"Three," Damien continued, clearly deciding to move past their disagreement. "This marriage will last a minimum of three years.
After that, if we both agree, we can discuss an amicable divorce. But not before three years. That's the timeline required to satisfy my board's concerns about stability."
Three years. Three years of this. Three years of rules and control and pretending.
"And what do I get in return?" she typed.
"Besides the obvious fact that my uncle's debt is paid."
"You get the lifestyle that comes with being Mrs. Damien Blackwell," he said, as if it should be obvious. "This penthouse. A generous monthly allowance. Access to my resources. Freedom to pursue your art career I'm told you're quite talented."
"You researched me."
"Of course I did. I don't make three-million-dollar investments blindly."
Investment. That's all she was to him. A calculated risk, a business decision.
"What if I want more than money and a nice apartment?" she typed. "What if I want respect? Partnership? Actual consideration in decisions that affect my life?"
Damien was quiet for a long moment, studying her with those sharp gray eyes. "Then you'll have to earn it," he finally said. "I don't give respect freely, Aria. It's earned through actions, not demanded through words. Or in your case, through typed messages."
The casual cruelty of that last comment stung more than she wanted to admit.
"I may not be able to speak," she typed, her fingers shaking slightly with anger, "but that doesn't mean I have nothing to say. And it definitely doesn't mean I'm going to roll over and be whatever you want me to be."
She stood, the sudden movement making her dress rustle. She was exhausted emotionally, physically, completely wrung out from the longest day of her life.
"Where is the bedroom?" she typed. "I'm tired."
Damien rose as well, his expression unreadable. "Down the hall, last door on the right. Your things are in the closet. The bathroom is through the door on the left."
She nodded and turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Aria."
She looked back over her shoulder.
"Welcome home," he said quietly.
The words should have been warm, comforting. Instead, they felt like a cage door closing.
Aria didn't respond. She just walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, her wedding dress trailing behind her like a white flag of surrender.
But she wasn't surrendering. Not really.
She was regrouping. Preparing. Learning her opponent's strategies so she could counter them.
Damien Blackwell thought he'd acquired a convenient, silent wife who would fit neatly into his controlled life.
He was in for a rude awakening.
Aria woke to unfamiliar silence.
Not the comforting silence of her old studio apartment where she could hear Mrs. Chen's television through the thin walls and the constant hum of traffic from the street below. This was the silence of wealth thick, insulated, almost oppressive in its completeness.
For a disoriented moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then the events of yesterday crashed back: the wedding, the reception, the penthouse, the rules.
The marriage.
She opened her eyes to find herself in the largest bedroom she'd ever seen. The king-sized bed she was lying in could have fit three of her old twin mattresses. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up an entire wall, offering a breathtaking view of Manhattan in the early morning light. The décor was masculine but not aggressively so charcoal gray walls, sleek modern furniture, touches of deep blue in the bedding.
And notably, she was alone.
Aria sat up slowly, the silk nightgown she'd changed into last night sliding against her skin. She'd found it laid out on the bed when she'd finally made it to the bedroom, along with a note in sharp, precise handwriting: "Your clothes are in the closet. The left side is yours. D"
Even his notes were controlling.
She glanced at the other side of the bed. The covers were disturbed, the pillow bearing the indent of a head. So Damien had slept here. Next to her. And she'd been so exhausted that she hadn't even woken when he'd come to bed.
The bedside clock read 7:47 AM. Aria pushed back the covers and stood, her bare feet sinking into plush carpet. She padded over to the windows, drawn by the view.
The city stretched out below her like a living organism cars already flooding the streets, people like ants rushing to their destinations, the whole chaotic pulse of New York on display. She was so high up that the noise barely reached her. Just the silence. Always the silence.
A soft knock at the door made her turn.
An older woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray. "Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell. I'm Margaret, the head housekeeper. Mr. Blackwell asked me to bring you breakfast and to let you know he's left for the office."
Of course he had. It was a workday, and Damien Blackwell probably hadn't taken a day off in his life, wedding or no wedding.
Aria gestured to the sitting area by the windows a small table with two chairs that probably cost more than her entire art school tuition. Margaret set the tray down, revealing an elaborate breakfast spread: fresh fruit, pastries, eggs benedict, orange juice, coffee.
"Mr. Blackwell wasn't sure what you preferred," Margaret said gently, "so he had me prepare a variety. In the future, if you let me know your preferences, I'll make sure we accommodate them."
Aria reached for her phone on the nightstand and typed: "Thank you, Margaret. This is lovely. And please, call me Aria."
Margaret read the message, and something warm flickered in her expression. "Of course, Aria. If you need anything at all, just press the intercom button by the bed. I'm here Monday through Friday, 7 AM to 5 PM. There's also a day staff that rotates cleaners, a chef if you want prepared meals, a driver at your disposal."
A driver. Staff. This was her life now.
"How long have you worked for Mr. Blackwell?" Aria typed.
"Nearly five years," Margaret replied. "Since he bought this penthouse. He's a demanding employer, but fair. Very private, very particular about his routines."
"What are his routines?"
Margaret hesitated, clearly weighing how much to share. "He wakes at 5:30 AM. Goes to the gym on the lower level for an hour. Returns here to shower and dress. He's usually at the office by 7:30. He works late most nights rarely home before 8 PM. Sometimes later."
So she'd barely see him. The thought should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt oddly hollow.
"Does he eat dinner at home?"
"When he remembers to eat at all," Margaret said with a hint of motherly disapproval. "Mr. Blackwell has a tendency to work through meals. I usually leave something in the refrigerator that he can reheat, though I'm not sure he always does."
Aria filed that information away. A man who forgot to eat. Who worked constantly. Who lived in this beautiful penthouse but probably barely noticed it.
What kind of life was that?
"Thank you for the information, Margaret. And for breakfast."
"Of course, dear. Oh Mr. Blackwell also left you this." Margaret pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. "He asked me to give it to you when you woke."
Aria took the envelope, noting the weight of it, the expensive stationery. Margaret excused herself quietly, leaving Aria alone with her breakfast and whatever message her new husband had left.
She opened the envelope to find two things: a black credit card with her name embossed on it ARIA BLACKWELL and a handwritten note.
"Aria
This card has no limit. Use it as you see fit. The driver, Thomas, is available whenever you need to go somewhere just call the number programmed into your new phone (on the dresser). You're free to explore the city, visit galleries, see your friend Elena, whatever you wish.
I have back-to-back meetings today and a dinner with clients tonight, so I won't be home until late. Make yourself comfortable. The penthouse is your home now.
We'll talk more this weekend about the arrangement and answer any other questions you have.
" Damien"
Aria stared at the note, trying to parse what she was feeling. Relief that he wouldn't be home tonight? Disappointment at the same thing? Frustration that he was already establishing a pattern of absence?
The credit card felt heavy in her hand. No limit. He was literally handing her unlimited money and freedom to go anywhere.
It should have felt like generosity.
Instead, it felt like dismissal. Like he was paying her to stay out of his way.
She set the note aside and turned her attention to breakfast, surprised to find that she was actually hungry. The eggs were perfect, the pastries flaky and buttery. She ate slowly, watching the city wake up fully below her, trying to adjust to this surreal new reality.
After breakfast, she showered in the master bathroom which was itself larger than her old apartment's entire living area and dressed in jeans and a soft sweater from the clothes that had been transferred from her apartment. Someone had unpacked everything and organized it in the walk-in closet, her modest wardrobe looking almost comically small in the massive space.
Next to her section of the closet was Damien's racks of expensive suits, perfectly organized by color, rows of Italian leather shoes, drawers that probably contained more ties than she had total articles of clothing.