AriaMy eyes feel weak. Heavier than they were when I woke from the coma. Lifting them feels like peeling myself away from cement. They won’t cooperate. Not yet.It might be the exhaustion. Yesterday left nothing behind but scraps. No fuel. No air. Just the weight of survival and the kind of mental fog that sticks to your ribs.I squeeze my lids shut, trying to block it all out—the panic, the sprint, the stupid hope when I thought the gate was open. That brief flash of relief, followed by adrenaline so sharp it almost felt like clarity. For a second, I thought I’d made it, that I’d beat him.But no. He got to me first. And just like that, the fight drained out of me. Gone. I didn’t resist. Didn’t scream. I didn’t even speak.Just followed. Numb.Now my eyes flutter open, and the ceiling above is white, high, and unfamiliar.Where...?The smell hits me next. Expensive linen. Something floral. Subtle. The kind of scent you get in overpriced hotels with too many stars. I glance around.T
AriaShopping with Damon feels like walking through a movie set where the lead actors don’t speak to each other. Not out of tension, but because the script doesn’t require it.We’re in and out of stores within an hour. Fast. Clean. Efficient. The kind of shopping only someone like Damon could pull off without once looking up from his phone. Not even to see what I’m picking. Not even when I pause a little too long at a rack or glance toward the exit like it might suddenly open up into freedom. Not the countless times I looked over my shoulder in fear, or by instinct. And even when our guards glance back, he doesn’t. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t catch me looking. Doesn’t care.He moves like a man who’s figured out the world owes him nothing—and still manages to get everything. That quiet self-assurance used to be just annoying. Now it’s unnerving. And... fine, a little impressive. In that unsettling, dangerous way.He holds all the power and wields it without blinking.And I hate that I noti
DamonThe moment the car door shuts and the engine hums to life, the silence thickens. She’s quiet. Too quiet. Still wearing that smile she put on like war paint for her little sidewalk reunion.The driver shifts into gear, and before the wheels even roll forward, I say it.“What the hell was that?”It comes out low, even—but it slices through the quiet like a blade. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.She stares out the window like I’m a minor inconvenience.“What?”She’s playing dumb now?“You ran,” I say. My jaw’s clenched, voice measured. “To a man. In public. With guards present.”She doesn’t flinch. “I know him.”Of course she does.“It doesn’t matter.”“He said my name.”“And that’s the bar now? He said your name so you throw yourself at him in the middle of Paris like it’s a goddamn reunion episode?”The memory flashes again—her full-on sprint, the way she flung herself into his arms like we didn’t have two security guards five st
DamonThe evening drags. I step out onto the balcony just to get away from the walls. Not that the Paris air helps—it's not some kind of cure. But inside, everything feels tight. Off. Too still.Down below, the city keeps going. Laughter. A scooter. Someone is yelling in French. People are living their lives without missing a beat. Meanwhile, in here, it feels like everything’s stuck in place.I lean on the railing, but my head’s somewhere else. Back in that moment. Her in his arms. That laugh. That look on her face. I haven’t seen that version of her in weeks—maybe not at all since she came crashing back into my world. And then he shows up, and she’s suddenly glowing like she’s finally breathing again.I glance inside through the glass.She’s on the couch. Phone in her lap, but she’s not looking at it. Just sitting. Quiet. And smiling. Not the kind of smile she puts on for people. This one’s small. Honest. The kind you don’t even realise you’re doing.It pisses me off more than I’d l
AriaThe floor is cold in a way that makes everything hurt a little deeper.No matter how I shift, nothing about it gets easier. My shoulders are sore. The bones in my hips press against the thin padding of the duvet like they’re being punished. My hands are curled against my chest, fingers stiff from being tucked under me all night.But I stay down here.Because arguing about the bed? About fairness? That would’ve meant feeding his ego.So, no. I didn’t fight it.He doesn’t deserve my outrage. Doesn’t deserve the part of me that reacts to this bullshit with fire. That’s the part he wants. The fight. The spark. So he can push, provoke, and control.Instead, I gave him nothing.Just silence and surrender.At least, that’s what it probably looked like from up there—his throne of pillows and comfort. Like he won. Like I folded.But I didn’t. Not really.This was the only way to avoid him entirely.Because the moment he walked out the door this morning, I was always going to get up off th
AriaWhat happens after that?Breach the contract. Lose the little freedom I have. Put Derek in danger. Put myself in something worse than a floor next to a king-sized bed.I stare down at my plate.“A.” His voice cuts through again.And I realise—I’ve been sitting here in silence. Again.Just... zoning out and internally screaming.Derek leans forward, eyes searching my face, and gently places his hand to my forehead like he’s checking for a fever. “I’ve seen you twice, and both times, you’ve disappeared into your head. Are you okay?”I let out a soft laugh. The kind that doesn’t mean joy. “I’ve just... been in my head a lot lately.”“Yeah. I’m noticing.”He pulls his hand back, gives me that soft half-smile that used to make everything feel manageable. I look away.“So,” I say, trying to sound casual, like I’m finally ready. “Where do I start?”He doesn’t answer. Just waits. Elbows resting on the table now, fully leaned in.I could still tell the truth. I could finally say it.Inste
