Here's today's update. :)
ARIADays crawl by with agonizing slowness, and I often catch myself wishing time would just move faster. Everything stays quiet after that dinner with Xavier’s family last Sunday—until Tuesday, exactly at 3:00 PM, when a new summons arrives."Mrs. Eleanor Harrington requests your presence for tea in the east garden at 3:30," Mrs. Prescott delivers it with the gravity of a royal decree.Her tone makes it clear this isn't an invitation but a command. "Appropriate attire would be a day dress, nothing too casual."I glance down at the tailored slacks and silk blouse I've been permitted to wear for my morning session with the etiquette coach and nod. "I'll change right away.""Very wise," Mrs. Prescott replies. "Mrs. Harrington appreciates punctuality and proper presentation."As the housekeeper leaves, I move to my closet, surveying the limited selection of Harrington-approved garments.I've learned to read the subtle hierarchies embedded in every interaction, every instruction, every exp
The Harrington family compound in Aspen sprawls across thirty acres of prime mountainside real estate, a collection of rustic-luxe buildings that manage to appear both authentically alpine and obscenely expensive.The main house was a 15,000-square-foot structure of reclaimed timber and glass. It commands views of the surrounding peaks that feature prominently in architectural magazines and the I*******m accounts of the various Harrington family members who use the property as backdrop for their curated public personas.I've been dreading the annual family retreat since Michael added it to my schedule three weeks ago. Two weeks at the Aspen compound with the entire extended Harrington clan including Eleanor, Harold , Sophia, and a host of cousins, aunts, and uncles I've yet to meet seems like an exercise in prolonged humiliation."It's tradition," Xavier explained curtly when I asked if my presence was truly necessary. "All Harrington spouses attend. Your absence would be noticed."Tra
ARIAThe walk back to the guest house is a blur of hurt and anger… of tears threatening to fall but held back by sheer force of will.I refuse to give anyone who might be watching the satisfaction of seeing me cry.Inside the guest house, I strip off the wet swimsuit and stand under the shower's hot spray, finally allowing the tears to come as the water washes away the chlorine and the shame.Later, dressed in jeans and a sweater that haven't passed Genevieve's approval but are the most comfortable items I've managed to smuggle into my suitcase and I sit on the small porch of the guest house, staring out at the mountain vista without really seeing it.The beauty of the landscape seems to mock my misery.A movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. An elderly man in work clothes makes his way along a path that skirts the edge of the property.He moves with the unhurried gait of someone who knows every inch of the grounds, pausing occasionally to inspect a plant or adjust an
The charity luncheon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art is exactly the kind of event I've come to dread. A gathering of the capital’s elite women, ostensibly raising money for arts education but primarily engaged in the subtle warfare of social positioning.Three months into my marriage, I've learned to navigate these waters with a smile that never quite reaches my eyes, making small talk about designers and vacation properties while the women around me assess every aspect of my appearance and background for weaknesses.Today's event is hosted by the museum's board of trustees, which includes Eleanor Harrington among its most influential members.I've been "invited" to attend via a terse note from Victoria, who continues to serve as Eleanor's proxy in managing my public appearances. The subtext is clear: show up, look appropriate, say little, and don't embarrass the family."Mrs. Harrington, how lovely to see you," greets the event chairwoman, an elegantly preserved woman in her sixties
ARIAIt's been two weeks since the incident in the library, two weeks of distance and minimal interaction.Xavier has never mentioned his outburst or explained who Ethan is, and I haven't raised the subject again.Now we're enroute to Tokyo for what Xavier described as the most important business dinner of the quarter, and I've been included not because Xavier wants my company but because as Michael explained with his usual tact, "Japanese business culture places high value on family stability. Mr. Tanaka has specifically requested to meet Mr. Harrington's wife."The request has clearly irritated Xavier, who prefers to keep his professional and personal lives entirely separate, but the potential investment is too significant to risk offense. So I've been briefed, coached, and warned about the importance of making the right impression.The Harrington private jet touches down at Haneda Airport at precisely 3:17 PM local time.As the aircraft taxis toward the private terminal, I mentally
ARIAI stand motionless."He finds strong, capable women, convinces them they're special, and then systematically dismantles their self-confidence." His words echo alongside Natalie's warning.I move to the window overlooking Tokyo's skyline as tears threaten.I blink them back, refusing to give in to the hurt and humiliation he's crafted to diminish me.Tonight was brutal because I accidentally challenged his control by showing I actually know what I'm talking about. His response was to attack not just my professional abilities but my appearance, my social standing, my very right to consider myself his equal.I stare out at Tokyo, a city that's survived centuries of disasters and I feel something hardening inside me—a resolve beyond the hurt and anger. Xavier might control our contract and have power over my circumstances, but he can't control my mind or spirit unless I let him.I won't let him!Natalie survived Xavier's systematic dismantling. She rebuilt herself stronger than before
