The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the breakfast table set for two. Silverware glinted, the scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and Aria sat quietly, buttering a croissant as if she hadn’t stepped into a cold war disguised as a marriage.

Damian sat across from her, unreadable behind his espresso cup. His dark suit was crisp, his tie immaculate, his hair a little tousled from the rush of the morning—but his eyes weren’t on his phone or the newspaper.

They were on her.

Lingering. Assessing.

She wore a soft blush blouse tucked into high-waisted linen trousers, her long hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck. No makeup, except for a soft rose lip balm. Her skin glowed with a kind of quiet defiance, and there was a graceful elegance in her stillness.

Her beauty wasn’t the loud kind. It whispered.

Soft curves. Intelligent eyes. A mouth that looked like it was made to argue and kiss in equal measure. She made him feel what he didn't want to.

Damian clenched his jaw.

Beautiful. Too beautiful.

He cleared his throat and reached for the sleek black folder placed beside his plate.

“We need to talk about boundaries,” he said without looking at her.

Aria raised an eyebrow, slicing into her fruit.

“Oh good. I was hoping we’d get to the exciting part of this marriage, eventually.”

He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

“First,” he said, flipping the folder open, “you will not enter my study, or any locked room. I believe I made that clear yesterday, but let this serve as a written reinforcement.”

She dipped her spoon into her yogurt. “Why am I not surprised.”

His eyes flicked up. Briefly. The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He continued. “You will not touch, move, or interfere with any of my personal belongings. You will not answer my calls. You will not pry into my affairs—professional or personal.”

“Do I get to make rules too, or is this dictatorship-style?”

“You’re free to exist within your designated areas. Think of it as... cohabitating with a stranger under mutual terms.”

“Charming.” She dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin. “Well then, here are mine.”

He stilled.

“You didn't think I had conditions of my own?” She huffed. “I’m going back to work,” she said, voice calm but firm. “My floral shop needs me. I’m not going to sit around this mansion like a porcelain doll collecting dust. I run a business, and I won’t let it collapse because I married a man who thinks flowers are beneath him.”

He arched a brow. “You think I don’t respect flowers?”

“I know you don’t respect anything you don’t control,” she countered smoothly.

Silence stretched.

Then he leaned back, studying her.

“You’re...not what I expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t,” he said. “It wasn’t one.”

She stood, brushing crumbs from her blouse.

“I’ll be leaving in thirty minutes. I assume you assigned a driver to me?”

“Ms. Hayes will inform him.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back late.”

He tilted his head. “You assume I care?”

“No,” she said sweetly, “but if you come home and I’m not in bed, I wouldn’t want you thinking I broke another rule.”

Then she turned and walked out of the dining room, hips swaying just enough to let him know she wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

And maybe… she never had been.

The shop was a balm.

The scent of roses, peonies, and fresh-cut greenery wrapped around her like an old friend. She greeted her staff, updated inventory, made arrangements for an afternoon wedding delivery, and smiled for the first time in two days.

Here, she was Aria—the creative, soft-spoken woman with calluses on her fingers and ideas blooming in her brain. Not the bride of a billionaire iceberg.

Zara called around noon.

“So,” Zara drawled, “how’s married life with Lord Glacius?”

“Lord glacius?” Aria laughed. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

“That's the only name I could come up with.” Zara said dramatically

“Its Like sharing a bed with an ice sculpture,” Aria said, arranging a bouquet of wild lavender and garden roses.

Zara cackled. “Have you stabbed him with a salad fork yet?”

“Tempting, but no. Though I did stun him with my brilliance over breakfast. I think he taught that I was quiet and dumb. He laid out a manifesto like I was a national security risk, and I told him I was going back to work.”

“Bold. I love it. Does he know how hot you are when you’re in CEO mode?”

“I don’t think he notices anything but control,” Aria muttered, eyeing the clock. “Anyway. I’m surviving. Mostly.”

They chatted for a while before she hung up, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

Zara always made her feel braver.

She stayed until the last customer left.

The drive home was quiet. The mansion loomed under the moonlight, grand and cold as ever. The housekeeper had left her a covered dinner on the table—a grilled chicken salad and sparkling water. Damian wasn’t home.

No surprise.

She ate in silence. Showered. Changed into her soft cotton sleepwear—an off-the-shoulder top and shorts—and curled into bed with a worn poetry book.

