CHAPTER 4: THE FIRST MORNING

Aria woke up in a bed that wasn't hers, in an apartment that wasn't hers, married to a man whose last name she'd just learned twelve hours ago.

The bedroom was all soft grays and whites, with windows overlooking Central Park. The bed was bigger than her childhood room. The bathroom had heated marble floors and a rain shower that could fit four people.

Everything was perfect and cold and nothing like anything she'd ever owned.

Her phone was charging on the nightstand. When she picked it up, she had 347 missed notifications.

The trending hashtag had evolved from #CheatedOn to #CheatedOnAndWon.

Someone had leaked photos of her arriving at the Tribeca building. Paparazzi had caught her. The story was already written: Mystery Woman Seen Entering Damian Wolfe's Penthouse.

The comments were vicious:

@GossipColumn: "Wait, is this the girl who got cheated on? She's already moving on? That was FAST."

@WallStreetInsider: "Damian Wolfe doesn't date. Ever. Something's off here."

@CelebGaze: "She looks desperate. Probably paid her for publicity."

Aria wanted to throw her phone across the room. Instead, she did something she'd read about but never done before—she screenshotted the worst comments and forwarded them to Damian with a text:

Aria: "People think I'm with you for money."

Damian: "They're right. That's the point. Get ready. We're doing photos this morning."

An hour later, Marie appeared with three women carrying garment bags.

"Damian wanted you ready for a photoshoot," Marie explained, hanging the clothes on a rack.

"These are from designers he works with. Hair and makeup will be here in thirty minutes."

The clothes were insane. A Valentino dress that probably cost what Aria used to make in a year. Heels that were clearly handmade. Jewelry that caught the light like it was alive.

By the time the makeup artist finished, Aria looked like a different woman. Not her—someone better. Someone worthy of standing next to Damian Wolfe.

She walked into the main penthouse to find him waiting, and the sight of him in a tailored suit nearly stopped her heart. He looked like he'd been born in that suit, like running an empire was as natural to him as breathing.

"You'll do," he said, circling her like a predator. "Don't fidget. Don't look uncertain. The camera can sense weakness."

"I'm not usually photographed by paparazzi," Aria said tartly.

"You are now." He offered his hand. "Come. Let's go fall in love for the cameras."

The photoshoot took place in Central Park. Photographers descended like vultures, shouting questions:

"Damian, who is she?"

"What's her name?"

"How long have you two been together?"

He held her hand, pulled her close, and smiled at the cameras like she was the most precious thing in the world. And for a moment, Aria almost believed it herself.

"My fiancée," he told the press, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that made people believe him. "Her name is Aria. We're getting married this week."

That was the story that would dominate the media for the next several hours. But before the photoshoot ended, Damian's demeanor shifted. He pulled her aside, away from the cameras.

"My family is coming to dinner tonight," he said. "They won't believe we're together. They'll test you. They'll try to find holes in your story."

"What's the story?"

"We met six months ago at a gala. It was instant. You know the rest—boring love story, nothing for them to grab onto."

"And you're sure they won't discover the truth?"

His eyes went dark. "I'm very sure. Because if they do, I'll know someone in my inner circle is working against me. And I don't tolerate traitors."

He said it so calmly that it took a moment for the threat to register. He'd kill someone. She was almost certain of it.

"Aria?" He touched her face, drawing her attention back. "You need to commit to this completely. Half measures will get you killed."

"By who?"

"By people who want me dead. By using you." He stepped closer. "I've put protections in place. Security, money, lawyers. But the best protection is them believing I actually love you. So tonight, you need to convince my family that I'm in love with you."

"I've known you for six hours."

"Then you'd better become a very good actress in the next six hours."

When they returned to the penthouse, a team of stylists descended. They redid her hair, changed her dress, applied makeup that was less dramatic but somehow more stunning.

By the time the doorbell rang, Aria was vibrating with anxiety.

The family was all aristocratic beauty and subtle menace. Damian's mother was a thin, elegant woman with his same dark eyes and twice his coldness. His sister was warm but guarded. His uncle was powerful in a way that made your instincts scream danger.

"Damian," his mother said, kissing his cheek without warmth. "Your assistant mentioned you were getting married. I assumed it was a joke."

"No joke." He pulled Aria close, his hand settling on her waist. "Mother, this is Aria. Aria, this is my mother, Victoria."

"How lovely," Victoria said, studying Aria like she was examining a painting at auction. "And where are you from, dear?"

"New York," Aria said smoothly. "Manhattan, originally."

"How did you meet my son?" his mother asked, not looking up from her wine.

"At a gala," Aria and Damian said simultaneously. Then they looked at each other, and he smiled. It was perfectly timed, perfectly intimate. "She stole my breath," he said softly.

Victoria's eyes narrowed.

"Which gala?" Victoria's eyes were cold as ice.

Damian's hand tightened on Aria's waist. A warning.

"The Marchetti Benefit," Aria said. "May. He was discussing acquisition strategy with someone from Morgan Stanley. I overheard. I had a better idea."

Victoria's eyebrow rose. "Oh?"

"The Marchetti deal nearly failed because they didn't understand Asian markets. I do. He listened."

"So he hired you?"

"He married me," Aria said, meeting Victoria's gaze. "After six months of thinking about it."

Damian almost smiled.

Dinner was torture. Every question felt like a test. Every answer felt dangerous. But Aria played the part—she laughed at Damian's jokes, she touched his arm like she'd known him for months, she looked at him like he was the only person in the room.

And somehow, it started to feel less like acting.

When his family finally left, Aria was exhausted. She collapsed on the sofa, and Damian stood looking out the window.

"They're suspicious," he said. "But they'll come around once the wedding is announced."

"Your mother hates me."

"My mother hates everyone." He glanced back at her. "You did well tonight. Better than I expected."

"Thank you?"

"You're welcome." He turned fully to face her. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we get married."

As Aria walked to her room, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked like she belonged in that penthouse. Like she was Damian's wife.

The thought terrified her.

Because the scariest part? For just a moment there, during dinner, when he'd looked at her across the table and smiled...

She'd almost forgotten it was fake.