Chapter 3

The morning after the dinner, the Hale estate felt different.

Usually, the house was a tomb of silence, but today it vibrated with a manic, electric energy. It was the frequency of ambition. The merger had gone well. The handshake had happened. And, as Aria learned before she had even brushed her teeth, the wedding date had been set.

"Six months," Cassandra announced.

She was sitting at the vanity in her bedroom, staring at her own reflection with the intensity of an artist admiring a masterpiece. Aria stood by the door, holding a basket of fresh linens she had been collecting from the hallway.

"Father says we can't wait longer," Cassandra continued, applying a layer of peach gloss to her lips. "The fiscal year ends in December. We need the stocks to merge before then. So, I have six months to plan the wedding of the century."

She turned to look at Aria, her eyes bright with triumph. "Can you imagine it? Mrs. Cassandra Cross. It sounds expensive, doesn’t it?"

Aria gripped the wicker handle of the basket tighter. "It sounds… powerful."

"Exactly." Cassandra stood up, smoothing the silk of her dressing gown. "He’s richer than God, Aria. I’m going to have access to accounts that have more zeros than you can count. The penthouse in the city, the estate in the Hamptons, the private jet fleet. It’s all mine."

Aria hesitated. "And… Damian?"

Cassandra frowned, as if she had forgotten he was part of the equation. "What about him?"

"Do you… do you like him?"

Cassandra laughed. It was a sharp, incredulous sound. "Oh, grow up, Aria. This isn't a fairy tale. I don't need to 'like' him. I need to handle him. He’s cold, he’s boring, and he works twenty hours a day. Which is perfect. I’ll have the credit card, and he’ll have his office. We’ll barely have to speak."

She walked past Aria, trailing the scent of expensive rose perfume. "Now, stop standing there like a statue. Father is in the study with the lawyers. He needs the files you organized yesterday. Bring them down. Immediately."

Aria’s stomach gave a small, uncomfortable lurch. "Is… is Mr. Cross still here?"

"No, he left last night," Cassandra said, checking her phone. "But his lawyers are here. Go. Don't make Father wait."

Relief washed over Aria. He was gone. The dark shadow that had stood in the dining room doorway was gone.

"Okay," Aria whispered.

She hurried to her room, put down the laundry basket, and smoothed her hair. She checked her reflection in the small, cracked mirror on her wall. She looked tired. There were faint shadows under her eyes from a night spent staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Damian Cross had looked at her through the crack in the door.

It was nothing, she told herself for the hundredth time. He was just looking at a noise. A distraction. You are nothing to him.

She took a deep breath, picked up the file folder from her desk, and headed downstairs.

The house was busy. Staff members were moving furniture, polishing silver, preparing for the influx of wedding planners that Cassandra had already summoned. Aria moved through them like a ghost, dodging elbows and apologizing to empty air.

She reached the heavy oak doors of the study. She could hear voices inside, her father’s booming baritone and the sharp, clipped tones of legal counsel.

She knocked softly.

"Come in!" Desmond barked.

Aria pushed the door open and stepped inside, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"The files, Father," she said softly, walking toward the desk.

"Finally," Desmond grunted. He was standing by the window, a cigar in one hand. "Put them on the desk. And pour water for everyone. The staff is useless today."

Aria nodded. She placed the blue folder on the center of the massive mahogany desk. Then, keeping her head down, she moved to the side table where the crystal water pitcher sat.

She poured a glass for her father. She poured a glass for the lawyer sitting in the leather armchair. She poured a glass for the man sitting in the high-backed chair in the corner, obscured by the shadows of the bookshelves.

She stepped forward to place the glass on the coaster near his hand.

"Here is your, "

She froze.

The hand resting on the armrest wasn't wearing a lawyer’s watch. It was wearing a platinum Rolex, the face dark, the band heavy. The hand itself was large, tanned, and strong, with long fingers that tapped rhythmically against the leather.

Aria’s gaze traveled up the sleeve of the immaculate black suit jacket, past the broad shoulders, to the face.

Damian Cross.

He hadn't left.

He was sitting deep in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankle, looking completely at ease in her father’s territory. He wasn't looking at the papers. He wasn't looking at Desmond.

He was looking up at her.

The glass in Aria’s hand wobbled. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the expensive Persian rug.

"I, I’m so sorry," she gasped, her face burning instantly.

