(Aria's POV)
Morning came like punishment.
I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, flashes burst behind my eyelids — white light, screaming questions, the diamond ring still glinting from the box like a curse.
My phone hadn't stopped vibrating since dawn. Calls from my mother, Clara, unknown numbers — all of them unanswered. The internet had swallowed my name whole. "Blackwell's Secret Lover." "Mystery Mistress Turned Bride." Every headline stripped me down until there was nothing left to hide behind.
By the time I stood before the Blackwell Tower again, I was hollow.
The skyscraper loomed above me, its mirrored glass cutting through the morning clouds. I half-expected lightning to strike.
Security met me before I even reached the door. No greetings. No pity. Just silent recognition — like they already knew who I was, what I'd become. One of them pressed the elevator button for the top floor. I stepped inside.
The ride was silent except for the sound of my heartbeat.
When the doors opened, the penthouse unfolded before me — endless glass, silver, and light. It didn't look lived in. It looked owned. Every inch gleamed with precision, control, perfection.
And there he was.
Leo Blackwell.
Standing by the window in a dark suit, sleeves rolled, phone pressed to his ear. The skyline stretched behind him like a throne made of glass.
He didn't look at me at first. He didn't have to.
I felt him. The same way you feel a storm before it breaks.
"Yes," he said into the phone, voice smooth, low. "The statement stands. No further comments will be made. My wife and I value our privacy."
My breath caught. My wife.
The words hit like ice and heat all at once.
He ended the call and finally turned. His eyes locked on me, steady, unreadable, dark.
"You came."
"I didn't have a choice," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He walked toward me — slow, deliberate, every step echoing against the marble floor. When he stopped a breath away, I caught the faintest scent of his cologne. Expensive. Cold. Dangerous.
"There's always a choice, Aria," he murmured. "You just made the wrong one when you signed that contract."
Anger flared through the numbness. "You cornered me."
He smirked, that familiar cruel curl of his lips. "No. I gave you a way out of the fire. You stepped into my shadow instead."
I swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "You've ruined me."
His gaze didn't waver. "No. I've claimed you."
The words struck deeper than they should have.
He turned away before I could answer, moving toward the grand dining table. A tray waited there — breakfast untouched, a glass of orange juice catching the light like gold.
"You'll live here now," he said simply, as if announcing a business merger. "Everything you need has been arranged. You don't go out without security. You don't speak to the press. You don't post, comment, or explain. Understand?"
I didn't move. "So I'm a prisoner."
He glanced back, one brow lifting. "A wife."
The correction was soft, but it cut deeper than any shout could have.
He poured himself coffee, calm, precise. "You'll attend a charity event with me tonight. Public appearance. You'll smile. You'll wear the ring. You'll play your part."
I stared at him. "And if I don't?"
He looked at me fully then — eyes like smoke, impossible to read, impossible to escape.
"Then you'll watch the world destroy itself around your name. And this time, I won't stop it."
Something inside me cracked. A sharp, breathless sound escaped before I could stop it.
He set his cup down and approached again, closer this time, until the air itself felt charged.
"You wanted to know what marriage means to me, Aria?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "It means ownership. Protection. Responsibility. You wanted freedom. You traded it the moment you signed that page."
I met his gaze, trembling but defiant. "And what about love? Does that mean anything to you?"
A shadow flickered across his face — so fast I almost missed it. Then his expression smoothed back into stone.
"Love complicates things. I prefer control."
He brushed past me, his shoulder grazing mine — deliberate, electric.
"Your room's down the hall," he said. "Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwell."
I turned to watch him disappear down the corridor, his words echoing long after he was gone.
The penthouse felt too quiet, too perfect.
I stood in the center of it all, surrounded by glass, light, and silence — everything gleaming, nothing real.
And as I caught my reflection in the window — pale, hollow-eyed, the diamond ring glinting on my finger — one thought burned through the haze:
This wasn't a home.
It was a gilded cage.
And I had just locked the door myself.