The inside of a Rolls Royce Phantom was quieter than a library. The silence was thick, expensive, and suffocating.
Aria sat in the back seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The black Chanel dress Damien had provided fit her like a second skin. It was severe and elegant—a high neck, long sleeves, and a back that dipped dangerously low, revealing the pale curve of her spine.
She looked like a widow attending the funeral of her enemies.
'Fitting,' Aria thought, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights.
It had been a busy afternoon. After leaving the hotel via a private elevator to avoid the press, they were heading back into the heart of the city.
The destination: The Grand Imperial Banquet Hall.
The event: Lucas Sinclair's "Post-Birthday Bash."
A cold smirk touched Aria's lips. Lucas was exactly that kind of narcissist. One night of celebration wasn't enough for the Prince of Showbiz; he demanded a "Birthday Week," dragging his guests back for a second night of champagne and ego-stroking.
'Perfect,' Aria thought. 'The more people there to witness his fall, the better.'
Next to her, Damien was reading a financial report on a tablet. He had changed into a fresh charcoal three-piece suit. His silver hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp, cruel angles of his face. He looked calm, cold, and utterly terrifying.
Aria shifted slightly. The leather seat squeaked.
Damien didn't look up. "Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting," Aria lied.
Damien finally glanced at her. His golden eyes swept over her appearance. The rose-gold hair against the black dress created a striking contrast. She looked fragile, yet dangerous—like a poisonous flower blooming in the dark.
"You look..." He paused, searching for the word. "Expensive."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation," Damien corrected, turning back to his tablet. "If you look cheap, I look bad. And I never look bad."
Aria rolled her eyes. 'Narcissist. It runs in the family.'
She looked down at her left hand. On her ring finger sat a diamond the size of a pigeon egg. Damien had tossed it at her five minutes ago like it was a piece of candy.
'Wear it,' he had said. 'If we are engaged, look the part.'
The car slowed to a crawl.
"We're here," Ken, the assistant driving the car, announced nervously.
Aria looked out the window. A sea of reporters was swarming the red carpet outside the venue. The "Post-Birthday Bash" was even more heavily publicized than the actual birthday, fueled by the rumors of Aria's disappearance.
Flashes went off like strobe lights.
"Ready?" Damien asked.
He wasn't looking at the tablet anymore. He was looking at her. His gaze was intense, grounding.
Aria took a deep breath. She thought of Lucas, smiling while he handed her the poisoned drink last night. She thought of Bella, crying fake tears while stealing her inheritance. She thought of the cold, hard floor of the asylum.
The fear in her chest evaporated, replaced by cold, burning rage.
"I was born ready," she whispered.
Ken killed the engine. The bodyguards outside opened the door.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Usually, when a car arrived, the reporters shouted questions. But this car carried the Sinclair crest. Everyone knew who was inside. The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Damien stepped out first.
He stood to his full height, buttoning his jacket with one hand. He looked like a god of war descending upon mortals. The reporters lowered their cameras instinctively, afraid to offend him.
Then, Damien turned back to the car.
He extended his hand.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Damien Sinclair—the man known for wearing gloves to shake hands with presidents—was reaching out to help someone?
Aria placed her hand in his.
She stepped out, the slit in her black dress flashing a long, pale leg. She stood beside him, lifting her chin. The wind caught her rose-gold hair, blowing it back like a banner of war.
For a second, silence.
Then, chaos.
"It's Aria Vale!"
"She's with Mr. Sinclair?!"
"What is happening? Isn't she supposed to be missing?"
The flashes went off in a blinding storm. Damien didn't blink. He tucked Aria's hand into the crook of his arm, his grip firm and possessive.
"Walk," he murmured. "Don't look down."
Aria didn't look down. She looked straight ahead, a small, mysterious smile playing on her lips. They walked the red carpet not as guests, but as conquerors.
Inside the banquet hall, the party was in full swing.
Lucas stood at the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, basking in the attention of his "Birthday Week." He looked handsome in his white suit, playing the role of the tragic prince perfectly.
"I'm just so worried," Lucas was saying to a group of elderly investors, shaking his head mournfully. "Aria has been unstable lately. I hope she didn't do something foolish after running off last night..."
"Sister is fragile," Bella chimed in, clinging to Lucas's arm. Tears shimmered in her big blue eyes. "I just want her to come home. We kept the party going hoping she might show up."
