Chapter 62
Damian had ensured everything was to Shirley’s liking – a thoughtful gesture to ease her transition from Lafez Ducal residence to her new home.
Shirley’s fingers trailed along the mantelpiece, pausing at the small carousel music box. As she wound it up, a familiar melody filled the air – the same tune from their first dancing lesson together. The memory of their clumsy steps, Damian patiently guiding her, brought an unconscious smile to her lips.
Moving through their shared space, she paused at the door to the dressing room. With a soft creak, it revealed an expansive closet – one side neatly organized with her dresses, hats and gloves, the opposite side housing Damian’s wardrobe.
Though she’d visited Damian’s chambers many times before, this private space felt unexplored, intimate. Her pulse quickened as she stepped inside, drawn by curiosity to examine this new aspect of her husband.
Past rows of tailored suits and casual wear, a stack of unmarked boxes caught her attention. Kneeling, she began opening them one by one – finding cufflinks, ties, shoe care kits meticulously arranged.
Then her fingers closed around a different box, slightly larger than the others.
The moment she lifted the lid, her breath caught.
Inside lay a mask.
Not just any mask – the very one from that fateful night at the masquerade. The night a mysterious stranger had captivated her with foreign words and intoxicating presence. The night that had nearly shattered everything between her and Damian.
Her hands trembled as she lifted it, the memory washing over her in waves. That voice, those hands she’d thought belonged to another man…
A floorboard creaked behind her.
“Find anything interesting, wife?”
Damian’s voice, laced with dark amusement, sent a shiver down her spine. She turned slowly to find him leaning against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.
The mask dangled between her fingers, a silent accusation.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Damian pushed off from the doorway, crossing the space between them in slow, deliberate steps.
“I believe,” he murmured, taking the mask from her shaking hands, “this belongs to me.”
The truth settled between them, heavy and undeniable. That night, every touch, every whisper – it had all been him. A game played to make her see what she’d been blind to for so long.
Shirley’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Damian pressed the mask gently to her face, his voice a whisper against her ear:
“Shall we finish what we started that night, my love?”
The mask—the kind commonly seen at masquerade balls, utterly unremarkable in any noble’s dressing room—lay heavy in Shirley’s hands. Yet to her, it was painfully familiar.
The mask worn by that man.
The man who had spoken to her in flawless Rachenian at the ball.
[“My name is Sayden. As you might have guessed, I’m from the Kingdom of Rachen.”]
His voice, husky and deep—like a man five or six years her senior—echoed in her ears.
[“So you’re saying I don’t seem like a man to you?”]
His words had struck right at her insecurities.
Her grip on the mask tightened.
Why is this here?
Her throat went dry.
It must be a coincidence. There could be countless masks like this. Maybe Damian had it made for a future event. It’s not like I know every single one of his clothes and accessories.
But—
But what if—?
She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the treacherous thought spreading like poisonous roots in her mind. Her carefully styled hair whipped against her cheeks.
Thud.
She hastily closed the box and stood—only to freeze.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, a tall figure watched her in silence.
“De… Damian?”
Her voice trembled.
—
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
The dim light cast shadows across his face, but she could see his eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto hers.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile.
“Find something interesting, my wife?”
The way he said it—the way his voice dropped, deeper, rougher—sent a shiver down her spine.
Because suddenly, she knew.
That voice.
That tone.
It wasn’t just similar.
It was the same.
—
Her knees gave out.
Damian crossed the room in two strides, catching her before she could fall.
“Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
Just like that night.
Shirley’s hands fisted in his shirt.
“It was you.”
Not a question. A realization.
Damian didn’t deny it.
He simply tilted her chin up, his thumb brushing her lower lip.
“Do you hate me for it?”
His voice was soft, but his eyes burned with something far more dangerous.
Shirley didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached up—and slapped the mask over his face.
—
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then—
“Say it again.”
“What?”
“Say my name.”
His voice was different now—foreign, unfamiliar—the voice of Sayden.
Shirley’s breath hitched.
Damian—no, Sayden—leaned closer.
“Say it like you did that night.”
And just like that, the game began anew.
“Why so surprised?”
Damian chuckled as he approached Shirley, who sat frozen on the floor.
“Who else would be coming in here besides me?”
His gaze lingered on her disheveled state—knees drawn up, the hem of her nightgown riding high enough to expose pale thighs.
“I-I just… got startled.”
“I wasn’t exactly hiding my footsteps.”
He crouched suddenly, one large hand enveloping her bare knee. Shirley hadn’t realized how much skin she’d been showing until his warmth seared into her.
“You’re cold.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“This is why you shouldn’t wear such flimsy things.” A sigh rumbled through him as he surveyed the scandalously thin silk clinging to her body. “Who picked this out?”
“Huh?”
Her mind was still scrambling—half trapped in the revelation about the mask, half hyperaware of his thumb now tracing circles on her inner thigh.
“This… nightgown.”
“Oh.”
Memory surfaced—Melissa dragging her through boutique after boutique, whispering “He’ll lose his mind when he sees you in this” with a merchant’s gleam in her eyes.
“Melissa… recommended it…”
“Ah.”
A beat of silence.
Then Damian’s other hand came up to frame her face, his voice dropping to that dangerous register—the one that still made her toes curl.
“Tell me, Shirley—”
His lips brushed her earlobe.
“Did she also recommend you go through my things?”
The mask dangled from his free hand, swinging gently between them like a pendulum.
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