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The penthouse wall
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2025-10-13 19:49:41(Aria’s POV)
The city blurred past the tinted windows in a wash of light and rain. The afternoon had given way to that strange silver hour between day and night, when everything looked softer, dreamlike — except for Damon Hale, who sat beside me, all sharp lines and controlled silence. We hadn’t spoken since the ceremony. His driver navigated the traffic with robotic precision, the low hum of the engine the only sound between us. I sat with my hands clasped in my lap, the gold band on my finger catching the passing headlights like a small, constant reminder of what I’d just done. Married. To a man whose world didn’t even breathe the same air as mine. I glanced sideways. Damon’s profile was unreadable — the hard line of his jaw, the steady gaze fixed on the glass. If he felt anything about what had happened, he hid it well. “Is this what every deal feels like to you?” I asked finally, breaking the quiet. His eyes flicked toward me. “What do you mean?” “This calm. Like nothing ever touches you.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Feeling things clouds judgment.” “And you can just turn it off?” He looked out the window again. “It’s a skill.” The way he said it — like a confession disguised as pride — made something twist in my chest. The car turned off the main road, gliding into a gated drive that curved upward into the clouds. The city fell away behind us, replaced by steel and glass towers that seemed to belong more to Damon’s empire than to any map. When the vehicle stopped, a uniformed attendant opened my door. Cold air hit my face, clean and sharp. “This way, Mrs. Hale,” the man said politely. The words startled me. Mrs. Hale. It sounded foreign, like a role I hadn’t rehearsed for. I glanced at Damon, but he was already stepping out, adjusting his cufflinks as if this were another ordinary evening. The penthouse entrance opened into silence. Everything gleamed — marble floors, tall windows, minimalist furniture in shades of grey and black. The space was beautiful, but there was no warmth in it. No photos, no books, no hint that anyone actually lived here. “This is…” I hesitated. “Impressive.” “It’s practical,” he said, setting his phone on a sleek console table. “Practical,” I repeated, running my fingers along the edge of a cold glass counter. “Right. Like everything else in your life.” He turned to me then, and for the first time that day, I saw something flicker behind his eyes — weariness, maybe. Or regret. “You’ll find your room through that hallway,” he said, nodding to the left. “There’s staff if you need anything.” “And you?” “I’ll be working.” Of course he would. I should’ve gone straight to unpack, but curiosity pulled me toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below, glowing like a field of fireflies. My reflection shimmered against the glass, the thin gold ring catching the light. “This view must look different when you actually own half of it,” I said quietly. Behind me, I heard him pause. “Ownership is an illusion. The moment you think something is yours, you start fearing the day you lose it.” The words hung between us — too honest, too human. When I turned, he was closer than I expected. The faint light from the city softened his expression, and for the first time, the perfection of his posture slipped. “Why did you really agree to this?” he asked. I opened my mouth, ready to repeat the reasons I’d rehearsed — the firm, my father, survival — but the truth pushed past them. “Because I didn’t know what else to do.” He studied me for a long moment, his gaze moving as if memorizing the shape of that answer. Then he nodded once. “I’ll have dinner sent up,” he said, stepping back. “You should rest.” Before I could reply, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, the soft click of his office door sealing the silence. I exhaled, pressing my palm to the glass. Below, the city pulsed and breathed like a living thing. Up here, it felt like the air itself had been filtered — pure, expensive, lonely. I didn’t know which scared me more: the idea of staying, or the thought that part of me already wanted to understand him. Dinner arrived on a silver tray carried by a woman in crisp black and white. She introduced herself as Mara, the housekeeper, and disappeared before I could even thank her. Everything on the tray looked perfect—roasted vegetables, salmon, a glass of white wine chilled just enough to fog the rim. I ate slowly at the edge of a table that could seat twelve. The chair across from me stayed empty, like a silent reminder that this marriage was a headline, not a union. When I finished, I wandered through the penthouse. The place didn’t creak or hum like an ordinary home; it breathed in expensive silence. Art pieces hung on the walls—abstract, cold, full of motion without meaning. Each step echoed softly on marble, reminding me how small I felt here. At the far end of the corridor, a door stood slightly ajar. I hesitated, then pushed it open. It was a library—or rather, a room that wanted to be one. Shelves of untouched books lined the walls, but the center held a single leather chair facing the window. A cup sat on the table beside it, long empty. The scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air. I touched the spine of a book at random. “The Art of War.” Typical, I thought, and almost laughed. Then I noticed the one beside it—“The Little Prince.” I smiled. That tiny, unexpected softness said more about Damon than any interview or rumor ever could. “Find something interesting?” His voice came from behind me, low and unhurried. I turned too quickly, nearly dropping the book. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.” He stepped into the doorway, no jacket now, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. It was the most human I’d seen him look. “You’re allowed to explore,” he said. “You live here now.” “That’s… generous.” He tilted his head. “You sound skeptical.” “I just didn’t expect you to be okay with anyone touching your things.” “Most people don’t get past the front door.” He glanced at the book in my hand. “You like that one?” “I used to read it to my brother when he was little,” I said. “It’s sad and hopeful at the same time.” “Maybe that’s why I kept it,” he murmured. Something in the way he said it—quiet, almost to himself—made me forget to breathe for a second. “I didn’t know you read,” I said, more softly now. He gave a small, ironic smile. “There’s a lot people don’t know.” He crossed to the window, standing where the city lights cut patterns across his face. I followed his gaze. From here, the world looked small, almost manageable. “Do you ever feel trapped up here?” I asked. “Trapped?” He considered the word. “No. Elevated, maybe. Distant. That’s not the same thing.” “It sounds lonely.” He looked at me then, really looked—long enough that my heartbeat tripped over itself. “It is,” he said finally. “But loneliness is predictable. People aren’t.” The air between us thickened, filled with things neither of us were brave enough to name. I broke eye contact first, setting the book back on the shelf. “Maybe predictability isn’t everything.” He didn’t answer, but when I turned to leave, his voice followed me. “Aria.” I paused in the doorway. “Thank you,” he said. “For… treating this place like it’s more than a transaction.” It was such a simple sentence, yet it felt like a door cracking open. I nodded once and walked back toward the hallway. The lights dimmed automatically behind me. In the guest suite, I changed out of the wedding dress—still hanging like a ghost on the chair—and into one of the silk robes laid out for me. When I finally slipped into bed, the sheets were cool and smelled faintly of cedar. Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind replayed every glance, every unfinished sentence. I had married a stranger to save my father’s company, but tonight, that stranger had said “thank you” like it was the rarest thing in his vocabulary. And somehow, that meant more than I wanted it to. 
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