They said their goodbyes brief, efficient.
Elena hugged her tightly and whispered fierce promises to check on her tomorrow. Marcus gave Damien a look that clearly said "Don't screw this up," though Damien ignored it entirely.
Then they were walking out of the ballroom, through the hotel lobby, to where a sleek black car waited at the curb. A driver held the door open. Damien's hand never left the small of her back, guiding her, claiming her, making it clear to anyone watching exactly who she belonged to now.
The car door closed behind them, sealing them in leather-scented silence.
The driver pulled smoothly into traffic, heading toward Damien's penthouse in Tribeca. Toward her new home. Toward whatever came next.
Damien was quiet beside her, his face turned toward the window, lost in thought. The city lights played across his sharp features, softening them slightly. He looked tired, she realized. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been visible in the bright ballroom lights.
She wondered, not for the first time, why he'd really chosen her. Why a man who could have anyone who could have kept Isabelle, beautiful and connected and appropriate had instead paid three million dollars for a bride who couldn't speak.
"Something about his board of directors requiring stability," his lawyer had said. But that felt incomplete. There was something else, something he wasn't saying.
Her phone buzzed in her small clutch purse. She pulled it out to find a text from Elena:
"Remember you're stronger than you think. And I'm one call away if you need me. Even in the middle of the night. ESPECIALLY in the middle of the night."
Aria typed back: "I'll be fine. I promise. Talk tomorrow."
She hoped it wasn't a lie.
The car pulled up in front of a sleek glass tower in Tribeca. The doorman rushed to open the car door. Damien exited first, then extended his hand to help her out, ever the gentleman when people were watching.
They crossed through a marble lobby that screamed wealth and exclusivity, into a private elevator that required a key card to operate. Damien swiped his card, pressed the button for the penthouse level, and the elevator began its smooth ascent.
Aria watched the numbers climb. Thirty floors. Forty. Fifty. Higher and higher, lifting her away from the world she'd known, carrying her toward whatever version of herself she would become in this marriage.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.
Aria stepped out and stopped, her breath catching despite herself.
The space was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Manhattan, the city sprawling out below them like a carpet of lights. The décor was modern and masculine clean lines, dark colors, expensive furniture that looked like it had never actually been sat on. Everything was immaculate, perfect, as coldly beautiful as the man who lived here.
It looked like a showroom. Not a home.
"The master bedroom is through there," Damien said, gesturing to a hallway. "Your things have been moved in already. My assistant supervised the transfer from your apartment."
Of course he had. Efficient as always.
Aria pulled out her phone: "Where will you sleep?"
Damien's eyes met hers, something unreadable flickering in their steel-gray depths. "In the master bedroom. It's a large bed. We're adults. We can share."
Her heart skipped. She'd known this moment was coming, had tried to prepare herself, but somehow the reality of it still felt overwhelming.
"I thought this was a business arrangement," she typed.
"It is," he confirmed, moving to the bar cart and pouring himself a scotch. He didn't offer her one. "But we're married. People will expect certain… appearances. The staff, my business associates, anyone who might visit. It would raise questions if we slept in separate rooms."
"So we're supposed to share a bed but nothing else?"
Damien took a long sip of his scotch before answering. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're amenable to making this arrangement more… comprehensive."
Aria felt heat creep up her neck. She knew what he was suggesting. She wasn't naive.
"You mean sex," she typed bluntly.
"I mean intimacy," he corrected. "This is a marriage, Aria. It doesn't have to be merely a business contract."
She stared at him, trying to read his expression. Was this something he actually wanted? Or was it just another term in his mental contract, another box to check off?
"And if I say no?" she typed.
Damien set down his glass and crossed the space between them. He stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Then we won't," he said simply. "I'm many things, Aria, but I'm not a rapist. I won't force you into anything. But" He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "I think we both felt something during that kiss at the ceremony. Chemistry. Attraction. Whatever you want to call it."
Her pulse was racing. She couldn't deny it that spark had been real. Unwanted, inconvenient, but real.
"Chemistry isn't a good reason to sleep together," she typed.
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But we're going to be living together. Sleeping in the same bed. Presenting ourselves as a married couple. It would be easier if there was something genuine between us, don't you think?"
Easier for whom? she wanted to ask. But she had a feeling she knew the answer. Easier for him. Easier for his perfect, controlled life if his wife wasn't just compliant, but willing.
"I need time," she typed. "I can't just… I barely know you."
Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded. "Fair enough. Take all the time you need. But we still sleep in the same room. Non-negotiable."
Of course it was non-negotiable. Everything with Damien seemed to be non-negotiable.
"What about the other rules you mentioned? The terms of our arrangement?"
Damien retrieved his scotch and settled onto one of the pristine sofas, gesturing for her to sit across from him. She did, perching on the edge of the cushion, her wedding dress pooling around her like a white sea.
"The rules are simple," he began. "One: You will be available to attend social functions and business events with me as needed. My schedule is demanding, and I need a wife who can fulfill those obligations."
Aria nodded. She'd expected that.
"Two: You will not embarrass me publicly. That means no scenes, no drama, no airing of any private disagreements in front of others."
She bristled at that but typed: "Does that mean you won't embarrass me either?"
"I have no intention of embarrassing you," he said, as if the very idea was absurd.
"Then what was that with Isabelle? You made a scene."
"I was defending you," he countered.
"I didn't need you to. I can defend myself."
"You did defend yourself. And it created exactly the kind of spectacle I'm trying to avoid."
They stared at each other, the impasse clear. This was going to be a recurring battle, Aria could tell. His need for control versus her need for autonomy.