Her body was tired.

Her heart, more so.

Eventually, sleep claimed her.

At Midnight.

The front door clicked open.

Damian stepped inside, the soft thud of his shoes echoing in the marble foyer. He’d had meetings that bled into late dinners. He hadn’t thought of her.

That’s what he told himself.

But now, standing outside the bedroom door, hand on the knob… he hesitated.

He stepped inside quietly.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and honey. The lights were off, except for the dim bedside lamp she’d left on. And there she was.

Curled on her side. Long hair spread across the pillow. One arm tucked beneath her cheek. Her lips slightly parted in sleep.

He stood there for a long moment, looking at her.

Noticing things he shouldn’t.

The way her breath rose and fell. The faint line between her brows. The curve of her bare shoulder under the sheets.

She looked... peaceful.

Vulnerable.

Human.

Not the manipulative woman he believed her to be.

Not the one who ruined his sister.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Don’t fall for her,” he muttered under his breath, voice quiet and rough. “You can’t.”

But even as he crossed the room and sank into the armchair across from the bed…

He knew.

He already was.

Outside the room, in the shadowed hallway, Ms. Hayes watched the door with narrowed eyes.

And in her hand… was a phone with a photo of Elena and a girl beside her.

Aria woke with a strange stillness hanging in the air. The side of the bed where Damian usually slept was rumpled, but when she reached out, the sheets were cold. He had been gone for hours.

She sat up slowly, brushing her tangled hair from her face. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the bedroom, illuminating the elegant molding and muted tones of the walls. For a moment, she let herself forget where she was. Then the memory of yesterday—the rules, the tension, the locked door with Elena engraved on the plate—came rushing back like an icy wave.

She climbed out of bed and made her way to the en-suite bathroom. After a long, hot shower and dressing in a soft floral dress that flowed just pat her mid thigh, she stepped into nude sandals and applied light makeup. She might be trapped in a cold marriage, but she refused to look like it.

The scent of eggs and freshly brewed coffee led her downstairs. She paused at the foot of the grand staircase, took a breath, and then entered the sunlit breakfast room.

Damian was already there, seated at the long mahogany table with his phone in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. He glanced up at the sound of her heels, and for a fraction of a second, something in his eyes softened.

But it vanished so quickly she wondered if she imagined it.

“You’re late,” he said, taking a sip of juice.

“I didn’t know there was a schedule to waking up,” she replied with a cool smile.

His gaze traveled down the length of her figure before returning to her face. “That dress is inappropriate.”

She arched a brow and sat across from him. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a distraction,” he muttered.

“To you, maybe.” She reached for a piece of toast. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he set his glass down with a soft clink and folded his arms. “We need to discuss your movements.”

“Am I on house arrest now?”

“No. But I’ve assigned you a bodyguard.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Jaxon,” he said. “My head of security. He’ll be with you wherever you go. Starting today.”

“I know you are joking, right?” she said, half-laughing.

Damain started at her blankly.

“You’re assigning me a babysitter?” she nearly shouted.

“I’m assigning someone to ensure you are safe, and make sure you don’t stir trouble.”

“Right,” she said, voice tight. “Because heaven forbid I water lilies unchaperoned.”

At that moment, a tall, broad-shouldered man entered the room, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal-grey shirt with a clean-cut jawline and military precision in every step. He looked like he’d rather be walking into a warzone than a domestic breakfast scene.

“This is Jaxon,” Damian said. “He answers to me.”

“Clearly,” Jaxon muttered under his breath.

Aria tried not to laugh. Oh, she liked him already.

Jaxon glanced at her, gave a curt nod, and looked back at Damian. “You want me following her around flower arrangements now? Really?”

“She’s my wife,” Damian replied. “Which means she’s now a target.”

Jaxon’s jaw clenched. “Fine.”

Aria stood. “Well, Jaxon. I’ll be at my shop. I suggest you bring a book. It’s going to be a long, uneventful day.”

The morning air was crisp as Aria stepped out of the town car in front of her flower shop in Brooklyn The building stood just as she left it—welcoming, colorful, and warm, like a piece of her heart she’d tried to keep untouched.

Inside, the familiar scents of lavender, eucalyptus, and fresh roses greeted her. Jaxon followed like a silent shadow, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the shop like it was a military post.

