ARIA
I wake up earlier than usual.
Not because of an alarm, not because my body is used to it, but because something in the air feels different — heavy, expectant, like the morning itself knows something is shifting.
I shower, dress, and walk out to the living room with my laptop tucked close to my chest.
Damian is already there.
Not brooding. Not pacing. Not locked behind that guarded expression he usually wears.
Just sitting on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the silence is trying to say something to him.
He looks up the second he senses me.
He always does.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
But the quiet doesn't feel awkward.
It feels like a pause — an inhale before a truth is spoken.
"You slept?" he asks softly.
I nod. "A bit."
"You don't look like you did."
"You don't either."
He almost smiles. Almost.
I move past him and settle at the dining table, opening the draft of his story. The blank spaces, the half-written lines, the fragments of memories he gave me… they all stare back at me like fragile pieces of something sacred.
He walks toward me, slow, hesitant, as if he's approaching something he isn't sure he deserves.
"Where do we begin?" I ask.
"Wherever you want," he replies. "It's your process."
But this isn't about process anymore.
It's about him trusting me with a version of himself the world never bothered to learn.
I take a breath.
Then I start typing.
At first, it's simple — dates, events, the early cracks in his family's empire. But the more I write, the more I realize I'm not documenting a scandal…
I'm documenting a wound.
One the world carved into him and walked away from.
Damian stands behind me, arms folded loosely, watching me work. His presence is warm, quiet, steady — like a shadow that protects instead of darkens.
"You're gentle with it," he murmurs.
I pause. "With what?"
"My life."
I meet his gaze, and something inside my chest tugs — not painfully, not overwhelmingly, just enough to remind me I'm human.
And so is he.
"It deserves gentleness," I whisper. "You deserve that."
His jaw tightens, like the words hit a place he isn't used to letting anyone touch.
I keep writing.
The timeline, the betrayals, the first cracks in the boardroom that were pinned on him. The distorted headlines. The doctored stories. The lies that built the image the world calls
Damian Cole.
The version they painted…
And the version standing behind me now.
Strong.
Quiet.
Flawed in ways that make him more human than dangerous.
"You believe me," he says quietly.
I don't hesitate.
"I do."
Something shifts in his eyes — not relief, not gratitude, but something warmer. Something like trust. The rare kind.
The kind you can't fake.
When I continue typing, I feel him closer… not touching, not crowding me, just close enough that I feel his presence settle into my spine.
And for the first time, I'm not the one who wants to pull away.
For the first time, I don't feel the urge to run.
We fall into a rhythm — me typing, him offering details quietly, gently correcting a line when necessary. The air between us becomes soft, heavy, full of things unsaid but somehow still understood.
Hours pass like minutes.
Until the doorbell rings.
A sharp, unexpected sound that cuts the moment cleanly in half.
Damian stiffens instantly.
His entire body shifts — controlled, alert, guarded. A reflex born from experience, not paranoia.
"I'll get it," he says, already moving.
I watch him cross the room with a tension that chills me in a way I can't explain.
He opens the door.
There's no person.
Only an envelope on the floor.
Thin. Plain. With one word written messily across the front:
ARIA.
My breath falters.
Damian picks it up like it's a threat disguised as paper.
He doesn't hide the fear — not fear for himself, but something sharper.
Protective.
He closes the door and turns the envelope in his hands.
"Damian… what is that?"
He doesn't answer.
He opens it.
Photos fall out.
My stomach drops.
Photos of Damian — bruised, bloodied, barely conscious.
Photos that look like someone tried to stage a narrative more than capture a truth.
A slip of paper slides out with them.
Four words. Enough to poison the air:
You're writing for a murderer.
My heart trips.
"Damian?" I whisper.
His expression is unreadable. Sterile. A mask built over years.
"It's nothing," he lies smoothly. Too smoothly. "Old press trash."
But his hands are shaking.
And for the first time since I've met him…
He looks scared.
Not of the photos.
Not of the message.
But of what it could mean for me.
He gathers everything, tucks the photos behind his back, and forces his voice into something steady.
"We'll continue after lunch."
I say nothing.
Because I know he's lying.
And I know it's not to hurt me.
It's to protect me.
But protect me from what?
Or… who?
---
DAMIAN
I've lived through threats.
I've lived through betrayals, lies, sabotage, blackmail, and a family that turned my life into collateral damage.
I thought nothing could shake me anymore.
But the envelope with her name on it?
That does.
Because this is no longer about the empire that fell around me.
This is about someone targeting her — the first person who has ever bothered to look past the version of me the world swallowed whole.
Aria.
Sharp-minded.
Soft-spoken.
Unexpectedly brave.
Unexpectedly important.
And now, unexpected collateral.
When she whispers my name, it nearly breaks me.
"Damian… what was in it?"
She looks at me with too much honesty. Too much openness.
I don't deserve that look.
"It was nothing," I repeat. "Just old pictures."
But they weren't old.
The bruises in those photos — I remember them.
Not from being dragged into a car like the picture shows.
That never happened.
But from the night they staged the crash site.
The night they told the world I caused something I didn't.
The night someone decided my truth had to stay buried.
These pictures weren't evidence.
They were intimidation.
A message from someone who wants to stop her from writing.
Someone who knows she's getting closer to the truth.
Someone who knows I won't let anything happen to her.
Which makes her the perfect target.
I tuck the photos away before she can see the fear tearing through my chest.
Later, she sits across from me, typing again, but her eyes keep drifting to me — searching, hesitant, worried.
She doesn't ask again.
But she knows.
Something changed today.
Something dangerous.
Something that rearranged the lines between her story and mine.
And as she curls her hand around her laptop like she's protecting it… I realize something quietly terrifying:
If anyone hurts her because of me,
I will destroy everything and everyone responsible.
I've lost too much already.
I won't lose her.
Not to them.
Not to this.
Not to the past clawing its way back into our lives.
Not ever.
---
By the time night falls, the writing slows.
The house feels different — heavier, like shadows know our names now.
Damian sits across from me, elbows on his knees again, staring at the floor like if he looks away, something will break loose.
"Are you alright?" I ask softly.
He doesn't look up.
He doesn't answer.
And I realize then, with a quiet certainty that scares me more than the envelope did…
This story isn't what they said it was.
And neither is he.
---
She doesn't know the full truth.
Not yet.
But she will.
And when she finally sees the whole story…
I pray she doesn't look at me the way the rest of the world did.
Because for the first time in years…
I care what someone sees.
I care what she sees.
And that alone is more dangerous than the photos, the threats, or the past resurfacing.