Enemies in One Bed

"Some wars are fought in silence, and some in satin sheets."

The storm hit just before midnight.

Wind howled against the glass walls of the Velasco estate, shaking tree branches and sending rain lashing sideways across the wide balcony. Thunder cracked over Tagaytay's cliffs, loud and sudden like a cannonball through a dream.

Lyra flinched awake in her room on the east wing.

She sat up, her breath catching as the lights flickered. Then—darkness.

A power outage.

Within seconds, the emergency lights blinked on—low, red, and faint. Cold air crept in through the cracks beneath the balcony doors.

Her fingers instinctively went to her phone.

Dead.

She blinked.

No power. No backup. No signal.

Odd.

Very odd.

She reached for her robe and moved quietly through the hallway, the silk whispering around her ankles. The estate was eerily quiet, save for the wind rattling glass and the soft hum of emergency power.

The main corridor leading to Dominic's private wing was locked, as expected.

She was about to turn back—until she heard the faint echo of a door opening.

And then his voice. Calm. Irritated. Familiar.

"Lucas, I need status in five."

She followed the sound.

Dominic stood in the hallway, barefoot and shirtless, his phone pressed to his ear. Even under soft red light, he looked carved from obsidian—shadows catching the lines of muscle, collarbones taut, jaw set.

His eyes found her the moment she appeared.

"You're awake," he said.

"There's a storm. No signal. Your east wing is freezing."

He ended the call.

"The power grid's out. Even the backup system failed—likely a blown transformer nearby. Lucas is handling it."

She crossed her arms. "Should I assume I'll be sleeping with icicles tonight?"

A flicker of something passed across his face.

"I have a guest room connected to my suite," he said. "The heating still works there."

She raised a brow. "You're inviting me into the Ice King's domain?"

His tone was flat. "Unless you'd prefer to freeze."

The guest room was warm, as promised.

Smaller than she expected. Quieter. No glass walls. Just muted lighting, dark wood, and soft linen sheets. Still impersonal, but lived in—subtly.

Dominic handed her a folded blanket.

"I'll take the couch."

She paused. "You do realize we're supposed to be married, right?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "And?"

"And your PR team would faint if they knew you slept on the couch while your wife had an entire bed to herself."

He said nothing for a moment. Then he stepped back inside and closed the door.

She raised an eyebrow.

"So now we're sharing?"

"We're adults," he replied. "Just don't snore."

She laughed—genuinely, and more sharply than she meant to. "If I did, I'd weaponize it."

They lay in silence.

Two feet apart on a bed wide enough for six. Neither one moved. Neither one relaxed.

Thunder cracked again outside.

She turned toward him, staring at the outline of his jaw in the dark.

"You're not afraid of storms?" she asked softly.

"No."

"You don't talk much when you're not barking orders."

"No."

Another pause.

"You always this charming?"

He shifted. "Only for contract wives."

She smiled, just slightly. "Lucky me."

Silence stretched between them like an electric wire.

And then—

"You said something earlier," Dominic said suddenly. "About burying a name."

Lyra blinked. "Yes."

"Whose name?"

She hesitated. Her body tensed, but she forced her voice steady.

"My own."

He didn't reply right away.

Then, after what felt like a full minute: "What happened to her?"

She rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling.

"She died. In a fire."

Another pause.

Dominic didn't ask more. Maybe because he knew the tone. Maybe because he, too, had ghosts buried in locked rooms.

Maybe because the look in her eyes told him the answer didn't belong to him.

But something in the air shifted then—not trust. Not yet.

Just… an unspoken acknowledgment.

Two people lying side by side in the dark, surrounded by power, but both very, very human underneath.

The next morning, she awoke to sunlight spilling through sheer curtains.

Dominic was gone.

The bed was cold where he had been.

But there was a single folded note on her nightstand in neat, slanted handwriting.

Breakfast at 8. We're expected at the PSE gala by 6. A car will be ready. — D.

Lyra stared at the note for a long moment, running her thumb over the clean fold.

A strange feeling tugged at her chest. Familiar. Unwelcome.

She crushed it instantly.

This was a game.

A contract.

And no matter how warm the bed or how sharp the man—

She was still the woman with a mission.

Still the girl who had burned and rebuilt herself from ashes.

No distractions.

Not even the ones with eyes that could cut straight through her armor.

They had shared a bed… but they hadn't touched. And yet, something had shifted that neither of them would admit—least of all to themselves.