Aria stood outside Damian’s study door for several seconds, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t expect warmth or kindness, those days were long gone. But she had to try. She took a shaky breath and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. “What?” Damian’s voice finally rang out, sharp, impatient, and cold. Aria pushed the door open slowly. Damian stood near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey. He didn’t look at her as she stepped inside. “If this is about dinner or anything remotely domestic, leave it with the maid,” he said flatly. “It’s not,” Aria murmured, shutting the door behind her. That got his attention. He turned, finally facing her, but his eyes were cold, unreadable. The silence between them crackled. “What is it then?” he asked, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Come to accuse me of something else? Or has Marco sent you with another message?” Aria flinched, but she stood her ground. “It’s about Lyla.” Damian’s brow twi
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