The ballroom glowed like a dream. Gold chandeliers dripping crystal light, champagne flutes clinking, and violins humming in the background. Everyone was dressed to impress. It was the kind of event where secrets wore tuxedos and lies shimmered in backless gowns.
Aria stood at the top of the marble staircase in a deep emerald dress that hugged her like a second skin. Damien's pick, of course. The heels? His too. Every inch of her had been curated to send a message:
We are in love. We are powerful. We are untouchable.
But she wasn't in love. She was barely holding it together.
A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne, and she grabbed a glass, taking a sip to steel her nerves. She scanned the crowd and found him, Damien Blackwood. Standing like he owned the room, one hand in his pocket, his tailored suit sharp enough to draw blood. He was already surrounded by people, laughing effortlessly, playing the part of a charming billionaire fiancée.
Aria hated how easily he could lie.
As if he felt her stare, Damien turned. Their eyes locked from across the room. His expression shifted cool and controlled, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly.
He made his way toward her, parting the crowd like the sea.
"You're late," he said the moment he reached her, offering his arm.
"I was aiming for fashionably inconvenient," she replied, looping her arm through his with a forced smile.
His lips quirked. "Keep that energy for the cameras, Princess."
"Don't call me that."
"But you are," he said smoothly, leading her down the stairs. "Daddy's desperate little princess. Now mine to manage."
She dug her nails into his arm just enough to make a point. He didn't flinch, but his smirk faded.
They walked through the room like royalty. Eyes followed them, whispers trailed behind them, and fake smiles greeted them at every turn.
Damien leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear. "Smile wider. People are watching."
She obeyed. Not for him. For survival.
"Ah, Damien!" someone called out, a man in his fifties, red-faced and round, with a woman clinging to his arm like jewelry. "And this must be your stunning fiancée!"
Damien played along like a seasoned actor. "Indeed she is. Aria, meet Mr. and Mrs. Loughton. Old friends of the family."
Aria extended her hand with a polite smile. "A pleasure."
"My dear," Mrs. Loughton gushed, "you are even more beautiful than the tabloids say. What a catch, Damien!"
He didn't take his eyes off Aria. "I know."
She bit the inside of her cheek.
More guests. More smiles. More small talk.
Each moment was a performance, and Aria couldn't help but feel like a marionette on invisible strings. She laughed on cue. She nodded at things she didn't hear. She kept up the illusion, even as the lies pressed heavier on her chest.
They stepped away for air near the balcony, finally out of earshot.
"Did you enjoy that?" she asked, folding her arms. "Pretending this is normal?"
Damien leaned against the marble railing. "No one said normal. Just necessary."
"For you. Not for me."
"Oh?" His gaze sharpened. "Because from where I'm standing, you benefited too. Your father's company didn't collapse. Your brother's name stayed out of court. You got your fairytale ending."
"Fairytales don't come with contracts," she snapped. "They come with love."
"Love is a luxury. This is survival."
Their eyes clashed with heat, resentment, and something else neither wanted to name.
She turned away, trying to breathe through the knot in her throat.
After a moment, he said quietly, "We both lost something in this, Aria."
She looked at him, surprised by the sudden softness in his voice.
But before she could reply, cameras flashed.
Paparazzi had found them. The balcony doors opened wider as a flood of photographers spilled onto the patio like ants to sugar.
"Smile," Damien murmured, pulling her close with a hand at her waist. "Time to sell the lie."
Her cheeks ached from the fake smile. She leaned into him, letting his body shield hers, while the cameras captured the perfect shot of a happy couple basking in love.
But inside?
She was screaming.
The flashbulbs were relentless.
Aria's fingers tensed against Damien's chest as he tightened his arm around her waist. The grip was possessive, rehearsed yet disturbingly natural.
"That's enough," Damien said coldly, his voice cutting through the chaos. He shielded her as best he could, guiding her back inside.
The security team moved in seconds too late, finally escorting the photographers out, barking warnings and threats of revoked invitations. But the damage was done.
Aria's heart pounded as she'd just escaped a fire, her cheeks still burning from the forced intimacy. The cameras hadn't just captured images, they had stolen a part of her. A part she wasn't sure she could ever get back.
Back inside the ballroom, people clapped. Some chuckled like the intrusion was just part of the fun. Others whispered behind champagne glasses.
