The water had gone cold.
I didn't notice at first. I'd sunk too deep into my thoughts—into him. Into the silence he left behind.By the time I climbed out and wrapped myself in a towel, the warmth had long since vanished.
I gave the mirror one last look. Polished. Composed. The version of Mrs. Solano the world needed to see.
I grabbed my book and walked back into the main bedroom. My eyes landed on the door—the splintered wood, the dent in the frame, the mark the bullet had left behind.
In my head, the thought came sharp and bitter:Scared of a gunshot? Seriously?I'm the fucking wife of a mafia leader.
I slipped into a sleek black dress, the kind that whispered elegance with every movement. After fastening my earrings, I made my way down the stairs.
The headbodyguard Shōzen Looks at me with his faintly golden eyes piercing my soul.
I kept my face carefully blank. I knew better than to offer him a fake smile. He'd see through it in an instant.
Without a word, his arm extended to open the door for me. As he moved, the sleeve of his jacket shifted just enough to reveal the ink on his wrist.
狛犬.
Komainu.
The mark pulled something in me. A reminder. A wound.
Of why I'm here.Of why I can't sleep with both eyes closed.Of the Mask i learned to wear.
He resembles one. A guardian spirit from ancient shrines, they say—towering, lion-bodied, fanged like a god's wrath. That's where he draws his power. That's what watches my every step.
Damian sits at his desk — a grand, imposing thing carved from dark wood, its surface inlaid with a pattern so beautiful that it looks like a gift from the gods.
He doesn't look up. Not right away.
Only the faint scratch of his pen breaks the silence.
"Honey." I say trying to get his attention
"Yes?" His voice is distant — cool, like he's still halfway inside whatever mess he's dealing with on paper.
"I was wondering if you'd like some coffee?"
"sure. the usual, please."
"sure thing, sweetheart."I say in the sweetest voice i can muster
I reach for his cup, still warm from the last refill, and head downstairs to the kitchen — heels clicking quietly against the marble.
I look around the mansion — no matter how many times I've walked these halls, it still takes my breath away.
I step inside the kitchen , still thinking about Damian's cold voice upstairs.
My heel hits the slick marble just wrong.
In an instant, my foot slips out from under me — the world tilts — and the cup flies from my hand.
It shatters as it hits the floor, the sound sharp.
I land hard on my side, breath knocked out of me, the sting of the fall flaring through my hip and elbow. For a second, I just lie there, stunned, staring at the fractured porcelain spreading like spiderwebs across the marble.
Damian's cup. Broken.
Perfect.
One of the servants — a beautiful young girl — rushed over, wide-eyed.
She helped me to my feet with surprising strength and muttered a quick, breathless apology. Then her gaze fell to the shattered cup.
Without hesitation, she held out her hand. A soft glow shimmered from beneath her clothing — and from her eyes.The fragments of the cup trembled… and knit themselves back together until it looked untouched.For a brief moment, glowing letters pulsed faintly under her skin: "Домовой."
"Ah," I said, brushing dust from my dress. "A Domovoi, am I correct?"
"That's correct, Mrs. Solano," she replied, calm and respectful.
"Well… thank you for your help," I said with a practiced smile. "I need to get back to making coffee for Damian."
She gave a polite nod and stepped aside.
With a single click, the machine buzzed to life. The scent of rich espresso filled the kitchen as I stood, one hand pressed to the sore spot on my hip. I groaned quietly, still aching from the fall, and made my way upstairs — the warm cup in hand, my pride slightly bruised.
"Here's your coffee, sweetheart," I said, wincing as I handed it to him.
Damian finally looked up from his work, concern flashing in his eyes."Are you hurt, baby?"
"Yes," I replied, blunt and tired. "I slipped on the freshly mopped marble tiles in the kitchen."
"Come here, baby." His voice softened, a rare note of sympathy in it.
He reached out, pulling me gently into a careful hug. One hand cradled the side of my face, his thumb brushing lightly along my cheek. And then he kissed me — slow, deep, and intoxicating.
"Thank you, baby," he whispered.
And even now — even with the cold distance he usually kept —I still get butterflies.