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.

The cold night air hit Aria like a slap as she rushed out of the grand, glittering ballroom. Her heels clicked against the marble steps as she descended, chest rising and falling with a silent fury. She stood just outside the gilded entrance, wrapped in shadows, the hum of the music fading behind her. Her hands trembled as she clutched her purse tighter, blinking rapidly to push back the sting in her eyes.

What was that?

What had she just witnessed?

Damian. Selene. And a f**king kiss.

The image scorched her mind again—Selene’s perfectly painted lips pressing against Damian’s like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

Inside, the mood in the ballroom shifted.

Damian pulled back roughly from Selene, wiping his mouth as if her touch disgusted him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Selene smiled, unfazed. “Oh, come on, Damian. Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me. We both know this... whatever this marriage is, it’s not real.”

His jaw clenched. “My marriage is none of your f**ing business. You cheated on me, Selene. There’s no ‘us’ to miss. Don’t ever pull a stunt like this ever again, or you will regret it.”

“Still so cold,” she whispered with a seductive edge, brushing a hand down his chest.

He pushed her hand away with finality, eyes already scanning the crowd, panic brewing in his chest.

Where was Aria?

He stormed toward the exit.

Aria stood by the valet podium, looking out at the city lights with her back stiff. She heard the heavy sound of footsteps and didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Look, that wasn’t—” Damian started, voice low, laced with something close to guilt.

Aria turned slowly, her expression a cool mask. “If you’re done with what you were doing, I’d like to go home now.”

Damian’s brows furrowed at her tone. Cold. Distant. That wasn’t the woman who’d just ran out of the ballroom.

He exhaled sharply and pulled out his phone. “Call my driver,” he told the valet.

The car ride back to the estate was silent. Not the comfortable kind—this silence was heavy, suffocating, filled with things neither of them wanted to say. Aria stared out the window, her reflection in the glass more expressive than her actual face. Damian kept glancing at her, frustrated and unsure why her silence unsettled him this much.

The moment they got back, Aria walked past him without a word, going straight up the stairs.

Jaxon was lounging on one of the living room chairs, boots propped up on the coffee table. He looked up from his phone and raised a brow as Aria disappeared around the corner.

“She looks like she’s ready to murder someone,” he muttered.

Damian loosened his tie, frustrated. “What are you doing here? Put your leg down.”

“Lemme guess—Selene?” Jaxon drawled with a smug grin.

Damian shot him a look.

“Oh, I knew that vampire wasn’t done stirring the pot,” Jaxon continued. “So what happened? She pour her poison in your ear or your mouth this time?”

“She kissed me,” Damian muttered.

Jaxon whistled. “Damn. What did Aria do? Slap her? Punch you?”

“No,” Damian said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “She just... walked away.”

“Damn,” Jaxon said again, but this time it was laced with something else. “That’s worse. The walk-away means she’s actually mad. Like, nuclear-level mad..”

Damian stared at the floor, jaw tight.

Jaxon leaned forward. “You like her, don’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Jaxon smirked. “Admit it. She is getting under your skin.”

“Go to hell,” Damian muttered, then stood and walked upstairs.

“Already live there,” Jaxon called after him. “Rent’s due on Monday!”

Damian ignored him, footsteps heavy as he reached Aria’s room. He opened the door slowly, but the lights were already off. In the soft glow of the moon, he saw her figure curled on the bed, one arm wrapped around a pillow. Her face was turned away from the door, but her posture said everything—tense, closed off, exhausted.

He stood there a moment longer than he intended to, the anger in his chest replaced by something quieter, something that felt dangerously close to regret. But he didn’t go in.

He closed the door.

Sunday mornings in the estate were quiet.

Aria didn’t leave for the shop today. She stayed behind, drawn to the garden as if it could offer her some sort of peace. The flowers, at least, didn’t lie. They bloomed without betrayal. They didn’t let ex-lovers kiss them at galas.

She knelt beside a bed of pink peonies, her hands brushing the delicate petals. The warmth of the sun was on her back, but her thoughts were cold and scattered.

Damian watched her from the hallway, hidden by the curtains of the upstairs balcony. He didn’t mean to spy, but something about her posture kept him rooted. Then he heard her voice.

“I mean seriously,” she muttered, stabbing the dirt a little too hard with a spade. “Who lets their ex kiss them in front of their wife?”

Spade jab.

“No respect,” she huffed. “Absolutely none.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

She wasn’t done.

“And of all people... Selene. That helium-voiced harpy.”

He bit back a chuckle.

She stood, brushing soil from her gloves, eyes narrowed toward the rose bush as if imagining Selene’s face on it.

“But then again,” her voice dropped, “what did I expect? This marriage was never real. He’s never going to look at me the way he looked at her.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He hadn’t realized he’d moved until his hand gripped the balcony rail. Part of him wanted to march downstairs and say something—anything—to erase what she'd just said. But another part, the one still guarded, still scarred by betrayal, recoiled at the softness blooming in his chest.

He turned away and slammed the door behind him.

The sound echoed down the hallway.

And in the garden, Aria looked up.