The Cold Heir and the Hacked Heart

Friday morning was crisp, the kind of chill that made designer coats actually functional instead of just fashionable. Olivia stood beneath the grey stone pillars of the Civil Affairs Bureau, a pair of oversized sunglasses shielding most of her face, and a structured cream coat cinched at the waist giving her a kind of effortless poise.

She looked every bit the socialite bride—cool, disinterested, distant.

Damien Quinn pulled up in a sleek matte-black car, punctual to the second. He stepped out in a tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses as crisp as his jawline. For a moment, they simply regarded each other. There was no affection, no warmth. Just a quiet mutual acknowledgment of the storm they were willingly walking into.

"Ready?" he asked.

Olivia gave a single nod. "Let's get this done."

Inside, the process was strangely clinical. A bored-looking clerk handed over forms. Damien filled them with the same mechanical precision he likely used in boardroom contracts. Olivia signed her new name with a flick of the pen, feeling oddly detached, like watching someone else script her fate.

Rose Laurier was now legally Mrs. Quinn.

No photographers, no family, no declarations.

Just two forged signatures and a seal.

"Congratulations," the clerk muttered without glancing up.

They left the building in silence. The whole exchange had taken less than fifteen minutes.

Outside, Damien opened the car door for her. She stepped in wordlessly.

As the car pulled away from the curb, Olivia finally broke the silence.

"So what now? Do we announce this to the world and send the Whitmores into cardiac arrest?"

Damien didn't smile, but there was a slight lift at the corner of his mouth. "Eventually. But not yet."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Timing is everything," he said simply. "Right now, we both have appearances to maintain."

She nodded. It made sense. Rose couldn't break character yet, and Damien needed to work his angles too.

When the car came to a halt outside a busy intersection in front of a boutique investment firm, Olivia gathered her bag.

"I'll see you tonight?"

Damien nodded once. "I'll pick you up."

The day dragged.

Olivia kept her mind occupied. Meetings, digital tasks, and encrypting sensitive transfers in exchange for some quick crypto profit. She moved through the world like a well-rehearsed illusion—smiling when required, responding politely, but always watching.

Still, beneath the calm, her nerves stirred.

By evening, she had changed into a comfortable two-piece cashmere set, the color of storm clouds. Her hair fell in soft waves, her eyes lined with just enough kohl to look awake, but not overly made up. She was ready without looking like she tried to be.

At exactly 7:00 p.m., her phone buzzed.

Damien: I'm outside.

She stepped out of the penthouse and descended quietly. The car door opened smoothly as he greeted her with a silent nod. No words were exchanged during the short ride. But the air felt heavier, thick with anticipation neither of them admitted aloud.

When they pulled up to Damien's private residence—a glass tower nestled away from the city center—Olivia took in the building's elegance. Modern lines, obsidian glass, subtle warm lighting. Exclusive. Unwelcoming to most. Perfect for a man like Damien.

The elevator ride to the top was silent. Once the doors slid open, he led her into the penthouse.

"You'll stay here from now on," he said matter-of-factly. "This way."

He walked ahead, and she followed through the sleek corridor of the penthouse. The design was masculine and minimal—marble, steel, and deep woods—yet somehow not sterile. His presence echoed in every detail.

He stopped before a dark oak door and opened it.

Olivia stepped in.

It wasn't just a guest room.

It was a space clearly curated with care. The queen-sized bed was framed in soft upholstered panels. A walk-in closet stood half open, already filled with pieces in her size—a blend of Rose's signature style and practical comforts. A vanity sat in the corner with new skincare products and essentials. There was even a vintage book collection beside a reading nook, and a work desk with triple-monitor setup.

Her lips parted.

"You did all this..." she said quietly.

Damien leaned against the doorframe. "You'll need your tools. And your comfort."

She turned slowly in the room, fingertips brushing the back of the chair. "I didn't expect this."

He didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

Olivia looked over her shoulder at him, eyes softer now.

"You think of everything."

He gave a faint nod. "It's better if you work efficiently."

She almost smiled.

Almost.

"Thank you," she said, and meant it.

He gave a slight incline of his head, turned, and walked away.

She watched him disappear down the hallway, the soft click of his shoes fading into the distance.

She was officially a Quinn now.

And something in the air told her—this was only the beginning.

As she moved to unpack a few essentials, her phone buzzed again.

Elizabeth Laurier: "Don't forget tomorrow's gala. You're expected to look dazzling. Come home early in the morning. Your gown and stylist will be here to help. No excuses."

Another ping.

Elizabeth Laurier: "Anthony's parents have flown in. Make it count, Rose."

Olivia stared at the screen, her jaw tightening.

The war she had entered into had only just begun.