“This place smells weird,” he grunted.

“It’s a flower shop,” she replied. “It’s supposed to.”

He didn’t respond. Just leaned against a wall and stared at the passersby through the shop window.

Around midday, the bell above the door chimed, and Zara burst in like a glittering hurricane in a leopard-print blouse and oversized sunglasses.

“There she is!” Zara threw her arms around Aria dramatically. “Married and hiding from your best friend.”

“I’m not hiding. I was going to come see you,” Aria said, hugging her tightly. “It just… happened.”

Zara pulled back, holding her by the shoulders. “Do I need to stage an intervention? Is this man keeping you in a tower?”

“More like a mansion with mood lighting and emotional repression.”

Zara laughed. “You don’t look miserable, though. Actually, you look kind of—” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Is that a bodyguard?”

Aria turned to see Jaxon glaring at them from the far wall. Zara raised her brows.

“He looks like he’d kill a man with a spoon.”

“He probably has,” Aria muttered.

They talked and laughed until the sun began to set. Aria felt something inside her slowly ease, like a tight knot uncoiling in her chest. This—this was normal. This was who she was.

“Come on,” Zara said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll drive you back to your castle.”

They stepped outside, chatting as they reached Zara’s sleek black car. The ride back was filled with laughter and Zara teasing her about being a ‘mafia princess.’ As they pulled up to the mansion’s grand entrance, Jaxon stepped out of a separate security car and stalked toward them.

“Oh right. I forgot about the babysitter,” Zara muttered under her breath, then turned to Jaxon. “Don’t worry, I didn’t try to kidnap her.”

Jaxon narrowed his eyes. “Next time, don’t take detours.”

“Oh, I like him,” Zara said dryly. “He’s got the charm of a rabid porcupine.”

“And you’ve got the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Go home.” he shot back.

Sparks flew. Or rather, knives did.

Aria stood between them, amused and slightly horrified.

“Well,” she said, opening the door, “this should be fun.”

Zara blew her a kiss and drove off, leaving Jaxon glaring after her.

Aria entered the mansion with a faint smile tugging at her lips. Something told her that her best friend had just met her match.

Back in the grand hallway, Jaxon turned to Damian, who was waiting with a glass of scotch in hand. He had come home early today.

“She’s sharp,” Jaxon said.

Damian didn’t look up. “Keep a close eye on her. I want everything reported to me.”

“She’s not what you think,” Jaxon added.

Damian’s gaze darkened. “Neither was my sister.”

Morning sunlight filtered through the tall curtains of the breakfast room, catching in the crystal glasses and glinting off polished silverware. Aria sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, sipping her tea slowly. She had grown used to the awkward silences of this house—the oppressive stillness that clung to the air like invisible chains. Damian was already there, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his usual scowl in place as he scrolled through his phone.

She placed her cup down. “Good morning,” she said, her voice polite but flat.

He didn’t look up. “Good morning. You are coming with me to a gala tonight .”

Aria blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said casually, still scrolling. “There’s a charity gala at the Astoria Hotel. You’re my wife now. I need to introduce you to a few people. It's important you come.”

Aria stared at him, then let out a humorless laugh. “You can't be serious Damian. You’re telling me this now? At breakfast? The same morning as the event?”

“Yes.”

“And where exactly am I supposed to magically find a gown in, oh, less than twelve hours?” she demanded.

Damian finally looked up, his dark eyes cutting into hers. “You’ll have one.”

She folded her arms. “You could have given me some notice.”

“You’ll manage.”

“No,” she said firmly, surprising even herself. “I’m not a doll you can just parade around at your convenience. If you want me to play the perfect wife in public, the least you can do is—”

He cut her off, his tone razor-sharp. “I’ll send a stylist to the house by five. There will be gowns delivered for you to choose from. Be home before then.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Damian said, leaning back in his chair with a confidence that infuriated her. “And I will.”

Aria glared at him, trying to fight the rising frustration. “You are—so unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the kind of smirk that suggested he knew exactly how much he was getting under her skin. “Yet you’ll be there.”

She huffed, snatched a piece of toast, and muttered under her breath, “I need more strength for this marriage.”

By late morning, she was at her flower shop, arranging hydrangeas into delicate bouquets while Jaxon leaned against the doorframe like a dark, brooding statue.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Aria said as she trimmed a stem.

