I froze at my own question. "Aren't I and Mr. Crew supposed to be sharing a room?"
Rosa's smile faltered for just a second before she caught herself. "Mr. Crew has his own wing," she said carefully. "This room is yours alone. He doesn't... share space with anyone."
I didn't know if that made me relax or worry more. Maybe both.
"Oh," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
"Come, let's get you fed and washed up. You've had a long day." Rosa guided me back into the bedroom and helped me undo the corset of buttons running down the back of the wedding dress. Each one felt like it was undoing a piece of the day, like I was slowly stepping out of the fake bride and back into just Silveria.
The shower was hot and the water pressure strong, nothing like the trickle we had back at the Hitler house where Lilibeth always took the water heater for herself first. I stood there longer than I needed to, letting the water run over my shoulders, over the red mark still stinging faintly on my cheek from where Mom had slapped me.
I kept thinking about the man in the tailored suit. Mr. Suit. He had spoken for Damien Crew like it was nothing new, like this was routine. Did Damien Crew send substitutes to his own wedding often? Or was I the substitute of a substitute, someone standing in for someone who didn't even bother to stand in himself?
I laughed a little at that thought, alone in the shower, because if I didn't laugh I was going to cry, and I'd promised myself in front of that mirror this morning that I wouldn't cry in front of anyone from the Hitler house ever again.
By the time I came out, wrapped in a robe softer than anything I'd ever touched, a tray of food was waiting on the small table by the window. Rosa had left quietly, giving me space. I sat and ate slowly, rice with grilled chicken and a side of vegetables, plated so pretty it looked more like art than dinner. I hadn't eaten anything since the morning. My stomach had been too tight with nerves.
When I was done, I climbed into the enormous bed by myself, wondering if Damien Crew was even in the house. Wondering if I'd ever actually see his face.
I didn't get an answer that night. Sleep took me before my thoughts could spiral any further.
• • •
I woke up to soft knocking. Sunlight was already streaming through the curtains, and for a second I forgot where I was. Then it all came rushing back, the wedding, the empty side of the closet, Mr. Suit, this house.
"Come in," I called out, voice still rough with sleep.
Rosa entered with a fresh set of clothes draped over her arm. "Good morning, Mrs. Crew. I hope you slept well."
"I did, thank you." I sat up, pulling the blanket around myself. "Rosa, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Have you ever seen Mr. Crew? Like... actually seen his face?"
Rosa's hands paused on the dress she was laying out. "I have, yes. I've worked for the Crew family for almost fifteen years."
"What's he like?"
She considered the question a moment too long before answering. "He's... quiet. Serious. He doesn't waste words on things that don't matter to him." She hesitated again. "He's not what the rumors say, though. Not a demon. Just a man who's been hurt so many times he stopped letting people close enough to hurt him again."
I sat with that for a moment. It was strange, hearing someone defend him so gently when the whole city painted him as some kind of monster.
"Will I meet him today?"
"That, I can't say," Rosa admitted. "He keeps his own schedule. But Benson mentioned he wants to see you in his study before noon. Something about house rules."
House rules. Of course. I wasn't a wife. I was staff with a title.
I got dressed in the outfit Rosa had picked, simple, elegant, nothing like the gaudy things Lilibeth used to force me into when she wanted me to look bad standing next to her. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, I looked... presentable. Like a person and not a shadow.
At exactly eleven, Benson came to walk me to the study. My hands were sweating the entire way there, my heart thudding like a drum in my chest. I didn't know what to expect. A monster? A stranger? Someone worse than my own adoptive parents?
Benson knocked twice on a heavy wooden door before opening it and stepping aside for me to enter.
The study was dim, lit mostly by the light filtering through half-closed blinds. Bookshelves lined one wall from floor to ceiling. A large desk sat near the window, and behind it, a man was seated with his back partially turned, looking out at the garden.
"Mrs. Crew is here, sir," Benson announced, then quietly left, closing the door behind him.
I stood there, frozen, waiting.
The chair slowly turned.
I don't know what I expected. Scars, some kind of visible proof of the tragedy the rumors always talked about, but what I saw was just... a man. A devastatingly handsome man, sharp jaw, dark eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and decided to stop feeling anything about it. He wore a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, nothing flashy about him at all. And yet the air around him felt heavy, like the whole room bent slightly toward him.
"Sit," he said. Not a request.
I sat.
His eyes studied me for a long moment, unreadable. "You're not Lilibeth Hitler."
My stomach dropped straight to my feet. "I—"
"Save it," he cut in, voice flat. "I already know. My assistant confirmed it last night. The real Lilibeth Hitler fled the country with her modeling director sometime yesterday morning."
I sat there in stunned silence, waiting for the anger, waiting for him to throw me out onto the street, waiting for the humiliation of a second rejection in two days.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair. "Doesn't matter to me who stood at that altar. I didn't go because I don't care about weddings, alliances, or any of the theatre my grandfather insists on. What matters is the contract between the Crew and Hitler families is fulfilled. A marriage happened. My grandfather is satisfied. That's the end of it."
"You... you're not upset?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
"Should I be?" His tone was almost bored. "You're a stranger to me either way. Lilibeth Hitler, Silveria Hitler, makes no difference. I don't intend on knowing either of you."
That should have relieved me. Instead, it stung in a way I didn't expect.
"This marriage is a transaction," he continued, sliding a folder across the desk toward me. "Read it. Sign it. You'll receive an allowance, a room, staff at your disposal, and my name for as long as this arrangement benefits both families. In exchange, you stay out of my way, you don't embarrass the Crew name in public, and you don't ask questions about my life. Are we clear?"
I opened the folder with trembling hands. It was a full contract, pages of legal language, but the terms were simple enough once I found them. A contract marriage. An expiration built into the wording "until such circumstances change" vague enough that I didn't fully understand what it meant, but clear enough that this was never meant to be permanent.
"How long?" I asked.
"Undetermined," he said. "Until my grandfather is satisfied the alliance served its purpose, or until Lilibeth Hitler returns and wishes to reclaim her place, whichever comes first."
I felt something twist inside me at that. So I really was just a placeholder. A body standing in the gap until the real bride decided to come back.
I should have expected it. I did expect it. Somehow it still hurt to hear it said so plainly.
"Sign it," he said again, sliding a pen toward me.
My hand hovered over the paper. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my mother's voice echoed *you'll get married to Damien Crew today, and that's final* and my father's *this marriage is an alliance, our company will skyrocket* and I realized, sitting in that quiet study with a stranger who didn't even want to know my name properly, that I had never once been given a choice in my entire life.
But this contract, as cold as it was, came with something I never had before. A room of my own. Staff who spoke to me kindly. An allowance. Distance from the people who made every day of my life a small, quiet war.
I picked up the pen and signed.
Damien Crew watched me the entire time, expression unreadable, and when I set the pen down, he simply said, "Good. Benson will give you a tour of the property. You're free to use any part of the house except my private wing and this study. Meals are optional together, my schedule is unpredictable, don't wait on me."
"Understood," I said quietly.
He turned back to his window, already done with me, already back to whatever thoughts had occupied him before I walked in. I stood, unsure whether I should say something more, but nothing came, so I simply left.
The moment I was outside the study, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
That was Damien Crew. My husband on paper. A man made entirely of ice.