Aria stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman she barely recognized.
A black velvet gown hugged her curves, sleek and elegant, slit high on one side. Her hair was twisted into a soft chignon, exposing her collarbone, where a delicate diamond necklace—a gift from Damien—rested like a silent collar.
"You look like you were born for this," said Margaret, who'd been assigned to help her dress for the evening gala.
Aria smiled tightly. "Looks can be deceiving."
Margaret hesitated. For a brief moment, her expression softened. "Just be careful tonight. There are things… beneath the surface. Not everything is what it seems."
Before Aria could ask more, Margaret left.
The gala was held at the Blackwood Estate—an expansive ballroom filled with the city's elite. Laughter and champagne floated through the air. But underneath it all was a current of tension. Everyone smiled with too many teeth. Every compliment came with an edge.
Damien stood across the room in a tailored black suit, looking like sin carved into man. He was surrounded by executives, investors, and heirs—yet his eyes flicked straight to her the moment she entered.
She felt the heat of his gaze.
Felt the pressure of being watched by everyone.
This was no longer just a social event.
This was a performance.
And Aria had to play the part of the loving wife.
Damien walked over, holding out his hand.
"Shall we dance?" he asked, voice smooth like silk over steel.
She took his hand.
The moment their fingers touched, her breath caught. Electricity. Or maybe it was rage. Or fear. Or something else entirely.
They moved onto the dance floor, a slow waltz beginning. He held her like she was both fragile and dangerous.
"You clean up well," she said.
He raised a brow. "You're not so bad yourself, Mrs. Blackwood."
The title sent a chill down her spine.
People watched them—curious, envious, suspicious.
Damien leaned in, lips near her ear. "Smile, Aria. Or they'll think I kidnapped you."
"Didn't you?"
His eyes flickered with something—amusement? Guilt? Pain?
Then he said something that sent a jolt through her:
"You're safer here than you are out there. Don't forget that."
She blinked. "What does that mean?"
But the music ended. The dance was over. And so was the conversation.
Later that night, while pretending to sip champagne, Aria's phone—her new phone—buzzed quietly in her clutch.
Unknown Number: "He's lying to you. They all are. Meet me. Midnight. The greenhouse. Come alone."
Her pulse quickened.
She looked across the room—Damien was nowhere to be seen.
Her instincts screamed don't go.
But her curiosity whispered: You have to know.
She made her way through the estate as silently as a shadow, heart pounding louder with every step. Past the maze-like hallways and marble stairs, until the air shifted and glass walls surrounded her.
The greenhouse.
It smelled like jasmine and night-blooming lilies. Mist clung to the plants. Moonlight shimmered on the leaves.
And then—
"Aria."
She spun around.
A man stepped from the shadows.
Someone she hadn't seen in years.
Someone she thought was dead.
Her eyes widened. "You—You're alive?"
But before he could speak, a soft click echoed through the silence.
Damien stood at the doorway.
His voice cold enough to freeze blood.
"I told you," he said, eyes locked on the man. "Some doors should never be opened.