The silence in the Cole mansion that evening was not the usual icy hush that wrapped itself around the walls like Damien's typical demeanor. No, this one carried weight. It pulsed with unsaid words, unfinished thoughts, and the raw memory of that accidental fall—of his arms catching her mid-tumble, of his gaze softening just for a heartbeat too long.
Zara lay in the expansive guest room, her ankle propped up with a cooling pack and her laptop open in front of her. But she wasn't working. She was watching the door, replaying the moment Damien had carried her like she weighed nothing. The heat of his chest, the tremble of his jawline when their eyes locked.
Was that... concern?
"Get it together, Zara," she muttered, tapping a few keys to look busy when a knock came at the door. Not his sharp, assertive knock. This was hesitant. Almost human.
"Come in," she called, schooling her voice into neutrality.
Damien entered, hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored slacks, a stiffness to his posture that betrayed unease. "How's the ankle?"
"It's not broken. Just twisted." She shrugged, still unsure why he was here. He wasn't the type to check in twice.
"Good. I... made sure the kitchen sent something up. You didn't eat dinner."
Her brows lifted. "You noticed?"
He looked at the window, as if the Lagos skyline could offer him an escape. "I notice everything."
Zara's heart gave an involuntary stutter. She hated how those four words twisted something tight inside her. Why did he have to say it like that—like it mattered?
Later that night, she heard movement down the hallway. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning. Her ankle throbbed just enough to keep her awake.
Out of curiosity—or perhaps loneliness—Zara left her bed, limping toward the source of the sound. She paused at the study door, slightly ajar.
Inside, Damien sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, his head in his hands.
He looked... tired.
Human.
Without thinking, she knocked softly.
He looked up, startled. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
"I couldn't sleep," she said honestly. "Neither could you, I guess."
He leaned back. "Habit. I don't sleep much."
"Must be exhausting, always being perfect."
A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "I'm not perfect, Zara. Not even close."
She tilted her head. "Then who are you really, Damien Cole? The man in the magazines or the one who caught me like he cared?"
His gaze darkened—not with anger, but something deeper. "You shouldn't confuse business with emotion. This... marriage is still a contract."
"And yet, you're here… talking to your fake wife at 2 a.m." She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe.
He stood abruptly, crossing the room until there were barely inches between them. "You don't get it. Letting people go has a cost. I've paid it once. I'm not paying it again."
Something flickered in her chest—sympathy, curiosity... or maybe danger. Because what if she was already too close?
The next day, Zara received an anonymous envelope. No name, no return address.
Inside was a single photograph—her, standing outside a women's shelter five years ago. And a note:
"Do you really think the past stays buried, Zara?"
Her breath caught.
Only three people knew about that day.
She tucked the photo into her coat and went straight to her room, locking the door behind her. She couldn't let Damien see this. He'd ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.
She paced.
Her past was supposed to be dead. Wasn't that the whole point of marrying Damien? To start over, to protect what little she had left?
But now... someone was watching. And someone knew.
Scene 4: Unspoken Promises
That night, Damien found her in the garden. Not her usual space. She never ventured outside after dark. He was about to walk past until he noticed the way she clutched her arms, her entire body taut.
"You okay?" he asked.
She flinched. "Just needed air."
"You look like someone sent you a ghost in the mail."
Zara laughed bitterly. "Maybe they did."
He studied her face. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head, turning away.
"Zara," he said quietly, "whatever it is, I won't judge you."
She met his eyes, blinking back the sharp sting of tears. "Why are you being nice?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe because for the first time, I don't want to be alone in this house. And you're the only person who doesn't treat me like I'm a headline."
It wasn't a confession of love. But it was something. And for Zara, right now, it was everything.
Scene 5: Shadows in the Mirror
Zara returned to her room that night not with a lighter heart, but a heavier one. Damien's words lingered like smoke—soft, warm, and impossible to grasp. You're the only person who doesn't treat me like a headline.
That kind of trust wasn't part of the contract.
She sat at her vanity, brushing her curls out mechanically, eyes drifting to the mirror. But her reflection didn't feel like hers anymore. It showed a woman tangled in lies. Not just to the world. But to herself.
She pulled out the photo again.
Do you really think the past stays buried?
Yes. She had believed it once. Believed that changing her name, her city, her circle, would be enough to escape what had happened to her and what she had done in return. But clearly, someone disagreed.
The knock at the door startled her.
This time it wasn't Damien.
