Chapter Five: Cracks in the Mask

The next morning, Lia found herself up earlier than usual. The sky beyond the tall windows was still dusted with blue-gray light, and the city hadn't quite woken up. She moved through the kitchen quietly, brewing a pot of chamomile tea the way Gloria had taught her. The housekeeper had insisted on taking the morning off, something about giving the "young miss a chance to play nurse properly."

She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she didn't mind.

Balancing a tray, Lia walked into Damien's room. He was sitting up already, propped against the headboard with a file open on his lap. His glasses... she hadn't known he wore any, rested low on his nose.

"You shouldn't be working," she said, setting the tray down beside him.

He glanced up. "Good morning to you, too."

"You look like a stressed librarian."

He raised a brow. "That's oddly specific."

She shrugged. "I call it like I see it."

He chuckled, soft, dry, but real. She handed him the tea. Their fingers brushed, and neither of them pulled away quickly enough.

Silence fell between them again, the kind where words were unnecessary. Lia sat on the armchair beside the bed and picked up the book she'd been reading aloud to him. But before she could open it, he spoke.

"When I was a kid, I was sick a lot."

She blinked. He never offered pieces of his past.

"I'd stay home from school for weeks sometimes. High fevers, asthma attacks, my parents didn't even notice half the time. My nanny did more parenting than they ever did."

Lia's heart clenched. "Is that why you never ask for help?"

His lips thinned. "It never felt worth it. You learn to manage alone."

She wanted to say something comforting, something meaningful, but all she could offer was presence. She reached out, resting her hand over his gently.

"You don't have to manage alone now."

Damien looked at her, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them.

Maybe it was the intimacy of shared quiet. Maybe it was the vulnerability neither of them dared name. But for the first time since their contract began, the cold edges between them started to melt.

A few hours later, Vanessa called.

Lia didn't intend to eavesdrop, but when Damien's voice snapped sharply through the cracked door, her instincts kicked in.

"No, Vanessa. I told you not to call here." A pause. "This isn't about you anymore."

Silence.

"I'm not interested. I've moved on."

Another pause.

"Goodbye."

Lia slipped away before he could catch her listening. Her heart beat unevenly. She didn't want to admit it, but hearing him say it, "I've moved on" sparked something warm and fluttery in her chest.

But she knew better than to believe words spoken in anger.

That night, Gloria returned with chicken broth and fresh towels. Damien had recovered enough to walk short distances, and Lia caught him in the hallway after dinner.

"You look better," she said, leaning against the wall.

He studied her face. "You look tired."

"I've been taking care of a grumpy billionaire. What's your excuse?"

He smirked but then turned serious. "I meant what I said earlier. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me."

Lia's smile faded slightly. "Why would I?"

"Most people do."

She stepped closer. "Well, I'm not most people."

Their eyes met. His hand lifted as if to brush her cheek, but he hesitated halfway.

"I'm not good at this," he said quietly.

"Neither am I," she replied.

And maybe that was enough.

By the end of the week, Damien was back to full strength. The old walls started to creep up again, he returned to the office, the schedule, the cold demeanor.

But now, Lia could see the effort it took him to maintain it.

She noticed the hesitation in his steps, the way his eyes lingered on her when he thought she wasn't looking. She saw the way his fingers grazed the edge of her teacup each morning, as if remembering their brief moments of tenderness.

The cracks hadn't disappeared.

They had simply shifted.

One evening, as Lia stepped out of her shower, a small envelope sat on her dresser. Her name written in clean, deliberate script.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

A thank-you dinner. Just us. No contracts, no expectations. Tomorrow at 7.

—D.

She reread it

twice, fingers trembling slightly.

The mask was breaking.

And she wasn't sure she wanted it to go back on.