Chapter 2

By seven o’clock, the Hale estate had transformed from a home into a stage.

The air in the foyer smelled of fresh white orchids and expensive furniture polish. The lighting had been dimmed to a warm, golden glow, designed to make diamonds sparkle and skin look flawless. Every cushion was plumped, every surface gleamed, and the silence that usually filled the house had been replaced by the frantic, hushed energy of the staff moving in the background.

Aria stood at the top of the service staircase, pressing herself into the shadows of the alcove.

She was wearing a simple black dress, one that she usually wore for funerals or formal events where she was required to stand in the back and not speak. It was modest, high-necked, and blended perfectly with the darkness of the hallway.

Below her, the main foyer was a theater of anticipation.

"Is the wine breathing?" Desmond’s voice drifted up the stairs, sharp and agitated. "Alfred Cross drinks only the '82 vintage. If it’s not ready, heads will roll."

"It’s ready, sir," the butler replied, his voice calm.

"And Cassandra?"

"Miss Cassandra is in the drawing room, sir."

Aria shifted her weight, her hand gripping the cold wooden banister. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in her room, invisible, eating a tray of dinner that the cook would bring up later. But ten minutes ago, Cassandra had texted her: My clutch. The silver one. I left it in the library. Bring it down. Now.

So Aria was on a mission, trying to navigate the house without being seen, like a ghost haunting her own family.

She crept down the back stairs, the service entrance that led into the kitchen corridor. The kitchen was a war zone of steam and shouting chefs, so she kept her head down and slipped into the side hallway that connected to the library.

Her heart was doing a nervous flutter in her chest. The guests, the Cross family, were due to arrive at any second. If she bumped into them, her father would be furious. He didn't want his "mistake" of a daughter cluttering up his perfect business merger.

She reached the library, the room dark and smelling of leather. She found the silver clutch on the sofa where Cassandra had carelessly tossed it. Aria grabbed it, her fingers brushing the cold metal sequins.

Get in. Get out.

She turned to leave, stepping back into the corridor.

The front doorbell rang.

It wasn't a normal ring. It was a deep, resonating chime that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Aria froze. She was trapped in the hallway between the library and the foyer. If she moved forward, she would be seen. If she went back, she would be stuck in the library for hours until the dinner moved to the dining room.

She pressed her back against the wall, hiding behind a large potted fern, her breath catching in her throat.

Just wait, she told herself. Wait for them to move into the drawing room, then run.

She heard the heavy oak front doors open. The sound of the night air rushing in, followed by the firm click of shoes on marble.

"Alfred," Desmond’s voice boomed, overly jovial, dripping with the desperation to impress.

"Welcome. Thank you for coming."

"Desmond." The replying voice was dry, aged, and sounded like sandpaper rubbing against stone. That must be Alfred Cross.

Aria peeked through the leaves of the fern. She knew she shouldn't look. She knew it was dangerous. But curiosity was a pull she couldn't resist.

She saw her father shaking hands with an older man who looked as if he had been carved out of gray granite. Alfred Cross wore a suit that cost more than Aria’s entire life education. He didn't smile. He merely nodded.

And then, a shadow moved behind him.

Aria’s breath stopped.

Damian Cross walked through the door.

The magazine photo hadn't done him justice. It hadn't captured the sheer physical weight of his presence. He was tall, comfortably over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled the tailored black coat he wore. He moved with a predatory grace, slow, deliberate, like a large cat entering a new territory, checking for threats, checking for prey.

He stepped into the light of the foyer, and for a second, Aria felt the temperature in the hallway drop.

His face was striking, brutal in its symmetry. High cheekbones, a sharp, arrogant jawline, and hair as black as ink, swept back from his forehead. He wasn't handsome in the way movie stars were handsome; he was handsome in the way a weapon was beautiful. Dangerous. Cold. Perfect.

"Damian," Desmond said, extending a hand. "Good to see you."

Damian didn't smile. He didn't offer a polite greeting. He simply took Desmond’s hand, gave it a single, firm shake, and released it.

"Desmond," Damian said.

His voice was a low baritone, dark and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel. It sent a strange vibration through the floor, a sound that seemed to bypass Aria’s ears and settle straight into her stomach.

"Come in, come in," Desmond ushered them. "Cassandra is waiting in the drawing room. Drinks are poured."

The men began to move. Aria let out a silent exhale, her shoulders relaxing. They were walking away from her. She was safe.

She waited until they disappeared into the drawing room on the left. The heavy doors closed with a soft click.

Silence returned to the hallway.

Aria peeled herself away from the wall, clutching Cassandra’s silver bag to her chest. She needed to get this to the drawing room, hand it to a maid to deliver, and then disappear upstairs.

She walked quickly, her footsteps silent on the runner rug.

But as she passed the open archway of the dining room, she hesitated.

The table was set for four. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, white orchids. It was perfect.

And then, she felt it.

A prickle on the back of her neck. A sudden, irrational feeling that she was exposed.

She turned her head.

