Chapter 3 — Flames at Dinner
The penthouse was silent when they entered, but not peaceful.
It was the kind of silence that held tension like static — electric and waiting to strike.
Aria walked ahead first, taking in the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A skyline carved in gold by the setting sun. Everything expensive. Everything immaculate. Everything cold.
No photograph.
No personal memory.
No sign of lived-in warmth.
Adrian Locke didn't need a home. He just needed a place to exist between wars.
She turned slightly. "Do you ever actually live here?"
Adrian loosened his tie, eyes never leaving her. "I don't have time for unnecessary clutter."
"A personality isn't clutter," she said.
His voice didn't shift, but something in his gaze sharpened.
"Some of us learned to survive without one."
Aria didn't push further.
She recognized a door sealed shut.
She set her bag down and headed toward the dining room — but froze.
Dinner was already set.
White plates. Silver utensils. Crystal glasses.
And across the table, seated with perfect poise, was a woman.
Beautiful. Elegant. Dressed in ivory silk.
Her eyes were already on Aria.
A slow, assessing, unwelcome gaze.
Adrian's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second — the only sign this wasn't planned.
The woman stood smoothly.
"So," she said, lips curving, "the rumors were true."
Aria said nothing.
The woman stepped closer, offering a hand that felt more like a blade.
"Vivienne Hart. Adrian's business partner. And," her eyes flicked to Adrian, "old friend."
Ah.
There it was.
Aria took her hand anyway — firm, unapologetic. "Aria Sinclair. Wife."
The word dropped into the room like a match into gasoline.
Vivienne's smile tightened.
"Temporary," she said lightly.
"Legal," Aria replied.
Adrian watched them like someone watching storm clouds circle — expression unreadable, but attention razor-sharp.
Vivienne turned back to him.
"You didn't tell me you were getting married. I had to hear it through the press."
Her voice was sweet. The sweetness of poison.
Adrian's answer was cold enough to frost glass.
"It was a business decision. You don't need to be informed about my personal life."
A flicker of emotion crossed Vivienne's face — anger? jealousy? pain?
Hard to tell.
Dinner began.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Vivienne twirled her wine glass, gaze sliding to Aria. "So tell me, Aria… how did you manage to catch Adrian's attention? I didn't think he was the type to be interested in—"
Aria looked up — eyes steady, voice smooth, absolutely lethal.
"Women who can stand up to him? Yes. That is rare."
Adrian's fork paused midair.
Vivienne's grip tightened. "That's not what I was going to say."
"No?" Aria leaned back. "Then please. Finish your sentence."
Silence.
Vivienne's jaw tightened. She didn't.
Adrian didn't interrupt.
He didn't defend anyone.
He observed.
Always observing.
When dinner ended, Vivienne stood first.
She touched Adrian's arm — familiar. Too familiar.
Her eyes flicked to Aria.
"Some things," she said softly, "don't change just because of paper."
Aria didn't flinch.
"That's true," she agreed. "Especially losing."
Vivienne's expression cracked.
She left.
The moment the door clicked shut, Adrian spoke.
"You didn't need to provoke her."
Aria turned slowly, eyes burning like struck flame.
"She tried to provoke me first. I don't kneel for anyone — including your ghosts."
Adrian stepped closer.
Too close.
"Vivienne isn't my ghost."
"No?" Aria replied. "Then why did it feel like I walked into her house and not mine?"
The temperature dropped.
Adrian's voice was quiet — dangerously quiet.
"If you're expecting warmth from me, you will be disappointed."
Aria didn't back away.
"I don't need your warmth," she said. "I just don't allow myself to be disrespected."
Their faces were inches apart now.
Heat.
Tension.
A spark between two flints — one touch away from fire.
Adrian's voice was low, controlled, strained.
"You enjoy fighting with me."
Aria's reply was a whisper that hit like a strike:
"No.
I enjoy winning."
Something broke in his composure — not weakness.
Interest.
Real, burning interest.
Their breaths tangled.
But neither moved.
Not forward.
Not away.
Just held there — on the knife-edge of something dangerous.
Something inevitable.