She scrambled to pull a tissue from her pocket, dropping to her knees to dab at the tiny wet spot on the rug. "I didn't know… I thought you were…"

"Clumsy," Desmond snapped from the window. "God, Aria. Leave it. Get up."

Aria flinched at her father’s tone. She stopped wiping the rug, her fingers trembling. She felt humiliated. Stupid. Invisible girl makes a mess. That was the headline of her life.

She started to stand up, keeping her eyes averted, preparing to apologize again and run.

But a hand entered her vision.

Damian had leaned forward. He didn't reach for the water. He reached out and, with slow, deliberate precision, took the wet tissue from her shaking fingers.

His skin brushed hers.

It was a fraction of a second. A mistake of physics. But the contact sent a shock through her body that was so sharp, so electric, it almost hurt. His fingers were warm, rougher than she expected, and firm.

"It’s just water," Damian said.

His voice was low, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. He wasn't speaking to Desmond. He was speaking to her.

Aria looked up, trapped by the sound of his voice.

He was close. Much closer than he had been in the hallway. She could see the flecks of gray in his black eyes. She could smell him, a scent of sandalwood, crisp rain, and something darker, like burnt sugar.

"I… I’m sorry," she whispered again, unable to find any other words.

"Don't apologize for gravity," he said.

He didn't smile. His face remained completely impassive, a mask of stone. But his eyes were doing it again. They were tracing her face, cataloging the shape of her jaw, the tremble of her lip, the flush on her cheeks.

"Damian," Desmond interrupted, oblivious to the frequency shift in the room. "The prenup terms regarding the joint assets. We need to finalize clause four."

Damian didn't look away from Aria. He held her gaze for three seconds longer, three seconds that felt like three hours.

Then, slowly, he released her eyes and turned back to her father. The warmth vanished. The attention vanished. He became the machine again.

"Clause four is non-negotiable, Desmond," Damian said coldly. "Cross Industries retains 51% of all acquisition rights. Take it or leave it."

Aria scrambled to her feet, clutching the silver tray against her chest like a shield.

"Get out, Aria," Desmond muttered, waving a hand at her without looking. "Close the door."

She didn't need to be told twice.

She backed away, her legs feeling like jelly. She reached the door, pulled it open, and slipped into the hallway.

She closed the heavy wood barrier between them and leaned back against it, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

She raised her hand, the hand he had touched. Her fingertips still tingled, a phantom sensation of heat where his skin had grazed hers.

It’s just water.

He had defended her. It was a small thing. A tiny, insignificant comment. But in a house where her father called her clumsy and her sister called her useless, Damian Cross, the cold, ruthless monster everyone feared, had told her not to apologize.

Why?

Inside the study, she heard the low rumble of his voice again, discussing millions of dollars and asset forfeiture as if he hadn't just stopped time for her.

Aria pushed herself off the door. She needed to get away. She needed to go to the garden, to the greenhouse, to the only place where the air didn't feel like it was thinning.

But as she walked down the hall, she realized something terrifying.

She wasn't invisible anymore.

Not to him.

***

Two hours later, the meeting ended.

Damian walked out of the Hale estate, flanked by his lawyers. The sun was high now, glaring off the polished hoods of the black SUVs waiting in the driveway.

Desmond was shaking his hand again, smiling that desperate, eager smile. Cassandra had come down to say goodbye, posing on the front steps like a queen waving to her subjects.

"I’ll see you at the engagement party on Saturday," Cassandra purred, touching his lapel.

"Saturday," Damian repeated.

He stepped away from her, moving toward his car. His driver opened the rear door.

Damian paused.

He looked over the roof of the car, his gaze scanning the grounds of the estate. He looked past the fountain, past the manicured hedges, toward the old glass greenhouse at the edge of the property.

Through the glass, blurry and distant, he could see a figure in a beige sweater, tending to a row of plants.

She was alone. She was hiding.

Damian watched her for a long moment, his hand resting on the car door. He felt a tightening in his chest, a strange, dark hunger that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with possession.

"Sir?" his driver asked.

Damian blinked, the mask sliding back into place.

"Drive," he said.

He got into the car, the tinted window sliding up to seal him in darkness. As the car rolled down the long driveway, he didn't look back at his fiancée. He didn't look back at his business partner.

He opened his phone and typed a message to his head of security.

Find out everything about Aria Hale. Where she goes. Who she talks to. Everything.

He hit send, locked the screen, and stared into the black reflection of the glass.

The game had begun.