The morning after the party, the estate felt… different.
It wasn't the usual muted elegance Aria had grown accustomed to. No soft clinking of silverware. No distant hum of violin from the speakers hidden in the walls. Instead, the silence that filled the mansion was thick and almost electric, humming beneath the floorboards like a warning. It wasn't peace. It was pressure like something had snapped in the night and everyone was pretending not to hear it.
Aria sensed it the moment she opened her eyes. The air felt denser, heavier, the kind of stillness that comes just before a storm or after the wreckage of one. Even the curtains swayed less, as if afraid to move too much. The staff outside moved quickly, almost nervously, their steps sharper, glances shorter. She saw them scurry through the hallways with downcast eyes, never lingering too long in one place. Mrs. Hollow arrived with breakfast but didn't say a word. Just a simple tray dry toast and weak tea, as colorless as the mood and a tight-lipped glance that avoided Aria's gaze entirely.
But it was the double doors to Damien's study that confirmed it.
They were closed. Firm. Imposing.
And behind them… voices. Low, urgent murmurs. Not Damien's usual measured baritone, but multiple men. Businessmen, maybe. Lawyers, possibly. Or worse. The kind of voices that didn't wait for permission to ruin lives. Aria stood in the hallway for several minutes, unmoving, just listening to the muffled sounds behind the wood. She didn't dare knock. She didn't dare interrupt.
Instead, she retreated to the sitting room the smaller one with velvet chairs and tall bookshelves and curled into a corner of an armchair. Her body stilled, spine straight, arms folded in. Waiting. Not because she was told to. Not because there was an agenda. But because her instincts whispered that something was coming.
Something bad.
At exactly noon, it arrived.
The car pulled into the estate silently. Sleek. Black. No emblem on the hood. No license plate on the front. No sound, not even gravel under the tires. It looked like a phantom in metal form. A ghost of purpose.
Mrs. Hollow appeared at Aria's side, her expression thinner than usual, which Aria hadn't thought possible. "Mr. Roth is here," she said, not bothering to clarify who he was.
Aria didn't know the name.
But the way it dropped into the air like lead told her everything.
Roth.
The name was sharp. Final. Like a scalpel.
She followed Mrs. Hollow down the corridor, deeper into the house to the second sitting room. The one with no windows. No mirrors. No distractions. A room designed for secrets.
Damien was already inside when she entered. He stood like a statue, arms behind his back, jaw clenched, stillness radiating fury. Opposite him sat a man in a grey suit with pressed lapels and hands that looked like they could gut a man with just the right pressure. Mr. Roth didn't rise. He didn't need to. Power settled around him like smoke quiet, suffocating.
When he turned to look at her, he smiled. But it wasn't warmth.
It was ownership. Curiosity. Calculation.
"Well," Roth drawled, eyes traveling over her like inventory. "So this is the girl causing all the waves. Doesn't look dangerous."
Aria didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't step forward.
"She isn't," Damien answered before she could speak. His tone was clipped. Flat. "Unless provoked."
Roth's laughter was dry and oily, slipping between the cracks in the room. "I like that. Fire in the leash."
Aria's stomach turned.
She wanted to bolt. Every cell in her body screamed to run. But she stood her ground, arms tight at her sides, jaw locked. If she showed fear, she knew it would be taken as invitation.
Roth turned his attention back to Damien. "Your proposal for the Porto project looks solid. Numbers are clean. I'm inclined to approve it."
There was a pause.
Then came the twist.
"But naturally… I'll expect some goodwill."
Damien's eyes didn't shift. "What kind of goodwill?"
"A demonstration," Roth said casually, adjusting his cufflinks. "Your girl here bring her to my next gala. Let her mingle. Smile. Dance. Keep our associates entertained. She doesn't have to do much. Just be… charming. You understand."
Silence fell.
But it wasn't empty.
It was loaded.
Damien's body didn't move. But Aria saw it the slight tension behind his spine. The way his shoulder blades pulled tight beneath his shirt. His composure was still intact, but barely.
"She's not an escort," Damien said finally, voice harder than ice.
