Chapter 4 The third floor

The kiss was supposed to be forgettable.

Just a trick for the cameras. A way to fool the crowd. But Damien had barely spoken to her since the gala, and the tension now clung to the mansion like a fog.

He was avoiding her.

And she didn't mind.

Because she had other things on her mind-like the third floor.

"Stay away from the third floor," he'd said.

Which, of course, meant it was the first place she planned to go.

That Night

The house was silent.

No footsteps. No staff. No Damien.

Amara slipped from her bedroom in a silk robe and bare feet, heart hammering louder with each step as she ascended the stairs.

The third floor hallway was different.

No art. No polished furniture. Just shadows, dust, and a locked door at the end.

She turned the knob. Locked.

But beside it-another door. This one creaked open.

Inside was a room covered in white sheets, like ghosts frozen in time. A forgotten living space. Bookshelves. A music box on a shelf. A grand piano pushed into the corner, covered in dust.

And photos.

She picked one up. A woman. Beautiful, smiling, wrapped around a younger, softer-looking Damien.

His arm was around her. His face wasn't cold in this picture. He looked... human.

Amara blinked.

Who was she?

Behind the photo was a drawer. Inside: a necklace, a faded letter, and a torn wedding invitation-

You are invited to the wedding of Damien Blackwood & Eloise Hart.

Eloise.

So he had been engaged. Maybe married. Maybe worse.

She picked up the letter.

I can't stay here. I can't marry a man who has walls where a heart should be. Whatever's haunting you... I hope it lets you go. Goodbye.

No date. No return address.

Suddenly-

"What the hell are you doing?"

Damien's voice sliced through the room like ice.

She whirled around.

He stood in the doorway, eyes burning, jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might snap.

"You said not to go to the third floor," she said quietly. "You didn't say why."

"You don't need to know why."

"I'm your wife, remember?" she snapped. "Or is that only when the cameras are on?"

In three long strides, he was in front of her, grabbing the photo from her hand.

"This part of my life is none of your business."

"Everything about you is my business-for the next year, at least."

He glared down at her. "Leave."

"Not until you tell me who she was."

Silence.

Then, barely audible: "She was the last person who tried to love me."

He turned his back.

And in that moment, Amara saw it-not the CEO, not the cold strategist-but the man who still kept ghosts locked behind doors.

And suddenly, she wasn't sure if she'd found his weakness...

or walked straight into her own.