The house was quiet when Damian returned home, the kind of silence that pressed into the walls and settled over the furniture like an unspoken secret. He shrugged off his blazer as Marta, the older housekeeper, appeared near the foyer with a polite smile. “Dinner is ready, sir.” He nodded, voice low. “Thank you, Marta.” Without another word, he headed up the staircase to change. His mind was still tangled in knots—Zara, Calder, Amelia, and now this haunting sense that Aria was slipping further from him. Again. At the top of the staircase, he took a sharp turn around the corner and almost collided with her. Aria froze in the doorway, halfway out of the bedroom. Her eyes widened for a second. “Good evening.” It was the first time they’d come face-to-face like this since the gala. Since the kiss that neither of them could confront. Damian stood still, pulse thudding low in his throat. “Good evening,” he mumbled, brushing past her and disappearing into the en suite without anothe
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