Aria’s POV

I woke up to the sound of voices, muffled at first, then clearer as I slowly opened my eyes. For a moment, I was disoriented, wondering where I was until the luxurious interior of the private jet came into focus.

“Buongiorno,” a deep voice said.

I blinked, sitting up to find a man standing in front of me. He had a professional smile, one that didn’t waver even as I stared at him like he had grown two heads.

“Uh…” I managed, not fully awake yet. I glanced around for Jameson, where is he?

The man’s chuckle distracted my eyes that were searching for Jameson.

“I’m the chauffeur. I just greeted you. Welcome to Italy, Mrs. Blackwell.”

Oh. Right. We were in Italy.

“Hello,” I greeted awkwardly, giving him a slight bow and a stiff smile.

It took a second before I registered what he addressed me as. It feels weird but I'm sure that I'll slowly get use to it. I stood up, stretching my stiff limbs and rubbed my eyes.

Seeing that the chauffeur had a flustered expression when I did this, I hastily composed myself.

He returned his expression to a professional one, waiting, and didn’t seem bothered by my sluggishness.

“Where’s my husband?” I asked, finally standing and straightening my rumpled dress.

“Mr. Blackwell is already waiting by the car,” he replied smoothly, gesturing toward the exit.

My stomach dropped. He just left me?

“Okay. Sorry, what's your name?”

“Daniel,” he answered with a polite nod. I nodded back, trying to cover up my irritation for what Jameson did.

“Thank you, Daniel.”

With that, I followed him out of the plane, silently grumbling about how Jameson couldn’t have at least nudged me awake. The sunlight hit me as soon as I stepped outside, but the airport wasn’t as bustling as I had imagined.

In fact, it was eerily quiet.

There were only two black, shiny sleek cars parked near the runway. One of them had its door open, with another man standing by it, gesturing for me to enter.

I figured Daniel would be handling the luggage in the other car, so I headed toward the car where the man was standing.

When I got there, I greeted him with a smile to which he returned and shut the door behind me when I entered the car.

Jameson was indeed inside, seated in his wheelchair. He didn’t even glance at me as I slid into the seat beside him.

“You should have at least woken me up,” I said casually, trying to sound nonchalant.

“What if I did, but you are such a sleepyhead that it is so hard to wake you up.” He remarked.

I wasn't expecting a response but I got one.

“Now, you lie. I'm a light sleeper, husband,” The title sounded like a mockery, he didn't say

anything and I sighed, leaning back in the seat.

The car ride was quiet, aside from the hum of the engine. I kept my thoughts to myself, thinking about how much I just wanted to get to the hotel, soak in a warm bath, and relax. My muscles ache from sleeping awkwardly on the plane.

.

.

.

.

When we arrived at the hotel, I was not prepared for what greeted us.

Cameras. Everywhere.

The flashes from their bulbs nearly blinded me as reporters shouted questions. The chauffeur opened the car door for us and we alighted from the car.

I hadn't been faced by paparazzi before, I tried to wear a friendly smile on my lips.

“Mr. And Mrs. Blackwell, congratulations on your marriage!” Few of them chorused while the others murmured;

“Please we have a few questions for you two,” I looked down at Jameson beside me, trying to see if he was comfortable with the noise.

But he revealed zero emotions.

“Mrs. Blackwell, how are you holding up with the netizens’ comments about marrying someone in a wheelchair?”

“Did you marry him because of his money?”

“You're the youngest daughter of Dawsons’ family and we've never heard anything about you until your wedding. Can you explain this?”

“Was it an arranged marriage?”

Their words hit me like a slap. My breath caught in my throat and I had to take a deep breath to steady myself. How can they ask such ridiculous questions?

I wasn't bothered that they brought my family into it or questioning our marriage. Their first question got annoyance brewing in my chest.

Still, I forced a smile, though it felt like my face might crack under the pressure.

I reached for Jameson’s hand, locking our fingers together as I smiled at him before turning to the camera.

“I think love isn’t defined by physical ability or societal opinions,” I said confidently, my voice steady. “We’re happy, and that’s all that matters.”

Jameson glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable. Then another question came.

“Why was your marriage so sudden?”

This time, Jameson answered.

“Timing doesn’t matter. Just about what feels right and what needs to be done even though it hurts.” His tone was calm but I caught the meaning behind them.

The reporters were about to ask more questions but the chauffeur stepped in at the right time and lead us into the hotel.

Jameson let go of my hand almost immediately, wheeling his chair forward without a word.

"Wishing you a honeymoon as sweet as your love!"

"Enjoy every moment together!”

The reporters chanted behind us before the entrance transparent doors were closed. Their first wish made me scoff, indeed like our love.

The hotel was stunning, luxurious, and probably insanely expensive. It looked like the kind of place people dreamed of staying in.

I followed Jameson and chauffeur behind, who collected our room keys from the receptionist before leading us to our suite.

When we got inside, the door closed with a soft click, and the chauffeur left.

The spacious of the room is at least twenty feet wide with a high ceiling and elegant crown molding. To my left is a sleek kitchen, and adjacent to it, a cozy sitting area with a plush sofa. A beautifully set dining table for four sits nearby, perfect for an intimate dinner.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with flowing curtains offer breathtaking views of the cityscape, and sliding glass doors lead out to a private balcony.

This suite is the perfect haven for a dreamy honeymoon getaway.

Only if our love was real.

I turned to Jameson, who was already moving toward the sitting area. I tried to lighten up the mood by simpering at him.

“I’ll prepare your bathwater,” I offered, trying to sound casual with a grin.

He stopped, turning to look at me with a raised brow.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I have hands. I can do it myself.”

“I wanted to help,”

“And I don't need it.” He retorted, making me exhale.

“You’ll have to get used to me meddling in your affairs. We're married. We're both alone in this unknown city, so we got to be there for each other, okay?”

He didn’t respond, just stared at me with that same unreadable expression before I entered the bathroom.