I sat by the edge of my bed, my gown spread around me like a pool of ivory and regret. My hands trembled as I touched the veil laid out beside me. It shimmered in the lamplight — a fragile, perfect thing. I hated it. I hated that every thread in it had been chosen for a future I didn't want.
A soft knock sounded.
I didn't have to ask who it was.
"Come in," I whispered.
Damon stepped inside, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his face shadowed and tight.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, though my voice betrayed me. I wanted him there more than air.
"I couldn't sleep," he murmured. "The house feels… wrong."
I almost smiled. "Everything feels wrong."
"You're shaking," he said softly, noticing the tremor in my fingers.
"I'm scared," I admitted, surprising myself with how easily the truth slipped out. "Not of the wedding. Of… after."
His brow furrowed. "After?"
I looked up at him then, at the man who had stood beside me through every lie, every bruise, every betrayal that came with my father's name. The man who'd risked everything just to keep me breathing.
"I don't want my first time to be with him," I whispered.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to break.
Damon's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as if the thought alone cut him. "Aria…"
"I know what you're thinking," I said quickly. "That it's madness. That this will only make things worse. But if I have to wake up tomorrow as someone else's wife, at least—" My voice cracked. "At least let me have this one thing that's mine."
He took a slow step closer.
"You don't have to do this to prove anything."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," I said. "I just… I don't want Carl to touch me first. I can't bear it."
He was standing right in front of me now, close enough that I could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint trace of soap and smoke clinging to his skin. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered, "You'll regret this."
"I'll regret everything if I don't."
Something inside him broke then — the distance, the restraint he'd held like armor for weeks. His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers trembling as they lingered at my jaw. I closed my eyes.
When he finally kissed me, it wasn't desperate. It was slow. Careful. Like a man memorizing something he knows he's about to lose.
My tears slipped between us, and he caught them with his thumb.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my lips.
I didn't.
The world outside faded — the ticking clock, the whispering leaves, the weight of the name I carried. All that existed was the sound of his heartbeat against mine and the way he looked at me — as if I were sacred, not doomed.
My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space between us. His tongue slid against mine, teasing, claiming, and I let him, I begged for it. Every kiss felt like fire, like we were burning alive but too addicted to stop.
One cupped the side of my face, keeping me trapped in his kiss. The other slid down, brushing over my waist before boldly rising higher. My breath hitched when his palm covered my breast through the thin silk of my dress. He groaned into my mouth, the sound low and dangerous, as his thumb flicked over my hardened nipple.
And when the moment came — quiet, trembling, real — it was about choosing something human in a world that kept taking everything away.
Afterward, we stayed in the dark, wrapped in silence and the scent of rain that had begun to fall outside. His hand traced idle circles along my wrist, grounding me, while my head rested against his chest.
"What happens now?" he asked finally.
I didn't answer for a long time. I didn't know. "Tomorrow, I walk down that aisle," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "But I'll still belong to you."
He drew in a shaky breath. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me believe them."
I looked up at him, at the exhaustion written in every line of his face. "Then believe it," I said softly. "Just for tonight."
He pressed a kiss to my forehead — a tender, breaking kind of kiss. "You make it hard to let you go."
"Then don't."
He laughed quietly, but there was no joy in it. "If I stay, I'll burn this house down."
"Maybe it deserves to burn."
We fell quiet again. Outside, thunder rolled low and distant. The storm had come at last, and I welcomed it. It felt fitting.
"If you ever change your mind," he said, "I'll be waiting."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and I sat there alone, the veil glinting on the table beside me. I reached for it and tore it in half.
Outside, the rain began to fall harder.
Tomorrow, the world would call me Mrs. Sterling.
But tonight — just tonight — I was still Aria.