"You are too kind, Bella," an investor sighed. "Aria doesn't deserve a sister like you."
BANG.
The heavy double doors of the banquet hall swung open.
The chatter died instantly. The music stopped.
Every head turned.
At the top of the grand staircase stood Damien and Aria.
They were a visual masterpiece. The silver-haired Devil and the rose-gold Witch. The black of their outfits swallowed the light around them, cutting a sharp contrast against the festive white and gold decor of Lucas's party.
Lucas dropped his champagne glass. It shattered on the marble floor.
"Uncle?" he whispered, his face draining of color.
Bella's jaw dropped, her "worried" expression cracking into pure shock.
Damien didn't speak. He began to descend the stairs, his steps slow and deliberate. Aria walked beside him, matching his pace. Every click of her heels echoed in the silent hall.
They reached the bottom of the stairs. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, terrified to touch even the hem of Damien's suit.
They walked straight to Lucas.
Lucas stared at Aria. She looked... stunning. He had never seen her like this. She usually wore pastels and kept her head down. Tonight, she looked like a queen who had just burned down a kingdom.
And she was holding his uncle's arm.
"Uncle Damien," Lucas stammered, his voice trembling. "I... we didn't expect you. And... Aria? Why are you with him?"
A flash of jealousy twisted Lucas's face. He reached out, trying to grab Aria's free hand.
"Aria, where the hell have you been? You made me look like a fool! Come here!"
Damien moved.
It was a blur. One moment he was standing still, the next he was between them. He didn't touch Lucas. He simply stepped forward, his massive presence walling Aria off from the rest of the world.
"Touch her," Damien said, his voice low and conversational, "and you lose the hand."
Lucas froze. He looked at his uncle's eyes. There was no mercy there. Only gold fire.
"Uncle," Lucas choked out, sweating. "She's my fiancée. She ran away—"
"Ex-fiancée," Aria corrected calmly.
She stepped out from behind Damien, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. She looked at Lucas, then at Bella, then at the ring on her own finger.
She raised her hand, letting the massive diamond catch the chandelier light.
"I'm afraid I can't marry you, Lucas," Aria said, her voice sweet and poisonous. "It would be incest."
The crowd murmured. Incest?
"What are you talking about?" Bella shrilled, her mask slipping. "Sister, are you high?"
Aria smiled. She turned to Damien.
"Darling," she purred, "they seem confused. Should we tell them?"
Damien looked down at her. His lips twitched. 'Darling? She adapts fast.'
He turned back to Lucas. His expression hardened into granite.
"Lucas," Damien said, his voice projecting to the back of the room. "Greet your aunt."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bones.
Lucas blinked. "What?"
"Aria is my fiancée," Damien stated flatly. "We finalized the engagement this morning."
They hadn't signed the official papers yet—only a verbal agreement—but Damien's word was law. If he said the sky was green, the stock market would invest in emerald paint.
"Fiancée?" Lucas whispered. He looked at Aria, then at Damien. "That's impossible. Uncle, she's... she's trash! She's a country bumpkin! You can't marry her!"
Damien's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room plummeted.
"You are speaking about the future Matriarch of the Sinclair family," Damien said softly.
He took a step forward.
"Kneel."
It wasn't a shout. It was a command. Simple. Absolute.
Lucas trembled. His legs shook. In the Sinclair family, the hierarchy was strict. The Head of the House had the power of life and death. If Damien cut him off, Lucas would be on the streets tomorrow.
"Uncle..."
"I said," Damien's voice dropped an octave, vibrating with menace. "Kneel. Apologize to your future Aunt for your disrespect."
The reporters were frantically snapping photos. This was the scoop of the century. The Prince of Showbiz kneeling to his ex-fiancée.
Lucas looked at Bella for help. Bella took a step back, pretending not to see him. She wasn't going to go down with him.
Defeated, humiliated, and terrified, Lucas's knees buckled.
Thud.
He hit the floor. He lowered his head, his face burning with shame.
"I'm sorry," Lucas gritted out. "Aunt... Aria."
Aria looked down at the man who had killed her in her past life. She felt... nothing. No love. No hate. Just the cold satisfaction of crushing a bug.
She leaned into Damien, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Get up, Nephew," she said lazily. "But wipe your tears first. You're ruining the party vibe."