“I’m paid to keep you alive, not to chat,” Jaxon replied without looking up from his phone.

“Well, your face could use some practice smiling.”

He glanced at her. “Not in the job description.”

“Maybe it should be,” she said, placing the flowers into a vase. “You look like a man who hasn’t seen a rainbow in years.”

Jaxon grunted, which she took as progress.

“So, do you hate this assignment,” she asked, “or do you just hate me?”

His brow arched. “Neither. I just think guarding you is a waste of my skill set.”

“Flattering,” she said dryly. “Next time I’ll try to get kidnapped to make your day more interesting.”

That almost made him laugh—almost. “Don’t,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Aria shook her head and turned her attention back to her work. The shop filled with soft music and the gentle rustle of flowers, but her mind kept circling back to Damian’s demand. A gala. With him. Meeting so many people that are socially and financially above her. The thought made her stomach twist.

By five o’clock, Aria returned to the mansion, exhausted and anxious. True to Damian’s word, a team of stylists and assistants were already waiting in the grand foyer. The lead stylist—a chic woman in her forties with an accent Aria couldn’t quite place—ushered her upstairs.

“Mr. Damian said you need to look exquisite tonight,” she said briskly. “We brought twelve gowns.”

“Twelve?” Aria asked, stunned.

“It was all we could find on short notice.Try them all,” the woman insisted. “We’ll choose the one that fit you best.”

Aria raised a brow but didn’t argue. Two hours later, she stood in front of a full-length mirror, transformed. The gown they’d chosen was midnight blue, fitted at the bodice, flowing out into a dramatic train. Tiny crystals caught the light with every movement. Her hair, normally loose waves, had been styled into soft dark curls that framed her face perfectly. Her lips were painted a muted rose, her eyes lined subtly but effectively. For the first time since she’d entered Damian’s cold mansion, she felt… beautiful.

She hesitated at the top of the sweeping staircase when she heard voices below—Damian’s deep baritone and Jaxon giving him some kind of security update. Taking a breath, she stepped forward, the gown whispering against each step as she descended.

Both men turned.

Damian froze.

For a fraction of a second, all the cold arrogance in his face melted away. His eyes widened slightly, and something dark and unreadable flickered there. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then seemed to catch himself, his jaw tightening.

“You’re late,” he said instead.

Aria bit back a laugh. “Its just 13 minutes.”

He didn’t reply. He just turned on his heel and said, “Let’s go.”

The gala was a shimmering display of wealth and power—crystal chandeliers, golden accents, and guests in couture gowns mingling with champagne glasses in hand. Damian’s presence was magnetic; people gravitated toward him, offering greetings, handshakes, and the occasional nervous laugh. Aria stayed at his side, smiling politely as he introduced her to business partners, investors, and people whose names she instantly forgot.

“This is my wife, Aria,” he said repeatedly, each time with a tone that sounded more like a statement of ownership than affection.

Aria forced herself to smile and nod. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You picked well,” one older man said to Damian with a laugh. “Didn’t think you’d ever settle down.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Didn’t think so either.”

Aria excused herself to grab some water, and when she returned, she noticed the sudden tension in his posture. A tall woman with flawless skin, sharp cheekbones, and a dangerously confident smile stood in front of him.

“Selene,” Damian said flatly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Selene.

The way he said her name.

She laughed softly. “Still so formal. Hello, Damian.”

Aria slowed her steps, curiosity prickling at her skin. Selene was stunning, the kind of beauty that turned heads without trying. She reached out and touched Damian’s arm like she had every right to.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Selene said, glancing briefly at Aria before looking back at him. “She’s…cute. Not usually your type tho.”

Aria’s stomach twisted.

Damian’s voice was low, controlled. “Selene, now isn’t the time.”

“But it’s been so long,” she purred. “I miss you. And I know you miss me too.”

Aria froze mid-step.

Before she could process what was happening, Selene leaned forward and kissed him.

Aria’s breath caught. The room blurred as she watched the woman’s lips press against her husband’s. Damian didn’t push Selene away—not immediately. He stood still for a second too long, and that second was all it took to shatter something inside Aria.

Her throat burned. She turned on her heel, heels clicking furiously against the marble floor.

She didn’t stop to look back. She didn’t care if anyone saw. She just needed to get out before the tears spilling into her eyes betrayed her.