The Blackwood Penthouse was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the night skyline like an oil painting. Marble floors reflected the glow of crystal chandeliers. Every inch screamed luxury—cold, perfect, untouchable.
Just like him.
Aria stood by the window, arms crossed as the city buzzed below her feet. She hadn't changed out of her wedding dress. The satin clung to her like a second skin, now wrinkled and slightly torn from the day's chaos.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown Number: "You made a deal with the devil. You'll regret it."
She stared at the message. No name. No reply option.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. She deleted it.
She couldn't afford to be shaken now. Not when she was surrounded by people waiting to see her fall.
A knock sounded on the door.
She turned to see an older woman with silver hair and sharp eyes standing in the doorway. "Mrs. Blackwood," she said curtly. "I'm Margaret. Housekeeper. I've prepared your room."
"Thank you," Aria said softly. "And… you can call me Aria."
Margaret didn't respond. Just nodded and left.
Alone again.
She walked into the guest room—lavish and pristine, but cold. There were no personal touches. No warmth. It was like a hotel room no one ever stayed in.
On the bed lay a phone. A new one. Shiny. Blank.
A note beside it read:
Use this. Not your old one. I don't like risks. – D.
She scoffed. Of course he didn't.
He was the kind of man who didn't take risks—only calculated moves.
Aria curled up on the bed, still in her dress. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by exhaustion and a deep, gnawing ache.
Not in her body.
In her soul.
How had everything spiraled so fast?
Yesterday she was marrying the man she thought she loved.
Today she was married to a man who made her want to scream, cry, and punch walls all at once.
But she wouldn't break.
She wouldn't cry.
She had made a choice—and she would play this game better than anyone expected.
Hours later, she woke with a start.
Something felt off.
She slipped out of bed, barefoot, moving silently down the hallway. The lights were dim, the silence heavy.
Then she heard it—voices.
From behind a partially open door. Damien's study.
She crept closer.
A man's voice: "You're playing with fire. If she finds out—"
Damien cut him off. "She won't. And even if she does… it's already too late."
Aria froze.
Too late for what?
She took a step back—and the floor creaked.
The voices stopped.
The door slammed shut.
A second later, it opened again.
Damien stood there, shirtless, hair slightly tousled like he'd just run his hand through it. His eyes met hers—dark, unreadable.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked casually, though his jaw was tight.
Aria lifted her chin. "I didn't know I needed permission to walk in my own home."
He smirked. "You don't. But you should know… some doors shouldn't be opened."
"Why?" she asked, her voice low. "Afraid I'll find out what kind of man I really married?"
Damien's smile faded. "No. I'm afraid you'll find out… what kind of danger you've walked into."
And before she could say another word, he shut the door in her face.