The drawing room doors she thought were closed... weren't. One was cracked open just an inch.

And through that crack, an eye was watching her.

Dark. heavy. Unblinking.

Aria froze mid-step. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

It was him.

Damian Cross was standing just inside the drawing room, his back to the party, looking through the gap in the doors. He wasn't listening to her father. He wasn't looking at Cassandra.

He was looking at her.

She couldn't move. The distance between them was twenty feet, but his gaze felt physical, like a hand gripping her throat. He didn't look away when she caught him. Most people would have politely averted their eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Damian didn't.

He widened the gap in the door slightly with one hand, pushing the wood back, revealing half of his face. His expression was completely unreadable, no surprise, no interest, no warmth. Just cold, clinical observation. He looked at her the way a scientist looks at a specimen under a microscope.

He looked at her simple black dress. He looked at her messy hair, tied back in a rush. He looked at the silver clutch she was gripping so hard her knuckles were white.

Aria felt a flush of heat rise up her neck, shame, fear, confusion. She felt small. She felt dirty compared to the perfection of the house.

She broke the contact. She couldn't handle the weight of it.

She spun around, ducking her head, and hurried toward the kitchen, her legs feeling unsteady. She pushed through the swinging door, the noise of the chefs hitting her like a wall, drowning out the silence of the hallway.

She leaned against the stainless steel counter, gasping for air, her hand pressing against her racing heart.

"Miss Aria?" the head cook, Mrs. Higgins, asked, pausing over a pot of soup. "Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Aria swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I... I’m fine. Just... here." She held out the bag, her hand trembling. "Can you please give this to one of the servers to take to Cassandra? She needs it."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Higgins took the bag, looking at her with pity. "You go upstairs now. I’ll send a plate up for you."

"Thank you," Aria whispered.

She turned and fled. She took the back stairs two at a time, needing to put walls and floors between herself and the ground floor.

She reached her room and shut the door, leaning her back against it, breathing hard in the darkness.

She was safe. He was down there, in the world of business and lies, and she was up here, where she belonged.

But as she closed her eyes, she could still feel it.

That dark, heavy gaze.

It hadn't felt like a glance. It hadn't felt like an accident.

It felt like he had memorized her.

*****

Downstairs, the dinner began.

The conversation was dominated by Desmond and Alfred, talking about market shares, Asian expansion, and stock valuations. Cassandra was charming, laughing at the right moments, touching Damian’s arm lightly, playing the part of the perfect trophy wife.

Damian sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but dominant. He twirled the stem of his wine glass between his long fingers, watching the red liquid swirl.

He answered when spoken to. He nodded at the right times. He was polite, efficient, and completely detached.

"My daughter has quite the eye for interior design," Desmond was boasting, gesturing to Cassandra. "She practically redecorated the west wing herself."

"It’s lovely," Damian said, his voice flat.

"We believe in family values," Alfred added, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "A strong home makes a strong empire."

"Agreed," Desmond said. "Cassandra is the heart of this house. We are very proud of her."

Damian took a slow sip of wine. His eyes drifted away from the conversation, moving toward the open doorway of the dining room, toward the dark hallway beyond.

The shadows were empty now.

"Desmond," Damian said suddenly, cutting through the conversation.

The table went quiet. Desmond looked eager. "Yes?"

Damian set his glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the tablecloth was soft, but it sounded like a gavel.

"I saw a girl in the hallway earlier."

The air in the room grew stiff.

Cassandra’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Desmond stiffened, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

"A girl?" Desmond laughed nervously. "Oh, you must mean one of the maids. I apologize if she was in the way. I’ll speak to the staff manager."

"She wasn't wearing a uniform," Damian said. He wasn't asking. He was stating a fact.

Desmond cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. He looked annoyed, embarrassed. "Ah. Yes. That would be... Aria."

"Aria," Damian repeated.

He said the name slowly, testing the weight of it on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it, darker, heavier.

"My youngest," Desmond said dismissively, waving a hand as if to shoo the topic away. "She’s... quiet. Shy. She prefers to stay out of the way. She’s not really involved in the family affairs."

"I see," Damian said.

"She’s a bit odd," Cassandra added, letting out a small, musical laugh. "Always hiding in corners. We try to get her to socialize, but she’s just so... awkward. You know how some people are."

"Awkward," Damian said, his eyes still fixed on the empty hallway.

"Yes," Cassandra smiled, leaning closer to him. "But let’s not talk about her. Father was just telling us about the merger timeline."

Damian turned his gaze back to Cassandra. His eyes were blank, void of any emotion, shielding his thoughts completely.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "The timeline."

He picked up his knife and fork, resuming his meal.

But for the rest of the dinner, while Desmond boasted and Cassandra flirted, Damian Cross did not say another word. He simply ate, drank, and stared into the middle distance, his mind working behind the wall of his silence.

He was thinking about the girl in the black dress. He was thinking about the fear in her eyes. And he was thinking about the way she had looked at him, like she was the only person in this entire house who saw the monster sitting at the table.

And Damian liked being seen.