Thank you, K.C. and J.P., for being the first to contribute your gems to this story. :)
Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest suite, lighting up dust particles dancing in the air. Proof that despite how perfect the Harrington penthouse looks, even here, imperfection exists if you look close enough.I stand at the window, watching the city wake up thirty stories below. My reflection's like a ghost on the glass.The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Dark circles under my eyes, my natural curls fighting back after yesterday's straightened wedding style, and my brown skin looking ashen from exhaustion.Xavier took off for Tokyo at exactly 5:30 AM, not bothering to tell me himself only to have Michael knock on my door at 7:00 AM, his face professionally blank as he hands me a thick folder."Your schedule and transportation details for the week, Mrs. Harrington," he says, using my new name like he's been saying it forever. "The car will arrive at 9:00 AM to take you to the estate. Your belongings have already been moved to your assigned q
Sunday arrives with the weight of inevitability.The family dinner I've been dreading all week looms before me like an execution.For six days, I've followed the punishing schedule set out for me: enduring Trainer Mateo's obvious contempt as he pushes my body to its limits, suffering through Genevieve's increasingly frustrated attempts to alter clothes that refuse to hang properly on my curves, submitting to endless lectures on Harrington family history and protocol.Now, standing in my suite as a stylist applies the finishing touches to my hair, I study my reflection with detachment.The woman in the mirror is a constructed illusion. My natural curls are tamed into what Patricia deemed a "more sophisticated" style, my makeup applied to emphasize my cheekbones and "minimize the fullness" of my lips, my body poured into a navy blue dress that Genevieve finally declared "acceptable if you don't move too suddenly.""Mrs. Harrington will be pleased with the improvement," the stylist murmur
ARIAXavier, who has been studying the contents of his glass with apparent fascination looks up at this. "Aria's academic credentials were thoroughly checked before the arrangement was finalized, Grandma. She meets all the specified requirements."The delivered assessment as if I'm not standing right here, is more painful than Sophia's open hostility. To Xavier, I'm a checklist of requirements, nothing more."Dinner is ready, Mrs. Harrington," announces a staff member from the doorway, providing a momentary reprieve from the tension.The dining room continues the theme of intimidating opulence. A massive table that could seat twenty but is set for only five, crystal chandeliers casting cold light over Limoges china and sterling silver place settings, fresh flowers arranged in towering displays that ensure conversation requires leaning around them.Eleanor takes her place at the head of the table, with Harold and Xavier flanking her. Sophia moves to sit beside her brother, leaving me th
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
ARIAAfter a week of being confined primarily to the blue suite, cabin fever sets in with a vengeance.The walls seem to close in despite the spacious rooms, and I find myself staring longingly out the windows at the expansive gardens below."I need fresh air," I announce when Xavier brings lunch, another task he's taken to performing personally despite the household staff's availability. "Just a short walk. I'm going stir-crazy in here."Xavier studies me carefully as I stand to emphasize my point. "Dr. Pia did say light activity would be beneficial at this stage," he concedes. "The gardens, maybe. But not alone.""I wasn't planning a solo expedition," I reply dryly. "I assumed you'd insist on accompanying me."Something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes. "You're learning."The Harrington gardens are spectacular even in early spring. Maintained pathways winding between geometric hedges and early blooms.Xavier matches his stride to my slower pace with his hand resting ligh
ARIAThe night passes in fragmented pieces of Xavier waking me every two hours as promised, asking me simple questions to check my awareness."What's your name? What day is it? Do you know where you are?"Each time, I drift back to sleep almost immediately after answering, vaguely aware of his watchful presence in the armchair near the bed.Morning arrives with pale sunlight filtering through the blinds and the dull throb of pain in my head and wrist.I blink awake to find Xavier standing at the window and his back to me as he speaks quietly on the phone."Cancel everything through Friday. Reschedule the Tokyo call for next week. Tell them I have a family emergency."Family emergency. The term catches me by surprise. Hearing him use that terminology when he doesn't know I'm listening feels significant."I'm awake," I announce softly, not wanting to eavesdrop further.Xavier turns immediately, ending his call with a brief "Handle it" before approaching the bed.He looks exhausted, with
ARIAThe realization that he's here, that someone actually reached him, brings an unexpected wave of relief that makes my eyes sting with sudden tears.When he appears in the doorway, I barely recognize him.His usual immaculate appearance is completely disrupted: tie missing, shirt collar open, hair disheveled as though he's been repeatedly running his hands through it. However, it's his expression that truly shocks me. The emotion in his eyes."Aria," he breathes, crossing the room in three long strides to reach for me. Then hesitates with his hands hovering uncertainly as he takes in the monitoring equipment, the bandage being applied to my wrist, the bruise already forming at my temple."I'm okay," I manage. "Just a little banged up."Xavier's gaze sweeps over me, cataloging each visible injury with growing intensity. When he finally meets my eyes again, there's something raw and unguarded in his expression that I've never seen before."What happened?" his voice is rough.I try to
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 w
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 shou
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 al
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