The rest of the day passed in a blur of quiet tension.
Eliana wandered the mansion like a ghost in her own skin, her thoughts looping back to that message on Damon's phone—"She doesn't belong there." She tried to ignore the weight of it, but it clung to her like a second shadow. The locked basement door, Damon's calm yet guarded expression, the strange portrait that looked like her and didn't—it all swirled together like puzzle pieces from two different boxes.
And through it all, Damon hovered.
Not quite watching. Not quite absent either.
In the early evening, a knock on her bedroom door broke the silence. She opened it to find a different maid—older, more formal—holding a sleek black box with a satin ribbon.
"From Mr. Blackwood," the woman said, offering it with a slight bow. "He requests your presence at a dinner meeting this evening. It's… important."
Eliana frowned. "Dinner meeting?"
"Yes, ma'am. A private gathering with some of the company's investors. He would be honored if you attended."
The box felt surprisingly heavy in her hands. She murmured a thank you, closed the door, and set it on the bed. Curiosity warred with suspicion as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a gown.
Not just any gown—an ethereal creation in deep emerald satin, the fabric catching the light like moonlit water. The neckline dipped just enough to hint at elegance without immodesty, the back cut low in a sweeping curve. Intricate embroidery shimmered at the waist and hem in golden thread, like vines curling in secret patterns. There was a note folded atop it in his clean, sharp handwriting:
> "You once told me green made you feel powerful. I hope it still does."
—D.
Her fingers hesitated over the signature.
Something fluttered inside her chest—something she didn't want to name.
She bathed and dressed in silence, letting the warm scent of jasmine oils and lavender wrap around her like armor. Her reflection in the mirror startled her. The gown hugged her form like it had been made for her body—and maybe it had. Her hair, curled softly at the ends, framed her face in waves. Light makeup brought out the flush in her cheeks and the depth in her eyes.
She looked like a woman who belonged in this world.
And yet, she didn't feel like one.
A knock. Damon.
When she opened the door, his breath caught visibly. For a heartbeat, he just stared.
"Eliana…"
She lifted her chin, keeping her expression neutral, though her pulse had quickened.
"You look… stunning," he said at last, voice lower than usual. He cleared his throat and offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She hesitated for only a second before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
The drive was short—one of Blackwood Industries' private lounges in a high-rise overlooking the city. But the silence between them was louder than the hum of the engine. Every now and then, Eliana caught Damon glancing her way. When their eyes met, he looked away quickly.
The elevator ride to the penthouse suite was just as tense. She could feel the heat of his body beside hers, the subtle way his fingers flexed near hers. For reasons she couldn't explain, it made her breath come short.
The suite was sleek, minimalist, and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the night skyline. Inside, a handful of sharply dressed men and women greeted Damon with polite smiles and handshakes. Eliana felt their curious eyes sweep over her as Damon introduced her.
"This is Eliana, my wife."
He said it with ease, but something in his eyes flickered when he looked at her—as if the word 'wife' still felt strange even to him.
A few of the guests murmured compliments. Eliana smiled, nodded, played the role. But every word bounced around in her mind, unanchored. She wasn't here for business. She was here to observe.
And Damon—he was different tonight.
Relaxed, almost warm in a way she hadn't seen before. His eyes softened when they met hers, lingering longer than necessary. When she laughed politely at a joke from one of the investors, he tilted his head slightly, watching her as though seeing her for the first time.
Dinner was served at a candlelit table set for ten. Soft classical music played in the background, and crystal glasses glinted under the dim lights. Damon pulled out her chair with a gentleman's ease and sat beside her, close—too close.
Wine was poured, conversation flowed. One of the women, a sleek blonde in a red sheath dress, leaned toward Damon with familiarity that made Eliana's stomach twist.
"So, this is the elusive Mrs. Blackwood," she purred. "We've all been so curious."
Damon's arm brushed against Eliana's beneath the table. "She's not elusive. Just… private."
The woman's smile tightened. "Of course."
Eliana didn't know what came over her, but she reached for Damon's hand under the table and laced her fingers with his. She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince—his investors, the woman, or herself.
Damon stiffened for half a second.
Then, slowly, his hand closed around hers.
Warm. Steady. Possessive.
Their eyes met across the candlelight, something unspoken passing between them. He looked at her as though trying to decode a language they were both still learning. Not just attraction—something deeper, rawer.
Need.
After dinner, as guests mingled by the windows and discussed market forecasts, Damon led her to a quieter corner. He didn't say anything at first. Just watched her.
"I wasn't sure you'd come tonight," he said finally.
She studied him. "Why ask me, then?"
He hesitated. "Because I wanted you here."
There was honesty in his voice. That scared her more than any lie.
"Not for the guests," she said. "For you."
His gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
Eliana's heart beat faster. The air between them felt charged.
"I still don't remember you," she whispered. "But sometimes, around you… I feel things I don't understand."
His throat worked, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. "Same here," he said instead. "I look at you, and it's like I'm standing in front of something I already lost once… and I don't know how to reach it again."
The confession stunned her. So raw. So unlike him.
Before she could respond, a waiter passed by with another round of wine. Damon declined with a slight shake of his head.
"I think we should go," he said gently.
She didn't argue.
Back at the mansion, the silence returned—but it felt different. Heavy, yes, but no longer hollow.
At her door, she paused. Damon stood behind her, hands in his pockets.
"Thank you," she said.
He blinked. "For what?"
"For the gown. For… being kind."
He looked at her like he didn't quite know what to do with those words. "You deserve more than kindness, Eliana."
Then, before she could speak again, he leaned forward. Just enough to press his lips to her forehead. Soft. Reverent.
It wasn't a kiss of passion.
It was a promise.
And it left her standing in the hallway long after he walked away, her fingers ghosting over the spot where his lips had been, her heart pounding with a strange, inexplicable ache.