DamonShe’s gone.I can feel it the second I walk back into the apartment. There’s a type of silence that hits differently. It doesn’t announce itself—it just spreads. Thick. Cold and absolute.The bathroom door is open and the balcony is empty. No sign of her scarf, the one she always leaves flung over the back of a chair, like it doesn’t matter. Her phone's missing too.She left.My pulse spikes, but I don’t show it. I don’t alert the guards, don’t raise my voice. I know how this works. If I make a scene, it’ll turn into a wildfire. One wrong move and we’re headlines again.So I keep it quiet.I slip out of the apartment, telling one of the guards I’m heading to the gym. They nod, uninterested. Good. I move fast but calmly. Through the corridor. Past the courtyard. I check every corner she might've ducked into.Nothing.She’s not on the grounds. Not in the garden, not in the small café behind the main building that she sometimes stares at for hours. Not even the private reading room
Aria‘He was watching?’That’s it?‘He was watching???’That’s all he could say? No apology. No hesitation. No sign that maybe, just maybe, he regrets shoving his mouth on mine in the middle of a Paris street.We step into the apartment, and the door clicks shut, but all I hear is the static in my head. My jaw clenches. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to scream, throw something, make him feel what that moment did to me. But I don't.Because deep down, I know I can't put this all on him.I didn’t stop him.Could’ve pushed him off. Could’ve yelled. Slapped him. Anything.But I didn’t.I froze for half a second—long enough to give him a window. And then I did something worse.I leaned in.So no, I can’t go full firestorm on him. Not when my own body betrayed me first.He walks to the balcony like he always does. Like it’s his designated spot in this war zone of a living space. Hands in his pockets, face angled toward the skyline, pretending this city has more to offer than a thousa
AriaIt starts with a knock. Soft, respectful, but firm enough to ruin any illusion of quiet."Ma'am," the maid says from behind the door. "Miss Eunice requests your presence in the studio. It’s for the gala preparations."Right. The gala. Damon mentioned it weeks ago in that clipped tone of his, like it was just another box on our never-ending list of lies to check off, and I hadn't thought about it since.I roll out of bed slowly, still a little groggy, and make my way across the room. The house is too quiet, which means Damon’s not around. Not that it changes anything. The silence in our fake-marriage mansion has started to feel like a third presence. Watching. Waiting.The studio is alive with movement the second I step in. From the fabrics draped over racks, to sequins catching the light from the high windows. Stylists buzz around me before I even get a word out. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, Eunice appears, hands folded neatly."Don’t look so scared, darling. We’re just
AriaThe morning unfolds slowly, like it already knows the weight it carries. Light spills into the room in hazy lines, brushing over the untouched side of my bed. I glance through the slightly open adjoining door to his room. Again, he's not here.Not that I expected him to be. He’s mastered the art of disappearing before dawn, especially when things get too quiet between us. Quiet, not in the peaceful way, but the kind that fills every corner with questions and the ghosts of things left unsaid.Slipping out of bed, I pad toward the bathroom, moving slowly, almost carefully, like I might bump into another memory. The shower is quick, my mind already racing ahead, trying not to land on him—on the dresser, on the way his breath caught when our bodies met, on how fast he walked away.Everything in this house reminds me of him. Of us. Of the performance. The pretence.Downstairs, the dining room is still and clean, the scent of fresh bread and eggs warming the air. Eunice sits at the fa
Damon"So, firstly, background check, then a not-so-crazy fuck buddy. What else? What am I missing?" Kingsley's voice cuts clean through my thoughts, snapping me back into the room.He’s been watching me with that sharp, knowing look—the one he saves for when he’s on the verge of prying something out of me, like a detective cornering his only suspect."I think that’s about it," I reply, running a hand over my jaw, trying not to sound as worn out as I feel. "I'll let you know if something else comes up."His eyes stay fixed on me for a second too long. I already know what’s coming. He leans back into his seat, arms crossed like he’s settling in for a movie. Great."Alright. So…" he drags the word out like a fishing line, and I shake my head."Go on, Kingsley," I say, already regretting ever coming here. The man lives for this."I was just wondering…" he starts, eyes lighting up with a kind of devilish glee, "what happened in Paris? And what did you do afterwards? Because I’m certain th