And through it all, Damien kept that flawless, unshakable expression.
She hated that about him, how composed he always seemed, like nothing ever cracked through his armor.
"Come with me," he said in a low tone, his hand still on her lower back as he led her away from the crowd.
She didn't argue.
They moved through a hallway lined with velvet wallpaper and gilded mirrors until they reached a quieter lounge dimly lit, luxurious, and empty.
Damien shut the door behind them.
Aria spun on her heel, facing him. "What the hell was that?"
"Paparazzi," he said simply, walking to the bar cart and pouring himself a drink. "Uninvited, but not entirely unexpected."
"Unexpected?" she repeated, incredulous. "That felt like a setup."
He sipped the amber liquid. "Not by me. But I'm sure someone in the room tipped them off. It's good press for the merger."
She flinched. "Is that all I am to you? Press? A strategic move?"
He walked slowly toward her, drink in hand. "You were the one who signed, remember? You didn't have to."
Her throat tightened. "Don't pretend this wasn't blackmail."
Damien's eyes darkened. "Call it whatever helps you sleep, Aria. But if I hadn't stepped in, your father would be in prison. Your brother would be bankrupt. And you'd be scrambling to rebuild a life from ashes."
"I would've figured something out."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Maybe. But we both know this was the cleanest option."
Clean? Nothing about this felt clean.
She swallowed hard, looking away. "You don't even like me."
"I don't have to like you," he said. "I respect you. That's more than most people get."
Her eyes snapped back to his. "Respect? That's rich. You barely speak to me unless it's to give an order."
"Because you're always trying to bite off my head," he countered. "You came into this guns blazing, like I was the enemy."
"You are the enemy," she said, her voice low. "You destroyed Theo's startup. You humiliated my family. And now, you wear me like a trophy."
Damien's jaw flexed, something unreadable flashing in his gaze. For a moment, he didn't say anything.
Then, quietly, "Theo made his choices. I gave him chances."
"He trusted you."
"I warned him not to cross me."
That silenced her.
The room went still. Thick with tension, memory, bitterness.
Aria looked down at the diamond on her finger. Heavy, perfect, suffocating.
"How did we get here?" she whispered.
He set his glass down. "Survival. Power. Pride."
She let out a hollow laugh. "You forgot misery."
Damien's eyes lingered on her face. "I didn't forget. I just don't dwell on it."
Something was unsettling in his calm. Not indifference but restraint. Like if she pushed a little harder, something would crack.
But she was too tired to push anymore.
"Do we at least get to sleep in separate rooms?" she muttered, heading for the door.
"Until the wedding," he replied. "After that, we share a house."
She froze her hand on the doorknob.
"A house?"
"People expect a love story. We give them one. Appearances matter."
Her shoulders stiffened. "So I'm supposed to play the devoted wife while you… what? Run your empire and control every part of my life?"
"I won't control you, Aria. But I will expect you to play your part."
She turned her head slightly, just enough for him to see the fury in her eyes. "I'm not a doll, Damien. And I won't be your puppet."
"I never asked you to be," he said coolly. "But you said yes. That means you play your role or everything you sacrificed will have been for nothing."
Her chest rose and fell with each shaky breath. The worst part?
He wasn't wrong.
She opened the door without another word and stepped out into the hall. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, echoing behind her like a declaration.
She wouldn't let this marriage break her.
Not before it even began.
The next morning came too quickly.
Aria barely slept. She had tossed and turned all night, her mind full of half-written goodbyes and unwanted beginnings. But morning didn't care. It showed up anyway bright and loud, like it was mocking her.
By noon, her driver had arrived.
She stood in front of the tall black car, suitcase by her side, heart in her throat. This wasn't a visit. It was a move. A relocation to a life that had been negotiated on her behalf.
The driver tall, stiff, and silent, held the door open without a word.
Aria slid in, clutching her phone. No new messages. Not from Theo. Not from her mother. Just silence.
As the car pulled away, her eyes flicked toward the house where she'd spent half her teenage life. The curtains were still drawn in her old room. Everything looked the same, but she knew nothing would be, not after today.
The drive was short but felt endless.
When they reached the high-rise, the doorman greeted her by name. Like he'd been expecting her. Like she was just another delivery.
