By the third day after Edward's death, the house had begun to breathe again — not with peace, but with purpose.Servants polished every surface. New flowers arrived. Father's voice could be heard in the study, clipped and firm, arranging meetings, silencing gossip.
To the outside world, we were a family in mourning.Inside, we were preparing for the next transaction.
When the doorbell rang that afternoon, I already knew who it was.Father had been expecting him — Carl Sterling, Edward's younger brother.
The man who would arrive as condolence, but stay as strategy.
He stepped through the doorway like he owned it.Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in charcoal and silk. His features were almost too perfect — sharp jaw, sculpted cheekbones, eyes the color of whiskey poured in candlelight. He smiled, and it felt like the world exhaled for him.
Even the maids paused to stare.
"Carl," Father said, rising to shake his hand. "I can't tell you how sorry we are. Edward's death was… sudden."
Carl's grip was steady. "It was," he agreed. "But he always did live too fast."Then his gaze found me.
And for a moment, the air seemed to tighten.
He looked at me not with grief, but with curiosity. His eyes swept my face as though tracing something familiar, something unfinished. When he spoke again, his voice carried the kind of warmth that made people lean closer without realizing they shouldn't.
"You must be Aria," he said softly. "My brother wasn't wrong about your beauty."
I managed a polite nod. "I'm sorry for your loss."
He smiled faintly, like it was a phrase he'd already heard too often. "Thank you."
Behind him, Damon shifted his weight just slightly — quiet, controlled, but his eyes never left Carl. I didn't have to look twice to know what that tension meant.
Father gestured toward the parlor. "Come in, Carl. We have much to discuss."
The meeting stretched into evening. They sat opposite each other — two men who understood power the way soldiers understood weapons.I listened from the edge of the room, trying to breathe through the perfume of roses and tension.
"Edward's estate will be complicated," Father was saying, "but I imagine you'll handle it with the same brilliance your family is known for."
Carl's lips twitched. "Brilliance is a generous word. Ambition fits better."
"That's what this family needs," Father said smoothly. "Ambition — and stability. Both our names took a hit with the scandal. People talk. You know how quickly they turn."
Carl nodded once, his gaze flicking toward me again. "I do."
Father followed his look. Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he said,
"You and Aria were meant to be family once. Perhaps that doesn't have to change."
The words hit me like ice.
"Father," I began, but he didn't even glance my way.
Carl leaned back, studying me. "That's… quite a proposal."
"It would preserve both houses," Father continued calmly. "And silence the press. People love a tragic story made right again."
My pulse pounded. "You're arranging another—"
"Marriage," Father finished for me, tone hardening. "Yes. One that benefits us all."
Carl was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled — that devastating, slow smile that made the air tremble.
"If Miss Aria agrees," he said, "I wouldn't be opposed."
He said it lightly, like we were discussing weather.But the look in his eyes wasn't light.It was ownership.
Later that night, I found Damon in the corridor outside my room.He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"So it's him now?" he said quietly.
I froze. "You were listening?"
"I didn't have to," he said. "The whole house heard."His voice was calm, but the veins in his forearm stood out sharply beneath his sleeve.
"He's not like Edward," I said quickly. "He's worse. He smiles too much."
Damon's gaze darkened. "And your father expects you to marry him."
"Yes," I whispered. "Because it keeps the money clean, the alliances steady, and the headlines soft."
He stepped closer, his tone roughening. "And what do you want?"
The question was almost cruel in its simplicity.I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Because what I wanted didn't matter — not to Father, not to the world.And maybe not even to Damon, who stood too close, smelling like smoke and quiet fury.
Carl's laughter drifted faintly from the hall downstairs.That sound — smooth, charming, perfectly placed — made Damon's jaw clench harder.
"He looks at you like you're something to win," he muttered.
"He looks at everything like that," I said bitterly. "Even death."
Damon's eyes softened then, for the briefest second. "Then maybe I should remind him that you're not his prize."
"Don't start this again," I said, stepping back. "One dead man is already enough."
Dinner the next evening was worse.
Carl had returned, dressed in black that made his eyes glow like amber. He was magnetic — every gesture slow and deliberate, every word dipped in charm. Father adored him.
Even the staff seemed enthralled.
He spoke of his late brother with careful sorrow, of rebuilding with grace, of "keeping the legacy intact."But when he turned to me, his tone changed — lower, more personal.
"I understand why Edward wanted you by his side," he said quietly. "You belong in a place of power, Miss Aria."
I felt Damon's gaze burn from across the table.
Carl smiled faintly, noticing. "Ah, the loyal protector. You must trust him a great deal."
"I do," I said before I could stop myself.
He leaned in just slightly. "Trust is dangerous," he whispered. "It makes betrayal too easy."
For the rest of the night, I could feel both of them watching me — one with devotion, the other with possession.And somewhere between them, I felt myself unraveling.
When the dinner ended, Father clasped Carl's hand at the door.
"Think on it," he said. "The arrangement would honor Edward's memory."
Carl smiled. "I'll think on it," he replied, though his eyes were already saying yes.
Then he turned to me.
"I'll see you soon, Aria," he murmured. "I always keep what I want close."
He left with the faint scent of his cologne hanging in the air like a warning.
Damon appeared beside me moments later, his voice a whisper meant only for me.
"If he touches you," he said, "I won't stop myself next time."
I looked up at him, half afraid, half grateful.Because I knew he meant it.And that terrified me more than anything Carl Sterling ever could.