Page 177 of My Ruthless Husband

He steps deeper into the room. I watch as he steps closer, looming over me. “Coming?”

“You don’t usually… You’re always…” My words trail off, my eyes dropping to the floor.

“I’m here now.” Gently, he lifts my chin, tipping my face up. There’s no smile—just determination in his gaze.

My heart flutters. “I… I could eat.”

A glimmer of satisfaction settles in his eyes, and before I can process, he bends, brushing his lips against mine, soft and gentle. When he pulls back, his thumb gently grazes my jaw.

He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine as he guides me to my feet and pulls me out of the room behind him. Thank God there aren’t any mirrors in the hallway, because I’m sure I’m sporting a silly grin on my face and I don’t wish to see it.

After breakfast, Damian rises and extends his bandaged hand toward me. I hesitate, standing up without taking it, and his jaw tightens as if he thinks I’ve rejected him. But before he can pull away, I step forward and take his uninjured hand, slipping my fingers around his.

The tension in his face disappears in an instant. He squeezes my hand, then, without another word, leads me toward the left wing.

“Remember the surprise I mentioned?”

I nod shyly. After last night’s dinner, I’d expected Damian to retreat back to his usual, reserved self. But he didn’t. He didn’t let me keep my distance in our bed, either. The rest of the evening may have passed in tense silence, but the moment we were alone in the bedroom, he reached for me, and I went to him without hesitation.

I still don’t know what tomorrow holds for us or why he despises my father. But last night, I came to understand one thing with absolute certainty: Damian wants me. He cares in his own twisted way. I saw it in his eyes and felt it in every touch. And that has changed something in me. Knowing he truly wants me in his life, that he called me his present and future, has affected me deeply. I may not settle for the bare minimum, but for now, I’ve let myself enjoy what we have in the present.

“Close your eyes,” he says as we stop before a closed door.

“Why?”

He arches an eyebrow—a silent but clear demand to do as I’m told.

I can’t resist teasing him. “Don’t tell me you have a playroom too.”

A laugh slips out as his expression twists in confusion.

“A what?”

“Nothing,” I say, stifling another laugh as I close my eyes.

I hear the door creak open, feel his hand guiding me forward, and then he stops.

“Open.”

As I blink open my eyes, the first thing that hits me is the light—brilliant, streaming through the tall, arched windows.

My heart skips at the sight as I take in the space around me.

In one corner, I spot a sturdy pottery wheel, surrounded by neatly stacked bags of clay in different colors. Just beyond that, a workbench sprawls out, lined with an array of sculpting tools. Wooden modeling tools, metal scrapers, and carving knives—all neatly arranged.

A cozy nook catches my eye, featuring a big, inviting chair and a low table. I can picture myself holed up in here.

He gave me my very own art studio.

I turn to him, my throat tight with emotion. “You… did this for me?”

“Even though this entire place is yours, I wanted you to have a sanctuary—somewhere you can escape and feel completely at home.”

“A sanctuary…”

“And I’m having one built back at the mansion too.”

“Why?”

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