cracking against marble.
“Go get ready,” his voice rang after me, calm and cutting. “I’m sure this food tastes better than you do.”
The words sliced through me, cruel and deliberate. My hand tightened on the doorframe until my knuckles whitened, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
Out on the balcony, the night air hit my burning skin. The city glittered beneath me, alive and free, while I stood caged in silk and marble. My reflection in the glass door stared back: lips trembling, eyes hollow, a stranger in her own skin.
I closed my eyes, whispering to myself, “If this is love, then I’m already broken.”