It was Linda, the housekeeper. "Ma'am. Someone left this for you downstairs. I thought you'd want it directly."
Another envelope.
Zara's breath caught. "Thank you," she murmured, her fingers shaking as she took it.
Inside was a note, handwritten in neat, almost elegant strokes:
"You can run, Mrs. Cole, but secrets travel faster."
Beneath it was a second photo—this time, of Zara walking out of the Cole mansion. Recently. Taken from the street.
Someone was watching her.
Closely.
The next morning, Damien didn't see her at breakfast. Or lunch. She had never gone a day in the house without at least walking into the kitchen for tea. By evening, he grew irritated—then quietly concerned.
He knocked, but there was no answer.
The door wasn't locked. She was curled up on the bed, still in her robe, staring at nothing.
Damien stepped inside. "Zara."
She blinked, then gave a weak smile. "Sorry. Rough day."
He sat on the edge of the bed, something uncharacteristically gentle in his movements. "Did something happen?
She hesitated. Then, without answering, she reached over and handed him the note and the photos.
He read them, face unreadable, jaw tightening slowly.
"Who else knows about this?" he asked.
"No one," she said. "Not even my aunt. I never told anyone."
"You need to tell me what this is, Zara. I can't protect you if I don't understand what you're hiding from."
Her voice was low. "I don't want your protection."
He stood. "Too bad. You married me. Like it or not, I'm involved now."
Zara swallowed. "You really think this is about you?"
"I think someone is trying to rattle you. And I don't like that. Not when you're under my roof."
She laughed bitterly. "Under your roof, under your contract, under your control. What's the difference?"
Damien didn't flinch. But something flickered in his eyes.
"You're not under anything, Zara. You're my wife. At least publicly. Which means whoever this is, they're crossing a line."
He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "And for the record... control is easy. But caring? That's what gets people killed."
He didn't explain what he meant. He didn't have to.
Because when the door closed behind him, Zara whispered to herself, "So what killed you, Damien?"
Two days later, Damien ordered increased security on the estate. He didn't say it was because of the notes, but Zara knew. Surveillance was upgraded. New staff screened. Zara found herself with a shadow wherever she went.
It was suffocating.
But oddly... comforting.
That evening, she found Damien in the library, reading of all things. Not on a screen, but an actual book.
She leaned on the doorframe. "Didn't think the cold CEO of Cole Innovations read fiction."
He glanced up, unbothered. "There's more truth in stories than in board meetings."
She smiled. "What truth are you hunting for tonight?"
His eyes found hers. "Maybe the kind that explains why you still haven't told me what happened at that shelter five years ago."
The air stilled.
Zara's lips parted, but no words came. She wasn't ready. She didn't know if she'd ever be.
Instead, she walked over and sat across from him. "Tell me something you've never told anyone, and I'll do the same."
He studied her, the silence stretching.
"I used to have a brother," he said finally. "He died. In an accident. My fault."
Zara's throat tightened. "Damien..."
"I was sixteen. He was nine. I was supposed to watch him. I didn't."
It explained everything—his distance, his coldness, his obsession with control. It wasn't about arrogance. It was about punishment.
Zara reached out before she could think and touched his hand.
He didn't pull away.
Not this time.
The next night, the air between them changed again.
Zara wore one of the gowns from the formal collection that the PR team had insisted she use. Silk. Emerald green. It clung like a second skin.
They were attending a charity gala for the Cole Foundation. Their first public appearance as a "married couple."
Damien, ever immaculate in a black tailored suit, offered his arm as she descended the grand staircase.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stared.
"You hate it?" she asked.
"I hate how many people are going to stare at you tonight," he said flatly.
Her cheeks warmed.
The gala was a blur of flashbulbs and false smiles, of whispered congratulations and watchful eyes.
But the most intimate moment came not from the cameras, but on the rooftop garden above the venue.
They were alone. Finally.
"You clean up well, Mr. Cole," she teased.
He stepped closer, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. "You're dangerous, Zara."
She tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because I'm starting to forget the rules."
Then he kissed her.
No cameras. No press. No contracts.
Just lips against lips, and months of buried tension erupting in a single, breathless surrender.
The next morning, Zara woke in her room alone.
The kiss had changed everything—and nothing.
No Damien. No explanation. Just a note on her nightstand:
"Be careful who you trust. Even me."
Her fingers clenched the paper.
What was that supposed to mean? Was he warning her... or warning her about himself?
And more importantly—
Who was the real danger?
The one watching her?
Or the man she had just let into her heart?