He was looking at her the way someone might examine a painting they'd just purchased cataloging the asset, evaluating the investment.
Something defiant sparked in Aria's chest.
She lifted her chin a fraction higher and met his gaze directly, refusing to look away first.
One dark eyebrow rose fractionally. Surprise? Annoyance? She couldn't tell.
She reached the altar. Her uncle placed her hand in Damien's and stepped back quickly, as if afraid to linger too long in the billionaire's presence.
Damien's hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful. His fingers closed around hers with the same confidence that seemed to radiate from every pore. Up close, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight imperfection of a small scar along his jaw. Details that made him real rather than just the two-dimensional monster Elena had painted.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly, his deep voice pitched for her ears alone.
The words were said with the mechanical precision of someone fulfilling a social obligation. She might have been offended if she'd expected anything different.
The officiant began speaking. Aria barely heard the words. She was too focused on the fact that Damien hadn't let go of her hand. His thumb moved slowly, almost unconsciously, across her knuckles. The gesture seemed at odds with the coldness in his eyes.
"We are gathered here today to witness the union of Damien Blackwell and Aria Winters in holy matrimony…"
Holy. The word felt like blasphemy applied to whatever this was.
The ceremony proceeded with efficient speed. No personal vows Damien had insisted on the standard traditional wording. Perhaps he'd known that Aria couldn't speak hers anyway, or perhaps he simply didn't want anything that felt too personal.
"Do you, Damien Blackwell, take Aria Winters to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
"I do." His voice was steady, emotionless. A contract being signed.
The officiant turned to her. "Do you, Aria Winters, take Damien Blackwell to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
Silence fell across the ballroom.
This was the moment everyone had been wondering about. The mute bride. How would she respond?
Aria had planned for this. She lifted her free hand and placed it over her heart, then extended it toward Damien in the sign language gesture that meant "I do." Clear, deliberate, impossible to misinterpret.
Then, maintaining eye contact with her new husband, she nodded once. Firmly.
Something flickered in Damien's eyes. Was that… respect?
"The bride has given her consent," the officiant said smoothly. "By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Damien's eyes held hers for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup her jaw with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone once before he lowered his head.
The kiss was brief, chaste, appropriate for a wedding in front of three hundred guests. His lips were warm against hers, the contact lasting no more than a handful of seconds.
But in that moment, Aria felt it a spark of something electric, something that made her pulse jump and her skin flush. Chemistry, her mind supplied helplessly. Unwanted, unexpected, but undeniably real.
When Damien pulled back, his eyes had darkened. His jaw was tight, as if he'd felt it too and didn't like it one bit.
The ballroom erupted in polite applause.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the officiant announced, "I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Damien Blackwell."
Mrs. Damien Blackwell.
The name felt foreign, surreal. Aria forced herself to smile as Damien tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her back down the aisle. Every step felt weighted, significant. Her old life falling away with each footfall.
They made it to the private room set aside for the newlyweds before the reception. The moment the door closed behind them, Damien released her arm and put three feet of distance between them.
"That went well," he said, his tone businesslike as he checked his phone. "The reception will last approximately two hours. We'll make appearances, do the required dances, cut the cake. My assistant has the timeline. After that, we'll leave for the penthouse."
The penthouse. His home. Now her home too.
Aria pulled out her own phone and typed quickly, then turned it to show him.
"What happens after the reception?"
Damien glanced at the screen, then back at her face. "We'll discuss the terms of our arrangement in private. There are rules we need to establish."
Rules. Of course there were rules.
She typed again. "And if I don't agree to your rules?"
His expression didn't change, but something hard entered his eyes. "You signed a contract, Miss Winters. Mrs. Blackwell," he corrected himself. "You agreed to this marriage. I expect you to honor that agreement."
"I agreed to marriage. Not to being controlled."
The air in the room shifted, grew heavier. Damien took a step closer, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming in the small space. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the intensity radiating from him.
"Let's be clear about something," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. "I paid three million dollars to make you my wife. I didn't do that to have you fight me at every turn. I chose you specifically because I thought you would be… accommodating."
Aria's fingers flew across her phone screen. "You chose me because you thought I'd be weak. Silent. Easily dismissed. You were wrong."
She watched the words register. Watched his eyes narrow, his jaw clench. For a moment, she wondered if she'd pushed too far, too fast.
Then, unexpectedly, one corner of his mouth lifted in something that might have been the ghost of a smile.
"Was I?" he murmured. "We'll see, Mrs. Blackwell. We'll see."
A knock at the door interrupted whatever might have happened next. "Mr. Blackwell? Mrs. Blackwell? The reception is ready for your entrance."
Damien extended his arm to her once more, the cold businessman back in place. "Shall we?"
Aria took his arm, her heart pounding. She'd just drawn a line in the sand with one of the most powerful men in New York. She'd challenged him within an hour of becoming his wife.
Reckless? Probably.
But she'd meant what she'd texted Elena. She was stronger than she looked. And Damien Blackwell was about to learn that his silent bride had teeth.
The reception awaited. Their first dance as husband and wife. Speeches and toasts and performances for all those watching guests.
And after that? After that, she would face whatever rules and terms her new husband thought he could impose.
But she would face them on her feet, not her knees.
The door opened. Music and laughter spilled into the room. Damien led her out into the ballroom, into the spotlight, into her new life.
Aria lifted her chin and walked forward.
Silent, yes.
But never, ever weak.