The invitation was printed on thick, cream-colored cardstock. Gold foil edging. Embossed lettering. The kind of luxury that made your fingers itch just to touch it.

It was left on my nightstand sometime after breakfast.

Tonight, 8:00 PM. Formal attire. – D

No salutation. No signature. No explanation.

Just an order dressed up like an invitation.

I stared at it for a long time.

By seven, Clara had already laid out two dresses on the bed. One was red—bold, dramatic, meant to scream power. The other was black—simple, sculpted, undeniably elegant.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“Mr. Moretti is hosting a private dinner,” she said softly. “Business and family.”

“Which is more dangerous?”

She smiled politely but didn’t answer.

I chose the black dress.

If I was going to survive this night, I needed to blend into the walls. Not set them on fire.

The dining hall tonight was nothing like the quiet meal we’d had the day before. The long table was now lined with people—men in dark suits, women with diamonds on their wrists and malice in their eyes. Everyone dressed to impress or intimidate. Maybe both.

I paused at the doorway, heart tightening in my chest.

Damian stood at the far end, speaking to a man I didn’t recognize. When his eyes found mine, he didn’t smile. But he did move.

He crossed the room slowly, confidently, and stopped two feet in front of me.

“You chose black,” he said.

“You chose this dinner.”

“I needed them to see you,” he said simply. “To see that I meant what I said when I took you.”

I stiffened. “You talk about me like I’m a possession.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You’re not a possession, Aria. You’re proof.”

“Of what?”

He held my gaze.

“That I win.”

He guided me to my seat—beside him, of course. Every eye in the room followed us. I kept my expression neutral, my spine straight.

If they were going to watch me like I was the new pet on a leash, then I’d at least give them a posture worth admiring.

The woman seated across from us was stunning. Mid-thirties, sharp features, and a look that had been practiced in mirrors for years. She wore emerald earrings that sparkled with every breath.

“Aria,” Damian said, “this is Elena Rossi. Her father and mine were allies for decades.”

“Were,” Elena repeated pointedly. “Until the Monroes came into the picture.”

The words stung more than they should have.

I smiled, was calm and practiced. “We can’t control where we’re born.”

“No,” she said. “But we can control what we become.”

Her gaze lingered on me with a quiet challenge. I didn’t blink.

“I plan to become exactly what your side fears.”

Damian said nothing, but I felt his approval like a pulse beside me.

Dinner progressed like a slow interrogation. Everyone had questions masked as polite conversation. Where had I grown up? What schools had I attended? What hobbies did I enjoy?

I answered with care. Enough to satisfy, but not enough to expose.

When one of the men—Vincent, I think—asked how Damian and I met, I didn’t look at my husband. I looked directly at Vincent and said, “Fate. And a very expensive mistake.”

That earned me a quiet chuckle from someone at the table. The first sign of warmth all night.

Later, when the staff cleared the plates and brought out crystal glasses of grappa, Elena leaned in.

“I assume you know why you’re really here,” she said, voice low.

“Because I married him?”

“Because people need to be reminded that the Morettis don’t forget.”

There it was again—that weight. The unspoken history. The echo of some long-held feud I still didn’t fully understand.

“I’m not my father,” I said.

“Neither was Damian,” she replied. “But look how well he plays the part now.”

After dinner, Damian led me out to the terrace. The night was cool, the city lights glowing in the distance like stars that had gotten tired of the sky.

He stood beside me in silence for a moment. Then he said, “You handled yourself well.”

“I wasn’t performing for you.”

He didn’t look at me. “You were performing for them.”

“Is that what I am now? A showpiece?”

He turned to face me, slower now. “No. You’re a shield.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Against what?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, “Against the ghosts of your family. Against people like Elena. Against myself.”

That last part caught me off guard.

“You think I can protect you from yourself?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head to keep looking him in the eye.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that for the first time in years, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing. And that’s… inconvenient.”

I swallowed.

“You’re afraid of inconvenience?”

“I’m afraid of needing someone who might hate me.”

The honesty—so sudden, so raw—left me still.

“Do you?” he asked. “Hate me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He nodded, as if that was better than yes.

And maybe it was.

Back inside, I passed a corridor I hadn’t noticed before. Dimly lit. Narrower than the others. Something about it made me stop.

A soft sound echoed from it. Not footsteps. A whisper. A scrape. Like a door closing quickly.

I turned my head. Listened.

Then I saw it.

A shape. A figure—small, quick—disappearing around the far corner.

I stepped forward, instinct before logic.

“Aria.”

Damian’s voice behind me made me jump.

He was closer than I thought.

“That hallway isn’t for you.”

“What’s down there?”

He didn’t answer.

I studied with him. His face didn’t give anything away. But something in his body—something subtle—was off.

“Damian,” I said quietly, “what’s down that hall?”

His jaw flexed.

Then, with the same calm voice he used for dinner guests, he said, “My secrets.”