DamonI retire back into the adjoining suite, get off my clothes, and freshen up. In no time, I sleep off, my thoughts still running wild from all that happened today.Morning comes and the light pouring in through the slits in the blinds forces me awake. The house is quiet, too quiet for everything spinning in my head. A part of me wants to stay buried under the covers, just to delay facing the shit storm that’s coming. But I can't. I get up, splash water on my face, and throw on my running gear.The run is short but feels long. The air is crisp, cold enough to sting a little, but that’s the point. Pain distracts. Pain clears.With every step pounding against the pavement, I try to outrun the image of her curled up under the duvet, the way she pulled back from me yesterday, that damn look in her eyes. Something like disappointment. Something worse.I step back into the house, towel at my neck, sweat drying fast. My feet take me automatically to the adjoining suite, and I shut the doo
DamonI watch her walk off.Something is definitely up with her. In all the weeks she’s spent here, in this house, she’s never wandered out to this part of the estate. She’s always either locked up in her room, quiet as a shadow, or bickering with Eunice over which vase belongs in which hallway. Never this.But tonight, she walked with purpose. Not angry. Not storming off. Just quiet. Deliberate. It throws me off.The second I caught sight of her slipping through the glass doors that lead to the garden, something in me reacted. Instinct, maybe. Habit, maybe worse. My legs moved before my brain finished forming the question: What the hell is she doing out there?She didn’t answer me. Not really. The usual retorts, the pushbacks. But this time, it didn’t feel like she was pushing me away just for sport. Something else is sitting beneath the surface.She’s hiding something.And the maddening part?I can’t tell what.But, how hard could it be to spill?'Spill? To you?' the voice in my hea
AriaThe note sits at the bottom of the drawer like it owns the damn room.A small, folded piece of paper—simple, stupid, and ordinary. Except, it isn’t ordinary. It shouldn’t be here. No one should have touched this drawer. No one should have access to this room. And yet—here it is. Crisp edges. Smooth texture. Same paper. Same weight. Same fucking handwriting.No message this time. Just a number.19. I stare at it like it might change if I blink enough. It doesn’t. The black ink remains bold, unmoving, certain of its own mystery.What does this mean? Is it a date? A countdown? A room number? A threat? My mind runs wild, fingers clutching the note like it might disappear if I let go. Every possibility flashes through like a horror reel.And that’s the part that terrifies me most—not knowing.I slip it into the pages of a book and slide the book deep inside the drawer, then I lock the drawer with a key I didn’t think I’d need.Back in New York. Same surveillance, new format. These pe
AriaIt takes all of two minutes inside this room to remember where I am—back in the cage. Same city. Same house. Same man with a different mask for every room.Unpacking feels mechanical, like my hands are on autopilot. Dresses. Tops. A few random things from Paris that don’t belong here, not in this place where the little joy I had goes to die. The bed is too neat, too silent. The adjoining door to Damon’s room stands half open, and the air from it feels heavier than it should. Maybe it’s him.Maybe it’s me.I slide the zipper open on another suitcase and let the silence fill every crevice. It’s louder than words. Louder than what we didn’t say on the plane, louder than the lie he dropped before walking off: Whatever happened in Paris stays in Paris.Right. Convenient.The worst part? The fact that my brain keeps looping back to that night. Not the heat, not the thrill, but the way he looked at me like he forgot how to hate. Like he couldn’t tell where anger ended and want began. I
Damon“Alright, man. If you say so,” Kay says, and with that, the line goes dead.Leaning back into the headrest, I try to still everything. Thoughts, instincts, the tension that hasn’t left my shoulders since we touched down. The inside of the car is silent except for the hum of the engine. The moment feels stretched thin, like it might snap if I breathe too loudly.Gravel crunches under the tires. I didn’t even notice Mark turning into the driveway until we were already pulling in. The house rises into view, tall and sharp against the dull afternoon light, and just like that, reality comes barreling back.She moves before the car comes to a full stop. The door swings open, and she steps out fast. Too fast. The door slams hard behind her.Right. Here we go.If I was taming a dog before Paris, I’m fighting a tiger now. And not just any tiger—one I raised with my own hands. One I fed fury and independence, and then had the audacity to expect silence from.I step out, and my eyes land o
Damon“Whatever happened in Paris... stays in Paris,” I say, stepping off the plane with my back to her, keeping my eyes forward because if I look back, even for a second, my eyes might give me away.The words taste like control but feel like betrayal. A contradiction in every breath. Relief flickers through me, quick and sharp, like I finally sealed off a door that would only lead to trouble. But underneath it, regret simmers. Something in my chest squeezes tight, and my brain shoves the memory back. And yesterday, I just had to leave. I had to. Because there were no words after what happened. No smug reply. No commanding reply. Hell, nothing. And I just had to leave like a coward.But that set the floor for what I just said to her. And it helps. Because I need time to put my thoughts together, even if it means she hates me, more now than before. Even if it's cowardly.The feel of her against me—warm, soft, willing—floods my senses for half a second too long. No.Not now. Not again