Roth tilted his head. "You dressed her like one. Paraded her around last night like a trophy. You can't be surprised they want a closer look."
Aria felt heat flood her face not from shame, but fury.
She wasn't furniture. She wasn't a bribe. But she wasn't stupid either. She knew how this world worked. Power traded in whispers, in favors, in bodies.
Damien didn't speak again.
Not at first.
He let the silence grow long and sharp.
Then, with a small smile one that didn't touch his eyes he said the four words that made her blood run cold:
"I'll think about it."
Aria didn't scream. Didn't shout. But her insides trembled.
She didn't know what scared her more Roth's offer, or Damien's silence.
Because silence, in this world, meant consent.
Mr. Roth left soon after, escorted out by Mrs. Hollow.
Aria stayed.
Frozen.
Still standing in the center of the room as if glued to the floor. When the door finally shut behind them, Damien moved. No words. No warning.
He crossed the room and poured himself a drink from the bar. The liquid was dark and golden, and he threw it back in one swallow like it burned.
His shoulders rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
The room pulsed with something thick and electric.
"I'm not going," Aria said finally, her voice low but firm.
Damien didn't turn.
"You won't make me."
Another drink.
More silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was gravel. "You shouldn't have been there last night."
"You brought me."
"I made a mistake."
Aria stepped forward, hands clenched. "Is that what I am now? A mistake?"
He turned.
And something in him cracked.
For the first time, Damien didn't look in control.
He looked… trapped.
"You're not supposed to matter," he said, the words escaping like a confession.
Aria's breath hitched. "And yet," she whispered.
That was all it took.
The glass in his hand shattered against the floor. A sharp explosion of crystal and rage. The whiskey splashed across the tiles like blood.
She flinched but only slightly.
His hand was bleeding. A long slice down the palm.
He didn't care.
He didn't even look at the wound.
His eyes met hers, wild and open.
"Do you understand what they'll do to you if they think I'm weak?" he said, voice cracking. "They'll use you. Sell you. Break you and dress it up in pearls. That's how they win."
"Then why bring me into it?" Her voice trembled. "Why throw me into something you can't control?"
"Because I thought I could protect you," he said, stepping closer. "I thought I could shield you."
"And now?" she whispered.
"I don't know anymore."
---
That night, she was summoned again.
But not to his bedroom.
Not to the study.
To the surveillance room.
It was empty when she entered lights low, hum of monitors louder than usual.
Then the screen lit up.
A hallway.
She recognized it. Not from walking it, but from passing it, from noticing the old wallpaper, the forgotten paintings. A hidden place.
A man stood in the corner.
Mr. Roth's assistant.
Young. Too young for this world. His posture was nervous. His eyes darted.
Mrs. Hollow appeared on screen, whispered something in his ear.
He stiffened.
She handed him a letter.
He read it.
Tore it up.
Then ran.
Not walked.
Ran.
Aria watched in silence.
Until a voice behind her spoke.
"He's been blacklisted."
She turned.
Damien stood in the shadows.
"You fired him," she said.
"No."
"You ruined him."
Damien's voice was flat. "Because he let his employer insult what belongs to me."
She stared at him. "That doesn't make it right."
"It makes it clear."
"To who?"
"To everyone watching."
She hated how her chest warmed.
Not with affection.
But with something darker.
She hated how part of her felt safe.
And how another part… felt powerful.
---
When she returned to her room, the lights were dimmed.
Her black silk dress from the night before was gone.
In its place hung a new one.
Blood red.
Long sleeves. High neck. No slit. No skin.
A dress of armor.
Underneath it, a note.
"No one touches what I claim."
No signature.
He didn't need one.
Aria sat on the edge of her bed, the note trembling between her fingers.
This wasn't love.
It wasn't even obsession.
It was power.
It was war disguised as protection. Possession painted in velvet.
And yet… when she closed her eyes, she saw Roth's face. Damien's bleeding hand. Her own reflection from the party poised, perfect, unreadable.
And she felt it.
She was changing.
Not just surviving in Damien's world.
Belonging in it.
Becoming part of it.
And for the first time, that terrified her more than anything.