So this was Isabelle Rousseau. The ex-fiancée Elena had mentioned in her research. The woman Damien had been engaged to two years ago before calling it off abruptly, sending shockwaves through New York's social elite.
"Damien," Isabelle purred, her eyes never leaving Aria's face. "Congratulations on your marriage. I must say, I was surprised by your choice of bride. She's so… different from what I expected."
"What do you want, Isabelle?" Damien's voice had gone cold, his entire body tensing.
"Just to meet the new Mrs. Blackwell, of course." Isabelle's smile widened. "Tell me, dear, how did you manage to trap the city's most eligible bachelor? What's your secret? Oh, wait you can't tell me, can you?"
Aria felt the anger rising in her chest, hot and sharp. She'd dealt with people like Isabelle before bullies who mistook silence for weakness, who thought cruelty was sophistication.
She pulled out her phone and typed quickly, then turned the screen to face Isabelle: "I didn't trap anyone. Damien chose me. Perhaps you should ask yourself why he didn't choose you."
The effect was immediate. Isabelle's carefully maintained composure cracked, her eyes flashing with fury. "How dare you"
"That's enough." Damien stood, his height and presence immediately commanding attention. His voice cut through the ballroom chatter like a blade. "You're no longer welcome at this table, Isabelle. Leave. Now."
"You can't be serious," Isabelle hissed. "You're actually defending this… this"
"My wife," Damien interrupted, his voice like ice. "I'm defending my wife. Something you'd do well to remember before you embarrass yourself further."
The entire ballroom had gone quiet, all eyes turning to watch the confrontation. Aria felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger. She hadn't wanted to cause a scene, hadn't wanted to be the center of this kind of attention.
But she also refused to be insulted without response.
Isabelle looked between Damien and Aria, her expression twisting with barely contained rage. "This isn't over," she said quietly, then turned on her heel and stalked away, her red dress swirling dramatically.
The ballroom remained silent for another heartbeat, then conversation slowly resumed, though Aria could feel the weight of curious glances and whispered speculation.
Damien sat back down, his jaw still tight. "Don't engage with her," he said quietly, his tone brooking no argument. "Isabelle thrives on drama. Ignore her."
Aria typed: "She insulted me. What did you expect me to do?"
"Nothing," Damien said flatly. "I expected you to do nothing. I don't need my wife fighting my battles or creating scenes at our wedding reception."
"And I don't need my husband telling me when I can or can't defend myself," she typed back, her fingers striking the screen harder than necessary.
They stared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut. Marcus cleared his throat uncomfortably. Elena looked ready to leap across the table and physically drag Aria away from this disaster.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the master of ceremonies announced, breaking the moment. "Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife."
Perfect timing. Or terrible timing, depending on perspective.
Damien stood and extended his hand to her, his expression unreadable. "Shall we?"
It wasn't really a question. Aria placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the center of the marble dance floor. The orchestra began playing something classical and romantic probably "At Last" or some such wedding standard.
Damien's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer than she expected. His other hand clasped hers, warm and firm. They were close enough that she could smell his cologne something expensive and woodsy that probably cost more than her old rent.
"You need to learn to pick your battles," he murmured as they began to move in perfect time to the music. "That scene with Isabelle was unnecessary."
Aria wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that she wasn't going to be a silent, obedient doll who let people insult her without response. But they were in the middle of the dance floor with three hundred pairs of eyes watching their every move.
So instead, she let him lead her through the dance, her body moving automatically while her mind churned with frustration.
He was an excellent dancer, she noted distantly. Every movement was controlled, precise, confident. Of course he was. Men like Damien Blackwell excelled at everything they did.
"You're thinking very loudly," he observed, his breath warm against her ear. "I can practically hear your thoughts."
She tilted her head back to look up at him, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge.
"You're angry," he continued. "You think I should have let you handle Isabelle yourself. You think I'm being controlling."
She blinked, surprised that he'd read her so accurately.
"You're not wrong," he said, his gray eyes holding hers. "I am controlling. It's who I am. I don't apologize for it."
The song swelled, and he spun her out, then pulled her back in, closer than before. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of fabric between them, could feel the solid muscle of his chest against hers.
"But you need to understand something, Aria." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I protect what's mine. And like it or not, you're mine now. That ring on your finger says so."
Her breath caught. There was something in his tone that made her pulse quicken, something possessive and almost… dangerous.
"You wanted to know what happens after the reception," he continued, his lips close to her ear again. "Tonight, we're going to establish the rules of our arrangement. How this marriage will work. What I expect from you."
And what if I have expectations too? she wanted to ask. But she couldn't, not here, not now.
The song ended. Polite applause filled the ballroom. Damien released her but kept hold of her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in that same unconscious gesture from the ceremony.
The rest of the reception passed in a blur. More dances with various guests who felt obligated to interact with the new Mrs. Blackwell. The cake cutting a towering monstrosity of white fondant and sugar flowers. Toasts that were equal parts congratulatory and thinly veiled business networking.
Through it all, Damien remained at her side, his hand possessive at her waist or clasping hers. To everyone watching, they probably looked like a normal newlywed couple. No one could see the tension thrumming between them, the unspoken battle of wills that had started the moment they'd been pronounced husband and wife.
Finally, mercifully, Damien leaned down to murmur in her ear: "It's time to leave."
Aria felt her stomach clench with a mixture of anxiety and something else she didn't want to name. The reception had been a performance, a public show. But now they were going to be alone. Truly alone. And whatever happened next would set the tone for the rest of their arrangement.