The Pierce estate looked like a museum built to impress the dead. Marble floors that swallowed her footsteps, portraits with eyes that followed her like sentinels. Sunlight cut through the crystal chandelier, scattering daggers of light across Aria's tailored navy suit. Her palms were cold, but her smile was sharper than glass.
Catherine Pierce's "Welcome Home Brunch" had always been a tradition—if humiliation could be called tradition in this house. Aria remembered the first time: pink dress, trembling hands, wine spilled down silk, tears in the guest bathroom, Catherine's laughter echoing after her. Never again.
She stepped through the grand foyer, shoes clicking, carrying a lacquered box cradling a rare orchid. The same breed Catherine had tried (and failed) to acquire for years. When the butler announced her, the room fell quiet—all eyes orbiting the new Mrs. Pierce.
Catherine herself barely blinked. Impeccable in cream, pearls at her throat, she arched a brow as if she hadn't spent the last month orchestrating Aria's social crucifixion. "You've arrived," she said, lips barely moving.
"Thank you for the invitation, Catherine." Aria set the orchid on the table with surgical precision. "A small gift. I thought it belonged here."
Catherine's expression didn't flicker, but a muscle twitched at her jaw. "How thoughtful. We do prioritize quality, of course." Her gaze flicked over Aria's suit—navy, not pink, power not prettiness. "You look… professional."
"I have a board meeting after brunch," Aria replied smoothly, even as her heart drummed against her ribs. "The Sutton Arts Foundation."
A hush. One of the board members—a man old enough to remember the Reagan era—coughed. Richard Pierce, at the head of the table, hid a smirk behind his whiskey.
"Board meeting?" Catherine's voice was all silk and steel. "I didn't realize you were working again so soon."
"It's a passion project," Aria said, folding her napkin over her lap. "We'll be donating five hundred thousand dollars this quarter. I thought perhaps Pierce Industries would like to match it? For the PR."
A beat. Catherine's fork clattered against her plate. Ethan, seated to Aria's left, pressed his lips together—surprised, maybe even proud—or just playing along. She barely dared to look at him.
Catherine recovered, voice smooth as glass. "That's quite a sum for someone so newly married. You must be very… persuasive."
Aria's mouth curled. "It's amazing what one can accomplish with the right support system. Ethan's been wonderful about giving me autonomy."
Under the table, Ethan's hand found her knee. Gentle, seeking reassurance—or maybe anchoring himself. She didn't flinch this time. She let him hold on.
Richard leaned forward, eyes cold. "Let's not bore the guests with business, Catherine. Brunch is supposed to be a celebration." His gaze drilled into Aria. "How are you finding married life, Mrs. Pierce? Adjusting to the family?"
"Every family has its customs," Aria replied, meeting his stare. "Some traditions are worth keeping. Others… require updating."
An amused smirk from Richard. Catherine stiffened, but a ripple of interest passed around the table. This was not the shrinking violet they remembered.
The conversation shifted to art auctions, charity galas, the economy. Aria sipped her coffee, letting her gaze drift, cataloguing faces, alliances. At the far end of the table, Vanessa Laurent—Catherine's latest pet project, dressed in crimson—laughed at something a board member whispered. Vanessa, the woman who'd murdered her in the first timeline. The mistress, the liar.
Aria's skin prickled. Vanessa caught her gaze, lips parting in a smile too sweet to be real. "We're so glad to have you home, Aria," she called. "Let me know if you need help acclimating. I've found Catherine's advice invaluable."
Aria let herself laugh lightly, the sound ringing clear. "Thank you, Vanessa. I'll be sure to remember that."
Ethan's hand squeezed her knee, silent encouragement or warning. Aria lifted her glass, mask flawless.
The meal dragged on—egg whites, tomatoes, the sharp tang of truffle oil. Catherine's commentary on "appropriate" behavior for wives. Vanessa's sidelong glances. Aria's patience wore thin, but her smile never faltered.
Then Catherine struck: "It must be difficult, balancing a career and the demands of family. Not every wife is suited for both."
There it was. The slap disguised as etiquette.
Aria leaned forward, voice velvet over steel. "On the contrary, I believe women excel at multitasking. In fact, the Sutton Foundation's initiatives are all about empowering young women to do exactly that. Maybe we could host next quarter's fundraiser here? Unless of course you're uncomfortable with so many ambitious women on the property."
A long pause. Catherine's mouth twitched—disapproval, anger, maybe a flicker of respect.
"I suppose," Catherine said tightly, "there's room for all kinds of ambition these days."
Aria turned to Ethan, eyes bright with challenge. "What do you think, darling?"
He smiled, catching on now. "I think it's brilliant. I'll have Daniel get the numbers started."
Richard barked a laugh. "Looks like you've created a boardroom at the breakfast table, son."
Aria met his gaze, let the silence stretch just long enough. "It's the twenty-first century, Mr. Pierce. The boardroom is wherever we make it."
The table erupted in nervous laughter. Catherine's grip on her fork whitened. Vanessa's gaze narrowed. Ethan, for once, looked at his wife as if seeing her entire.
After brunch, as guests mingled in the solarium, Catherine cornered her by the orchids.
"You came prepared," she murmured, voice low.
Aria smiled, leaning in so only Catherine could hear. "You taught me well. I learn quickly."
Catherine's eyes flickered—something unreadable, then gone. "Be careful, Aria. This family doesn't like… surprises."
Aria's smile sharpened. "Neither do I."
A beat, and then Catherine was gone, gliding back to her guests, pearls catching the sun.
Aria stood alone, heart pounding, mouth full of the metallic taste of victory and risk. She checked her grandmother's watch. 1,093 days. Every second a battle, every day another chance to rewrite the script.
She caught Ethan's gaze across the room. He raised his glass, blue eyes searching. She wondered if he recognized her anymore. If he ever did.
For the first time, Aria felt the balance of power shift beneath her feet—unstable, unpredictable, hers to claim. The war had begun here, beneath the chandeliers and orchids, and she'd landed the first blow.
Aria left the solarium, spine straight, smile unbreakable. The portrait of a perfect wife—if only the perfect wife came armed.
Let them circle. She was ready for round two.