Chapter 4

The engagement party was designed to be a coronation.

The ballroom of the Hale estate, usually draped in dust sheets, was now alive with five hundred guests, three string quartets, and enough white roses to bury a small village. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and the metallic tang of ambition.

Aria stood near the service entrance, her back pressed against the velvet wallpaper.

She was wearing a dress Cassandra had selected for her, a pale gray chiffon that washed out her skin tone and hung loosely on her frame. "It’s modest," Cassandra had said, tossing it onto Aria’s bed. "We don't want you looking… desperate."

Aria tugged at the hem of the sleeve. She felt like a shadow stitched into the background of a painting. She held a glass of sparkling water she had been nursing for an hour, watching the swirl of elites move across the floor.

They were all there. The politicians, the tycoons, the socialites. They laughed with open mouths and touched each other’s arms with fake familiarity.

In the center of it all was Cassandra.

She was radiant in emerald green silk, a diamond choker glittering at her throat. She held court, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, accepting compliments as if they were tithes.

And next to her stood Damian.

He was the anchor in the storm of frivolity. While Cassandra moved and shimmered, Damian stood perfectly still. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like armor. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression bored, almost disdainful.

He nodded when spoken to. He answered in monosyllables. He looked like a wolf surrounded by peacocks? tolerating them only because he hadn't decided to eat them yet.

Aria watched him. She couldn't help it.

It had been three days since the incident in the study, since his fingers had brushed hers over a wet tissue. She had spent those three days avoiding the main house, terrified of running into him.

But tonight, escape was impossible.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Aria jumped, her water sloshing in the glass.

A young waiter was standing in front of her, holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He had kind eyes and a nervous smile. He looked about her age, maybe a student working for extra cash.

"Would you like a canapé?" he asked, smiling at her. "Crab cakes. They’re actually really good, I snuck one earlier."

Aria blinked, surprised to be seen. "Oh. No, thank you. I’m okay."

"Are you sure?" The waiter lowered the tray slightly, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper.

"You look like you’d rather be anywhere else. I thought a crab cake might help the pain."

Aria felt a small smile tug at the corner of her lips. It was the first genuine human interaction she’d had all night. "I... I really shouldn't."

"Suit yourself," he grinned. "I’m Mark, by the way. If you need to be rescued from boredom, just wave."

"I'm Aria," she whispered.

"Nice to meet you, Aria. Nice dress, by the way. Matches your eyes."

He winked playfully and moved back into the crowd.

Aria felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks. It was a harmless flirtation, a tiny moment of normalcy.

Then, the temperature dropped.

She felt it before she saw it. The air around her seemed to thin, the noise of the party fading into a dull buzz.

She looked up.

Across the room, fifty feet away, Damian Cross was watching her.

He wasn't looking at Cassandra, who was clinging to his arm. He wasn't looking at the Senator shaking his hand.

He was looking directly at Aria.

And he looked furious.

It wasn't a hot, explosive anger. It was cold. Zero degrees Kelvin. His jaw was locked tight, a muscle ticking rhythmically in his cheek. His eyes were dark pits, fixed on the spot where the waiter had just been standing.

Aria’s breath hitched. Why is he looking at me like that?

She saw him lean down, whisper something brief to Cassandra, and then detach her hand from his arm. He started walking.

He wasn't walking toward the bar. He wasn't walking toward the exit.

He was cutting a straight line through the crowd, heading directly toward the corner where Aria stood.

Panic flared in her chest.

Run.

She couldn't let him corner her here. Not in front of everyone. Not with that look on his face.

Aria turned and slipped through the open French doors behind her, stepping out onto the terrace.

The night air was crisp and cool, a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the ballroom. The terrace was empty, the stone balustrade overlooking the dark gardens below.

Aria walked to the far end, gripping the cold stone railing, trying to calm her racing heart.

He wasn't coming for me, she reasoned. He probably just needed air. You’re imagining it. You’re nobody.

"Who was he?"

The voice came from the shadows behind her. Low. Deep. Vibrating with a restrained threat.

Aria spun around, gasping.

Damian was standing ten feet away, silhouetted against the light pouring from the ballroom. He took a step forward, his shoes silent on the stone.

"Who?" Aria squeaked, her voice failing her.

"The waiter," Damian said. He took another step. "The boy."