"Welcome, Miss Voss. Mr. Blackwood said you'd be arriving."
Her throat tightened. She hated that he said Mr. Blackwood, like Damien was the master of this place. But… he was.
Because this was his penthouse.
Not theirs. Not hers.
His.
The elevator ride up was quiet, except for the soft jazz playing through the speakers. She stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Wrinkled blouse. Puffy eyes. Nothing about her looked like a bride-to-be.
When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into another world.
Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the city that stretched like a painting. Everything was polished, cold, and expensive.
And completely unfamiliar.
A single note sat on the sleek glass console table in the entryway. It was written on thick cream stationery.
"Welcome home, fiancée. Make yourself comfortable. Or don't. I'll be home by 8. – D"
She let out a breath half laugh, half scoff.
"Home," she muttered. "Right."
Aria walked through the space slowly, feeling like a guest in a luxury hotel she couldn't afford. The walls were bare, emotionless. A few designer books lay carefully placed on the coffee table. Everything was curated… soulless.
The kitchen looked untouched. Not a spoon out of place. Probably staged by his assistant. Probably hadn't seen a real meal in months.
She wandered into the master bedroom, dragging her suitcase behind her. Damien's cologne still lingered in the air. His closet was half-full—tailored suits, neatly lined shoes, pressed shirts. All his. A few drawers had been emptied for her, but the message was clear.
He lived here. She was just… moving in.
On the nightstand, a small velvet box sat unopened.
Aria hesitated, then slowly lifted the lid.
A ring.
Sleek. Flashy. Perfect for the media.
Cold metal. Cold meaning.
She didn't try it on. She just shut the box again and set it down like it might burn her.
By late afternoon, she was still pacing. She'd unpacked only a few things. Put a framed photo of her and Theo on the dresser. Tried to breathe through the walls that were closing in.
When the sun began to set, she finally sat down on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.
This wasn't her room.
This wasn't her life.
But in less than a week, it would be.
And tonight, for the first time, she'd have to share a roof and maybe a room with Damien Blackwood.
The enemy she was supposed to love.
She pulled the heavy drapes shut.
Night had fallen quickly, casting the penthouse in deep shadows. The city lights blinked outside the glass like quiet witnesses, reminding her that the world was still watching. And judging.
Aria sat at the edge of the king-sized bed. His bed.
The room was too large. Too quiet. Every tick of the wall clock made her nerves twitch.
Her fingers grazed the edge of the mattress, testing it like it might answer the question she'd been avoiding since she walked in.
Where was she supposed to sleep?
She glanced around.
There wasn't a second bedroom. Or at least not one that looked remotely prepared for her. The guest room down the hall had no fresh sheets, no personal touches just cold, untouched air.
He hadn't made space for her there.
He hadn't made space for her anywhere.
She stood, rubbed the back of her neck, and muttered, "Of course he expects me to sleep here."
In his bed.
Beside him.
The thought made her stomach clench.
They weren't even friends. They could barely get through five minutes without arguing. And now? They'd be sharing a bed like newlyweds?
She paced the room.
They'd signed papers, yes. They'd agreed to the deal: six months of playing house, fake smiles, public appearances, and a diamond ring. But nowhere in that contract verbal or legal had she agreed to this.
And yet… nothing had been said.
Not about where she'd sleep.
Not about what she'd be expected to do.
Her chest tightened. Was this part of it?
Would he expect intimacy, too?
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Damien.
"Damien: I'll be home soon. Don't wait up.
She stared at it for a long time, heart racing.
No "how are you settling in?"
No "do you want to talk?"
Just instructions. Cold. Distant. Like always.
She typed, then erased.
Typed again.
Finally, she hit send.
Aria: Just to be clear, I'll be sleeping in the guest room.
Seconds later, his typing bubbles appeared.
Then stopped.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
Damien: Suit yourself.
She let out a shaky breath and dropped her phone face down.
That was it. No fight. No pushback.
Relief swept over her… but it was short-lived.
Because if he didn't care where she slept, that meant he didn't care about her at all.
Which should've made things easier.
But somehow… it didn't.
She lay back on the edge of the bed, arms folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
Fake marriage.
Fake husband.
Fake future.
But the questions were real. The fear was real.
What if the lines blurred? What if he wanted to pretend a little too well?
And worse, what if part of her deep down let him?