The house had never been this loud.Not even at Christmas. Not even when Father used to throw his grand charity balls just to remind the city that the Kingsleys still ruled its air.
Every hallway pulsed with footsteps, with florists and decorators and the hollow chatter of people who didn't know they were helping bury me alive.
Tomorrow, I would become Mrs. Carl Sterling.
Tonight, I was still me. Barely.
Evelyn Sterling arrived again at dusk, her presence swallowing the room before she even spoke. She was beautiful in that untouchable, practiced way—skin too smooth for her age, voice calm enough to make you forget she was dangerous.
"My dear," she said, reaching for my hands as though she'd always known me. "You'll make a stunning bride. The papers will adore you."
I smiled because that was what good daughters did. Damon stood in the corner, half-shadowed, his expression unreadable. Evelyn's eyes caught him, lingered—just long enough for me to know she noticed the tension.
"You've kept such loyal staff," she said to Father, still watching Damon. "He seems… devoted."
Father smiled thinly. "Damon has been with us for some time now. I trust him completely."
The word trust scraped through me. Evelyn's gaze slid back to me with something close to amusement.
"Devotion is a double-edged thing," she murmured. "It can guard—or consume."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Dinner passed in a blur of crystal and conversation. Carl sat beside me, his hand brushing my knee every so often, each time slower, more deliberate. My fork trembled in my hand, but I forced a smile. Father didn't notice—or pretended not to.
Damon did.
When Carl leaned in to whisper something I didn't care to hear, Damon's jaw flexed like he was swallowing gunfire. I kicked Carl's hand away under the table, murmuring something about needing air.
Evelyn's gaze followed me as I rose. "Don't stay out too long, darling," she said sweetly. "The night before the wedding is sacred."
Sacred.If only she knew.
⸻
The garden was quiet. The moon hung heavy over the roses, turning their petals silver. I breathed in until my ribs hurt, trying to find something—anything—that felt real.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
"Aria."
Damon's voice was low, raw. He stopped a few feet away, his chest rising hard beneath his shirt.
"You shouldn't be out here," I said softly.
"Neither should you."
I turned. The lantern light caught his face—haunted, fierce, beautiful in a way that made breathing painful.
"He touched you again."
"It was nothing."
He laughed once, darkly. "Nothing? You flinched."
I looked down at my hands. "What do you want me to say, Damon? That I hate it? That I wish it were you standing beside me tomorrow?"
His silence was my answer.
When I looked up, he was already close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of smoke and soap and danger.
"You think I don't want that?" he said, voice rough. "You think it doesn't kill me to watch him take what's mine?"
"Yours?" I whispered.
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
My back hit the marble railing, the roses brushing my skin. His hand came up to cradle my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Tell me you don't want me," he murmured. "Tell me, and I'll walk away."
I didn't say it. I couldn't.
Instead, I reached for him.
The kiss wasn't gentle this time—it was desperate, hungry, wrong in every possible way, but it was the only thing that made sense. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away—the wedding, my father, Carl, everything.
"Damon," I breathed against his mouth. "We can't—"
"We already are."
He kissed me again, harder, until my thoughts dissolved. My fingers tangled in his hair, my body pressed against his. Every heartbeat screamed that this was a mistake, but I didn't care.
Tomorrow, I would belong to someone else. Tonight, I wanted to remember what belonging felt like.
When he finally pulled back, his breath came ragged, his forehead resting against mine.
"I'll find a way," he whispered. "Even if it means killing him again."
I froze. "Damon—"
"I said I wouldn't, but I lied. I can't watch him touch you, Aria. I can't."
"Then don't watch," I whispered, tears burning my throat. "Just trust me. Please."
He looked at me for a long moment, torn between fury and devotion, and then—slowly—he nodded.
"If there's even a chance," I said, gripping his hand, "we'll take it. But not tonight. Not like this."
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, slow, lingering. "Then at least give me something to remember before you walk down that aisle."
I didn't answer with words.
When he kissed me again, it was softer—painful, almost reverent. The kind of kiss that felt like a goodbye neither of us wanted to say.