ARIAMy breath catches as panic flares hot and bright behind my eyes. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.I grab his wrist instinctively, digging my nails into his skin, but it's like trying to move marble.Still, I refuse to look away. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.The room tilts and sways around us."You should be," he whispers in a voice trembling with barely contained rage.His hand shakes on my throat, betraying the war within him. "You should remember your place. You're nothing but a contract wife. A pawn."His face comes closer, swimming in my oxygen-deprived vision. "I could end all of this with a single word. I could let your father die and watch you crawl back to me, begging."My lungs burn, desperate for air and blood pounds in my ears like war drums.My vision blurs at the edges and the room's opulence fades to gray still I manage to choke out, "Then do it. If that's who you really are, then do it!"Xavier’s grip tightens, and for a heartbeat that stretch
Days flew by and turned to weeks.I’ve been pondering a lot about my life and how to change it.Today, I decide to do something daring.The Harrington Consolidated headquarters takes up thirty floors of a gleaming skyscraper in Midtown, with a lobby screaming "we're rich but tasteful" - rare marble floors and museum-quality art.I've only been here once since getting married.Today's visit? Totally different. Unscheduled. Unexpected."Mrs. Harrington," the receptionist says, clearly surprised when I step off the private elevator. "We weren't expecting you today.""I need to speak with my husband," I reply with practiced poise. "It's rather urgent."The receptionist hesitates. "Mr. Harrington is in meetings all afternoon. Maybe Mr. Chen could help you? He handles most of the family's personal matters."Five months ago, I might have accepted being pushed toward "personal matters" instead of business. Today, I smile."I'm afraid this requires Xavier directly. I'll wait in his office." Mic
ARIAThe storm hits Midtown with unexpected ferocity, turning the afternoon sky an ominous slate gray.I should have rescheduled my meeting with Westlake Pharmaceuticals, but their CEO is flying to London tomorrow, and securing their distribution partnership for our Kazakhstan facilities is too important to delay."You could videoconference," Michael suggests when he sees me collecting my portfolio. "The weather warning's been upgraded to severe.""Westlake’s CEO is old-school," I explain, checking that I have all the necessary contracts. "Mr. Harrison won't sign anything without a handshake first."Michael frowns at the rain lashing against the office windows. "At least take the company car instead of yours. They have better traction.""Mine has all-wheel drive," I assure him, though I appreciate his concern. "And I grew up driving in harsh winters. This is nothing."My car glides smoothly through the downpour, and by the time I arrive at Westlake’s glass tower, the valet is already
ARIAThe Harrington family estate has become more comfortable, less like a museum and more like a place I could actually call home. I’ve spent time exploring the vast property. However, there are still rooms that feel forbidden. Eleanor's private study is one of them—a sanctum I've never been invited to enter.I'm passing by its heavy oak door when I hear my name spoken in Eleanor's crisp, authoritative tone.I pause, not intending to eavesdrop yet unable to move away when I realize she's speaking to Xavier."You're becoming distracted by Aria," Eleanor says. "The board has noticed. I've noticed.""The board is pleased with our performance," Xavier responds with an edge I recognize as defensiveness. "Our stock is up seventeen percent since the Kazakhstan deal.""This isn't about business performance." Eleanor's voice sharpens. "It's about your performance. The way you look at her during meetings. The rooftop dinner for her birthday. These gestures go far beyond our arrangement."I sho
ARIAThe weight of what I've uncovered changes everything.I wake with a jolt each morning, immediately checking for signs of intrusion. Each night, I lie awake cataloging potential threats and planning countermeasures.I've become hypervigilant, seeing danger in every unexpected phone call, every lingering glance from Eleanor or her people.I've installed my own security system in my private quarters: motion sensors, cameras, and alarms that alert only my burner phone.I've even started taking self-defense classes three times a week, telling Xavier it's for stress relief.But more than my own safety, I find myself increasingly concerned about Xavier. The emotional damage I once attributed to simple coldness or arrogance now reveals itself as the product of genuine trauma—a child who lost his parents and brother, who's been manipulated by the very person who may have orchestrated it all.His trust issues, his emotional detachment, his occasional bouts of unexplained melancholy… they a
