The morning after the gala, Ariana woke up to a strange, unfamiliar calm.
The usual buzzing anxiety that lived behind her ribs—the rent, the next gig, the echo of yesterday's doubt—was muted, dulled beneath soft sheets and the hum of a high-rise penthouse that smelled like fresh coffee and quiet power.
Her room was still dark, insulated from the city by thick curtains. She stretched, bones aching slightly from the heels and tension of the night before.
Then she noticed it—propped against the door, a pale cream envelope with her name in Leo's precise, mechanical handwriting.
Ariana.
She sat up, brushed hair from her face, and opened it carefully.
Lunch. Noon. Dress appropriately. Camille will assist.
No "good morning." No explanation. Just a command written in perfect ink.
She snorted. "Charming."
Still, she couldn't deny a strange flutter of anticipation. It wasn't a date—it was a move. Leo didn't do casual or warm. Everything with him had a purpose.
And Ariana, for reasons she couldn't yet articulate, was starting to care what that purpose was.
---
Camille was already waiting outside her room by nine. She handed Ariana a sleek, dove-gray dress with a high neck and elegant pleats, paired with a soft trench coat and low heels. Classy. Chic. Expensive.
"Where are we going?" Ariana asked.
Camille only smiled. "You'll see."
---
The car pulled up to The Rosemont, a five-star rooftop restaurant nestled on the 70th floor of a Midtown tower. White-gloved hosts ushered Ariana through a sea of roses, glass, and sunlight until she spotted Leo already seated at a table with two empty chairs.
And one already occupied.
A blonde woman sat across from him, sculpted like a statue, dressed in ivory silk, with cheekbones sharp enough to wound. Her lipstick was the same color as blood. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
Miranda.
Leo rose at Ariana's approach, ever the gentleman when optics were involved.
"Ariana," he said evenly. "Thank you for coming."
Miranda turned. Her smile widened. "So this is the famous fiancée."
Ariana blinked. So this wasn't lunch—it was theater. And she'd just been handed her role.
"Miranda," Leo said stiffly, "this is Ariana Blake. Ariana, Miranda Langston."
"I remember," Ariana said smoothly, taking her seat beside Leo. "You made quite the impression at the gala."
Miranda's eyes sparkled with false charm. "Oh, I'm always a little dramatic. You know how it is. Memories linger when there's real history."
Ariana arched a brow. "I'm more of a forward-thinker."
"Of course," Miranda purred. "Though it must be difficult, jumping from struggling designer to billionaire's bride. It's quite the... acceleration."
Leo's fingers tensed around his glass.
Ariana didn't flinch. "You'd be surprised how often rock bottom prepares you for high altitudes."
Miranda blinked.
Leo gave the tiniest smirk. "We're here to discuss logistics," he said sharply, changing the subject. "Miranda has lingering shares in a holding company we're absorbing next quarter."
Ariana nodded, schooling her expression. So that was why she was here. To prove this wasn't personal—to keep Miranda on her best behavior during a financial transition.
"And you thought lunch was the way to handle it?" Ariana murmured under her breath.
"I thought it might remind her I've moved on."
Miranda raised a hand to summon a waiter, glancing at Leo. "You used to order the sauvignon blanc without even looking at the menu."
"I used to believe in permanence," he replied, tone like ice.
Ouch.
The waiter appeared, and for the next ten minutes, Ariana watched them volley between veiled jabs and hostile nostalgia.
She hated it.
Not because she was jealous—though the twist in her chest suggested otherwise—but because Miranda represented every wound Leo refused to show her.
When the entrees arrived, Leo pushed his plate away untouched.
"I don't have time for social theater, Miranda," he said. "Sign the transition agreement. Take the payout. And stop reaching for things that aren't yours anymore."
Miranda's mask cracked. "You used to want me to fight."
"You're mistaking war for love."
Ariana stood abruptly, tossing her napkin onto the table. "I'll wait in the car."
Leo rose as well, but she waved him off.
"This is between you and your past. I'm not your prop."
She walked out without another word.
---
The car ride home was silent. Leo didn't speak, and Ariana didn't ask.
Her heart was hammering. Not with anger—at least, not only with that—but with something darker.
Insecurity.
She hated the feeling. It clung to her ribs like smoke.
By the time they returned to the penthouse, she was halfway out of her coat when Leo finally broke the silence.
"You were right to leave."
She turned. "Then why did you bring me at all?"
"Because I wanted her to see that I've changed."
"And using me to prove that doesn't make you feel like a hypocrite?"
His jaw tensed. "It's business."
She stepped closer, voice low. "Everything with you is business. Even when it's personal."
Leo looked at her then, really looked, and for the first time, she saw regret etched into his expression.
"I didn't plan for Miranda to... needle you."
"She didn't needle me," Ariana said quietly. "She reminded me that I'm just another move in your strategy."
He frowned. "That's not what this is."
She crossed her arms. "Isn't it?"
He walked past her into the kitchen, poured a glass of scotch, then leaned on the marble island.
"I ended things with Miranda two years ago. She wanted power, status, control. She smiled for the press and lied in private. She said all the right things and did all the wrong ones."
"And me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"You say the wrong things, but they're honest."
She blinked.
"I'm not comparing you," he added. "You're incomparable. That's what bothers her. She doesn't know how to compete with someone who isn't playing."
Ariana stared at him, uncertain how to process the warmth building in her chest.
"I'm not here to compete, Leo."
"I know."
"I don't want to be part of your war with your past."
"I know that, too."
There was silence.
Then he spoke again, voice quieter.
"I should've protected you better today."
She watched him.
Then nodded once.
"Don't let it happen again."
He nodded back. "It won't."
She turned toward her room.
But before she could disappear down the hallway, she paused.
"Leo?"
"Yes?"
"She doesn't love you."
He looked up.
Ariana's gaze softened. "She loves winning."
He stared at her for a long time.
And then, almost too quietly:
"Yeah."
---
That night, Ariana sketched for hours. Her hands moved across the paper, lines becoming spaces, spaces becoming ideas. But every time she tried to finish a concept, she saw Miranda's face. Her smile. The way Leo had once looked at her—tight, wounded, guarded.
And she hated it.
Not because Miranda had hurt him.
But because she still had the power to.
When the clock struck two, she stood, crossed the penthouse barefoot, and found him in the study.
Leo was reading. Shirt sleeves rolled. Hair mussed from running fingers through it.
He looked up.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She shook her head.
"Neither could I," he admitted.
They were quiet.
Then she asked: "Did you ever love her?"
He closed the book slowly.
"I wanted to."
"That's not the same."
He nodded. "No. It's not."
She stepped into the room, bare feet silent on hardwood.
"She wanted the idea of you," Ariana said. "Not the man."
Leo tilted his head. "And what do you want?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "I want the truth."
He smiled faintly. "That's the most dangerous thing to ask from me."
She walked closer.
"Try me."
They stood face to face now, the tension a live wire between them.
"I'm not sure I know how to give it," he confessed.
"Then start small."
His breath caught slightly. Her nearness was undoing him.
So he gave her the only truth he could in that moment.
"You scare me," he said.
Ariana blinked. "What?"
"You're the only person who's ever looked past what I am and seen who I could be."
She swallowed. "And that scares you?"
"Yes," he admitted. "Because I might start wanting it."
The distance between them evaporated. Their eyes held. The space vibrated with unspoken emotion.
But neither moved.
Not yet.
Ariana exhaled.
And this time, it wasn't in frustration.
It was relief.
---