He stopped three feet from her. Close enough for her to smell the expensive scotch on his breath and the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. He loomed over her, blocking out the light, blocking out the escape.

"He... I don't know his name," Aria lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He just offered me a snack."

"He was smiling," Damian observed. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet somehow it sounded like an accusation. "He was leaning close."

"He was just being polite," Aria whispered, pressing her back against the stone railing. "Why... Why does it matter?"

Damian stared down at her. His hands were in his pockets, but his shoulders were tense, the fabric of his jacket straining slightly.

"It matters," he said softly, "because you are a Hale. It looks unprofessional for the family to be fraternizing with the help."

The excuse was weak. They both knew it. Cassandra flirted with the tennis instructor openly. Desmond slept with his secretaries.

"Fraternizing" wasn't a crime in this house.

But Aria didn't argue. She nodded quickly, desperate to end the conversation.

"I’m sorry," she said, lowering her eyes. "I’ll... I’ll stay away from him. I was just leaving anyway."

She made a move to step around him, to flee back inside.

Damian moved.

He didn't grab her. He simply shifted his weight, stepping directly into her path.

Aria froze. She was trapped between the stone railing and his body. There was barely six inches of space between them.

She looked up, startled. "Mr. Cross...?"

"Damian," he corrected.

"Damian," she breathed. "Please. I need to go."

"Why?" He tilted his head slightly, studying her face in the moonlight. "You don't like the party?"

"I don't belong in there," she admitted, the truth slipping out before she could stop it.

"No," he said quietly. "You don't."

He looked at her gray dress, his gaze sweeping down her body and back up, lingering on her face. It wasn't a look of disgust. It was a look of... recognition.

"They dressed you to disappear," he murmured. It sounded like he was talking to himself.

Aria felt a lump form in her throat. "I prefer to disappear."

"Do you?"

He took one hand out of his pocket. For a terrifying second, she thought he was going to touch her. She thought he was going to reach out and brush the stray lock of hair from her cheek.

Her breath stalled. She didn't move. She couldn't.

Damian’s hand hovered for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing. A war was happening behind his eyes, control versus impulse.

Then, he clenched his hand into a fist and dropped it back to his side.

"Go inside, Aria," he said, his voice rougher now. "Go to your room."

"My room?" she blinked, confused by the dismissal.

"Yes," he said, looking over her shoulder, staring into the dark garden as if he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. "Before I do something that will ruin your sister’s night."

Aria didn't ask what he meant. The warning in his tone was clear.

She slipped past him, her shoulder brushing against his arm. The contact burned.

She didn't run, but she walked fast, her heels clicking on the stone. She didn't look back.

If she had, she would have seen Damian Cross gripping the stone railing where she had just been standing, his knuckles white, staring at the empty spot as if he was trying to exorcise a ghost.

She would have seen him take a deep, shaky breath, composing the mask before turning back to the woman he was supposed to marry.

Inside the ballroom, Mark the waiter was clearing empty champagne flutes near the entrance.

As Damian re-entered the room, he paused.

He signaled to the head of the catering staff, a man in a black vest. The manager hurried over, bowing slightly. "Mr. Cross? Is everything to your satisfaction?"

Damian looked at Mark, who was laughing with another server across the room.

"That one," Damian said calmly, nodding toward the boy. "The one with the brown hair."

"Mark, sir? Yes, he’s new. Did he do something wrong?"

Damian adjusted his cufflinks, his face perfectly serene.

"He’s clumsy," Damian said. "I don't want to see him at the wedding. Or at any event I attend in the future. Is that clear?"

The manager paled. "Absolutely, Mr. Cross. I’ll handle it immediately."

"Good."

Damian walked away without a second glance.

He rejoined Cassandra, who was waiting for him with a glass of champagne and a pout.

"Where did you go?" she asked, linking her arm

through his. "You left me alone for ten minutes."

"Just getting some air," Damian said.

He took the champagne glass from her hand and took a long sip, the bubbles burning his throat. He looked toward the staircase, where a gray dress was disappearing around the corner.

"Did you miss me?" Cassandra teased, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Desperately," Damian lied.

He didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel remorse.

He just felt the lingering warmth of a girl who tried to be invisible, and the cold satisfaction of knowing that the boy who made her smile was gone.