Aria did not regret the kiss.
That truth sat heavy in her chest, unwelcome and dangerous. Not because it had been tender, but because it had been inevitable. Because it had crossed a line she could not uncross. Because it complicated everything she had been trying to keep clean and professional and controlled.
She was still unraveling that thought when the world broke back in.
It wasn't a headline.
It wasn't a written article.
It was worse.
Her phone vibrated once, then again, then refused to stop.
She frowned at the screen, irritation flashing briefly before confusion took its place. Messages stacked on top of each other, names she hadn't seen in months resurfacing all at once.
Is that about you?
Aria, you need to see this. Now.
Please tell me this isn't what it sounds like.
Her pulse slowed. That was always how it began.
She tapped the link.
A paused video filled her screen — a live interview replay, clipped and reposted across platforms faster than Aria could process what she was seeing.
The journalist sat comfortably under studio lights, legs crossed, voice calm in the way people sound when they believe they're about to make history.
"The Cole family has been at the center of unanswered questions for years now," she said. "But today, we may finally be closer to understanding what really happened after Damian Cole's death."
Aria felt the blood drain from her face.
The journalist smiled slightly, not triumphant, but assured.
"I spoke to a writer recently. Someone who was brought into this story for reasons she herself didn't fully understand at the time."
Aria's breath hitched.
"She didn't give me documents. She didn't give me proof," the journalist continued. "What she gave me was something far more unsettling."
The anchor leaned forward. "Which is?"
"She told me she saw him."
The words rang louder than they should have.
"In the mansion," the journalist said smoothly. "She described it as brief. Disorienting. Almost impossible to accept. Her exact words were that it felt like seeing a ghost."
Aria's hands trembled.
That wasn't how she'd said it.
"That same writer later questioned her own memory," the journalist added carefully. "But when rumors began circulating days later about Damian Cole possibly being alive, she reached out again. Shaken. Confused."
That was a lie.
"She didn't claim certainty," the journalist went on. "But certainty isn't required for truth to exist. Sometimes, it begins as recognition before it becomes evidence."
The clip ended.
Silence filled the room like a held breath.
Aria couldn't move. Her chest felt tight, like the air itself had thickened around her.
She dropped the phone.
The room tilted violently.
This wasn't exposure. It was framing — taking fragments, timing, proximity, and turning them into a story powerful enough to invite the world in.
She thought of the call she had made weeks ago. The café. Her shaking hands. Her confusion. She had asked questions, yes. She had voiced fear. She had said she felt like she was losing her grip on reality.
She had never given certainty.
Why would you do this?
Why would you use my doubt as your proof?
The betrayal hit then, sharp and personal. Not because secrets were told, but because trust had been reshaped into ammunition.
By the time she picked up the phone again, the damage was already spreading.
Clips. Transcripts. Commentary multiplying faster than truth ever could.
The interview was everywhere.
---
Ethan watched it in silence.
He noted the language. The pauses. The way the journalist never claimed proof, only implication.
When the screen went dark, he didn't raise his voice.
"Find out if it's real," he said calmly.
No panic. No disbelief.
Just fear sharpened into intent.
"Confirm the writer," he added. "If my brother is alive, I want proof."
---
Back at the mansion, Aria barely heard the door open behind her.
She was still staring at the black screen when Damian entered the room.
He didn't ask what she was watching.
He already knew.
She felt him before she heard him — his presence steady, unreadable. He reached for the phone still clutched in her hand and replayed the video. Once. Then again.
When it ended, the silence between them pressed hard against her ribs.
"You weren't supposed to talk to anyone," he said quietly.
It wasn't anger.
That somehow made it worse.
Aria turned to him immediately. "I didn't."
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp now, searching.
"She didn't get this from me," Aria said, words tumbling out. "I swear. I never told her anything. About the memoir. About you. She guessed, Damian. She watched and connected dots that weren't hers to connect."
He didn't interrupt.
"I called her months ago," Aria continued, voice breaking. "That day at the café. I was new here. I was scared. I didn't understand what I'd agreed to. I needed context, not exposure. I never imagined she'd do this."
She swallowed. "I trusted her."
"That was your mistake," Damian said evenly.
"I know."
The admission hurt because it was true.
"But I would never betray you," Aria added. "Not intentionally. Not like this."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"I know you didn't give her anything," he said finally.
Relief hit her so hard her knees almost buckled.
He believed her.
The weight of that trust settled deep in her chest, equal parts comfort and fear. She hadn't realized how badly she needed it until that moment.
"But intent doesn't erase damage," Damian continued. "And this invites attention we were trying to manage."
"What happens now?" Aria asked.
He didn't answer right away.
"They were waiting," he said at last. "For confirmation. For proof that the ghost they buried might still speak."
He met her eyes.
"And now they're listening."
Aria felt it then. The true shift.
Not chaos.
Expectation.
The world wasn't screaming anymore.
It was watching.
And somewhere far beyond the mansion walls, enemies were moving.