ARIAI reach out to a man named Jasper Griffith who agrees to meet me with surprising ease when I mention James Harrington's name the next day. As Harrington Consolidated's former security chief, he potentially has information that could confirm or disprove Xavier's suspicions about his parents' deaths.We arrange to meet at Café Lucerne, a small establishment across town, away from any Harrington-affiliated locations.I spend the morning preparing, researching Griffith's background. His twenty-two years with Harrington security was abruptly terminated six months after the "accident" that killed James and Catherine. No public explanation was given, and he's been working as a private security consultant since then, though his client list is notably devoid of major corporations.My phone rings with a blocked number two hours before our meeting."Mrs. Harrington. I need to cancel our appointment," Griffith's voice sounds tight, almost strangled."Is everything alright, Mr. Griffith?" I pr
ARIAEleanor's warning echoes in my mind as I sit alone in the library three days after the charity gala.The gentle ticking of the antique clock, a Benson & Wilcox from the 1890s that Xavier's great-grandfather imported from London, is my only companion at 2:37 AM.I'm surrounded by newspaper clippings, financial reports, and archived articles I've been collecting since that night at the gala when Eleanor cornered me with her veiled threats.The smell of old paper and leather bindings mingles with the faint scent of the Earl Grey tea that's gone cold beside me.Xavier's revelations at the mausoleum last week still haunt me.I run my finger along the timeline I've created, starting with the accident that killed James and Catherine Harrington thirteen years ago. The official story seemed straightforward at first, but as I dig deeper, inconsistencies emerge like fractures in glass.The accident occurred exactly three days before James was scheduled to announce a major company restructuri
ARIAThe storm shows no sign of abating as midnight approaches.Rain hammers against the stone roof of the mausoleum, and wind howls through cracks in the ancient mortar.I've lost feeling in my legs hours ago, but I don't dare move and disturb Xavier's fitful sleep.His head remains heavy in my lap and his breathing occasionally catching on what sounds suspiciously like suppressed sobs.When he finally stirs, the disorientation in his eyes is immediate. He blinks rapidly, trying to place his surroundings, then freezes when he realizes his position.The vulnerability I witnessed earlier begins to shutter behind his usual visage of control."How long have I been out?" His voice is rough, throat raw from emotion and whiskey."A few hours," I answer softly. "The storm's trapped us here."He sits up abruptly, wincing at what must be a splitting headache. "You should have woken me." The words are accusatory yet lack their usual bite."You needed the rest."Xavier runs a hand through his dis
ARIAThe nightmare incident stays with me in the days that follow.Xavier behaved as if nothing happened the next morning, discussing upcoming meetings with his usual precision. However, something fundamental has shifted. I've glimpsed the wounded man beneath the cold exterior, and I can't unsee it.Occasionally, I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, his expression thoughtful, perhaps wondering what I'm thinking about what I witnessed.I also find myself watching him more carefully, noticing the subtle signs of exhaustion that suggest it wasn't an isolated occurrence: the almost imperceptible shadows beneath his eyes, the extra cup of coffee he requires in the mornings, the way he occasionally loses focus during conversations with his mind clearly elsewhere.Xavier doesn't show up for the quarterly board meeting. His absence is like a black hole at the head of the conference table, drawing everyone's attention despite Timothee Cartoon’s attempts to proceed normally.H
ARIATime fly by since that humiliating morning fight with Xavier.The memory of his cruel words about my body being "too unattractive" still burns. Yet in these weeks, something unexpected happens. I discover my own power.The transformation begins at the Harrington Foundation Gala when Eleanor collapses mid-speech.I move with efficiency, discreetly signaling security, clearing a path for medical personnel, and redirecting attention from the spectacle with social grace."You handled that like you were born to it," Eleanor tells me later from her hospital bed, her shrewd eyes reassessing me.This single moment shifts everything. Eleanor begins inviting me to join her morning financial discussions. "My grandson may have married you for convenience," she says one morning, sliding the quarterly reports toward me, "However, we underestimated what you can bring to the table."Xavier seems determined to prove her wrong. He assigns me Atlantic Boutique Hotels, a failing chain the board had a
ARIAMy consciousness swims to the surface from a deep sleep the next morning.Something's wrong. The mattress beneath me feels unusually firm, almost unyielding against my back, nothing like the plush comfort I'm accustomed to sinking into each night.There's also a strange pressure on my lower abdomen, something solid and warm pressing insistently against me.Confusion clouds my mind as I struggle to orient myself.My eyelids feel heavy, reluctant to open as if weighed down by invisible anchors. I force them apart slowly, blinking away the haze of sleep, expecting to see the familiar pattern of my bedroom ceiling.Instead, I find myself staring directly into a pair of eyes. Blue eyes. Cold, piercing blue eyes like shards of winter ice, watching me with an intensity that sends a jolt of adrenaline straight through my body.They're mere inches from my face, close enough that I can see the darker ring around his irises, the flecks of steel gray near the pupils.Xavier!"What the—!" The