"Good morning, Aria dear," Margaret said warmly. "I've made your favorite or at least what I think might be your favorite based on what you ate yesterday. Blueberry pancakes and fresh fruit."
"Thank you, Margaret. You're spoiling me."
"Someone should," Margaret said with a pointed look at Damien, who didn't appear to notice, still absorbed in his phone.
Aria sat at the kitchen island, deliberately not at the formal dining table. If Damien wanted distance this morning, she'd give it to him. She focused on her breakfast, trying not to feel the weight of his presence just a few feet away.
"I'll be home late again tonight," Damien said without looking up from his phone. "The Singapore deal is moving into final negotiations. I might not be home until midnight."
"Okay," she typed, keeping her response short.
He finally looked up, his eyes sharp. "Are you angry?"
She considered lying, considered being the cool, understanding wife who didn't demand more than he could give. But that wasn't who she was.
"Not angry. Just adjusting. You were vulnerable with me last night. Honest. Real. And now you're back behind your walls like nothing happened. It's whiplash-inducing."
"I have to be behind my walls," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Margaret couldn't hear from where she'd discreetly moved to the other side of the kitchen. "That's how I survive in my world. If I let everyone see the cracks, they'll exploit them."
"I'm not everyone. I'm your wife."
"A wife I've known for three days," he countered. "Trust isn't built that fast, Aria. Not for people like me."
"People like you?"
"People who've been burned. Abandoned.
Betrayed." His fingers tightened around his coffee mug. "I don't let people in easily. Last night was… more than I usually allow. I need to recalibrate. Figure out how to balance this" he gestured between them, "with everything else."
At least he was being honest. That counted for something.
"Fine. Recalibrate. But don't expect me to just sit around waiting for you to decide how much of yourself you're willing to share. I have my own life to build here."
Something that might have been approval flickered in his eyes. "Good. I don't want a wife who waits around for me. I want" He stopped, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter what I want. You're right. Build your life. Your art. Your friendships. Don't make me your whole world."
The irony wasn't lost on Aria. He was essentially giving her permission to not need him while simultaneously binding her to him with a three-year contract.
Before she could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his entire demeanor shifted shoulders tightening, jaw setting.
"I have to take this." He answered as he walked toward his office. "Marcus. Tell me you have good news."
And just like that, she was alone again.
Margaret appeared at her elbow, refilling her orange juice. "He's not good at this," the housekeeper said softly. "Relationships. Vulnerability. Being human instead of a machine."
"I noticed," Aria typed.
"But he's trying. In his way." Margaret's expression was kind. "I've worked for Mr. Blackwell for five years. I've never seen him bring anyone to this penthouse. Never seen him share a meal with someone. Never seen him look at someone the way he looked at you just now when you called him out."
"How did he look at me?"
"Like you were a puzzle he couldn't solve. Like you were something precious he didn't know how to hold without breaking."
Margaret patted her hand. "Give him time. And space. But don't give him too much of either. Men like Mr. Blackwell need someone who'll push back, who won't let them hide."
Before Aria could respond, raised voices came from Damien's office. Not quite shouting, but close. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear something was wrong.
A moment later, Damien emerged, his face thunderous. "I have to go to the office. Now. There's a problem with the Singapore deal."
"What kind of problem?"
"The kind that could cost me everything." He grabbed his briefcase, his movements sharp with barely controlled fury. "Someone leaked confidential information to our competitors. They're making a counter-offer to the Singapore group. If we can't match it, if we can't prove we're the better option, we lose the deal."
"How bad is that?"
"Catastrophic. I've invested two years and hundreds of millions into this expansion. If it falls through…" He didn't finish, but she could see the panic beneath the anger. This deal was everything to him.
"What can I do to help?"
He looked at her like she'd spoken in a foreign language. "Nothing. This is business. It's not" He stopped, catching himself. "I don't need help. I need to fix this."
There it was again. The walls. The refusal to let anyone in, even when he was clearly drowning.
"Damien"
"I have to go." He was already moving toward the elevator. "I'll call if I need anything."
The elevator doors closed behind him, and Aria was left standing in the kitchen, feeling useless and frustrated and worried about a man who wouldn't let her worry about him.
"Well," Margaret said pragmatically. "He's an idiot, but he's our idiot. Come on, dear. Finish your breakfast. You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
"For whatever comes next," Margaret said cryptically. "Something tells me today is going to be interesting."
Margaret's prediction proved accurate an hour later when the penthouse intercom buzzed.
"Mrs. Blackwell?" The doorman's voice crackled through. "You have a visitor. A Ms. Isabelle Rousseau. Should I send her up?"
Aria's stomach dropped. Isabelle. Damien's ex. The woman who'd tried to humiliate her at the wedding reception.
Every instinct screamed to refuse. But curiosity and a stubborn desire not to be intimidated in her own home made her press the button.
"Send her up," she typed into the intercom's text function.
Margaret appeared in the doorway, her expression concerned. "Are you sure about this, dear?"
Aria nodded, though she wasn't sure at all.
Two minutes later, Isabelle Rousseau stepped out of the elevator like she owned the place. She was impeccably dressed in a cream designer suit, her blonde hair perfect, her makeup flawless. She looked like old money and new cruelty wrapped in Chanel.
"Well," Isabelle said, her voice dripping honey and poison. "The little mute bride. All alone in her golden cage."
Aria gestured to the living room, refusing to let Isabelle see how much that barb had stung. They sat across from each other Aria on one pristine sofa, Isabelle on another like generals preparing for war.
Isabelle crossed her legs, examining her perfect manicure. "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here."