Serena
I watched as Damien walked out of the room with his usual air of superiority. I bit down on my lower lip in indignation, biting it hard enough for me to almost taste blood.
Just when I thought we were finally on equal grounds. What the hell was I thinking? That somehow I and Damien were forming some kind of bond?
I looked down on my half finished plate—my appetite had disappeared after the altercation with Damien.
It wasn't even an altercation, we were just talking and just like that, I had to go and make that comment.
Of course i was aware of the deal. Why did I think saying that we should be in separate rooms was a good idea? Especially knowing how needy I had been the other day.
I smacked myself in the head, hating how strange this place felt all of a sudden.
I looked around the room and noticed how big it was. Maybe I'd explore this place. Anything to take my mind off the way Damien spoke to me before leaving for God knows where.
I rang the bell, signaling the staff to come and clear up the table.
The staff came in almost immediately—two women and a man, all dressed in the same crisp black and white uniform that made them look like they had been printed out of a catalog.
Their movements were quiet, efficient, and almost too practiced.
I barely existed to them. Maybe that was the point.
I stood up from my seat, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. "You can leave the juice," I said before realizing how ridiculous it sounded. I wasn't even that thirsty. I just didn't want to admit that I didn't know what else to do.
They nodded silently, gathered the plates and vanished just as quickly as they'd arrived. Like ghosts in an expensive mansion. The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy.
I turned toward the large arched doorway and took a step toward. The house, Damien's family inheritance as he'd called it, stretched endlessly before me.
Everything about it screamed old money and power. Not the kind that bragged, but the kind that looked down on you for even daring to ask.
The hallway opened into a wide corridor, floors of polished marble reflecting the soft glow of chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire life savings.
Each wall was lined with portraits, generations of Romanos, I assumed.
Men in tailored suits, women draped in pearls, all the same sharp jawline and piercing eyes. The resemblance to Damien was almost eerie.
One particular portrait caught my attention; a woman with dark hair swept back and a faint, knowing smile.
Her eyes were cold, intelligent, and a little cruel. The plague beneath read: Giovanna Romano, 1897–1973.
Damien's great-grandmother, maybe? There was something about her face that made me look away quickly. Like she could see right through me.
I walked further, my steps echoing against the marble.
Every turn revealed something new, a grand staircase, that curved like a wave, an indoor courtyard with glass ceilings that let sunlight pour in like honey, a library with shelves that reached the bl ceiling.
The scent of old paper and leather drifted faintly through the air.
I ran my hand along one of the shelves, my fingers tracing the spines of old books.
They looked untouched; like they were just for display. Still, I could imagine Damien here, maybe years ago, learning about politics, law or whatever it was that made men like him so infuriatingly composed.
The next room I found was a gallery. A long stretch of space filled with sculptures, artifacts, and paintings that probably belonged in a museum.
I stopped in front of one: a marble statue of a man holding a sword, his face carved in stoic determination. The plaque read simply: Honor Above All
"Figures," I muttered under my breath. It was so Damien it almost made me laugh.
There was a chill in the air as I walked further down the hall. The house was massive and yet, it didn't feel alive.
It was too clean and perfect like a memory frozen in time. Even the faint ticking of the antique clock felt rehearsed.
I reached what looked like a music room. A grand piano stood in the center, polished to a mirror shine. The bench was untouched, no sheet music in sight.
I hesitated, then sat down, running my fingers gently over the keys.
The coolness of the ivory sent a small shiver through me. I pressed one key, and the soft note echoed through the room, hauntingly beautiful in the silence.
For a moment, I could almost imagine what it was like to live here. Knowing that this wasn't even their main house was even more mind blowing.
It explained Damien in a way. The arrogance, the calm control, the way he always seemed as step ahead of everyone else. This place had built him. Molded him.
I got up and continued walking. The corridor narrowed as I followed it, leading to a smaller section of the house. The lighting was dinner here, less polished. Dust lingered in the corners.
I stopped in front of a door—older, darker than the rest, with ornate carvings that had faded with time. My hand hovered over the handle, and I hesitated.
Something about it felt….off.
But of course, curiosity always won.
I turned the handle slowly, pushing the door open just enough to peek inside.
The room beyond was filled with faint light, stacks of old trunks, paintings wrapped in cloth, and in the center, a covered mirror taller than I was.
I stepped in, the wooden floor freaking under my feet. The air was colder here, and I could smell something faint like old perfume, maybe.
Before i could lift the cloth off the mirror, I heard footsteps behind me. Steady. Unhurried.
"You shouldn't be touching that."
I froze at the sound of Damien's voice low and unreadable.