It had been a month since his marriage to Cassandra Evelyn—a beautiful woman with artistic talent inherited from her mother, who was also a renowned artist. This marriage could be considered a temporary agreement for both businesses between their fathers, who ultimately agreed.

Their married life proceeded as if they were each living their own lives, not like a married couple.

Damian had given his wife space during this time, but maintained his obligations as a husband, silently demonstrated in small actions. He never pressured her into this marriage; her choice was hers, not his.

As time passed, they don't deny that the cold turns into warmth.

That evening in a mansion, Damian had just returned from court. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants; his suit had been removed and left on the sofa a few minutes ago. He held white porcelain cups, one chamomile tea and one black coffee, as he headed towards a room through the hallway heading to the painting studio. The door opened, and Cassandra was there. Sitting on a wooden chair, her body facing the large canvas that stood firmly before her. A soft satin nightgown embraced her body, falling lightly along each line without trying to draw attention to herself. Her right hand held a brush, applying each color of paint with skillful movements.

He walked to the side of the table, unobtrusively placing a porcelain cup filled with her favorite chamomile tea on the wooden table. Standing behind her looking at the half-finished canvas.

"Martha said you skipped dinner," he muttered, still holding his coffee cup. "And you've been here for hours without eating anything."