The Velenzo estate hadn't changed.
Tall, grand, and as cold as the man who owned it.
The car slowed to a stop before the iron gates, and Aria's heart—though she'd never admit it—stirred for the first time in years. It was the same feeling she had at fifteen, when she'd first stepped into this mansion… half-covered in someone else's blood.
But this time, she wasn't a trembling child.
She stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply on the marble, long coat flowing around her sculpted figure. One of the house maids—older now, with soft gray in her bun—stood at the door, eyes welling up.
"Miss Aria," the woman whispered. "You're… back."
Aria smiled sweetly, wrapping her arms gently around the older woman. "I missed you, Nanny Mara."
"He's in the study," Mara said, brushing her shoulder affectionately. "Just returned last night. Hasn't stopped giving orders since."
Aria's smile shifted into a mischievous grin. "Perfect."
She didn't wait. She turned and ran through the halls, heart racing ahead of her. The corridors still smelled like cigars and leather, the scent of power. Every inch of this place had once been her silent prison. Now she moved through it like she owned it.
But as she turned the corner toward the west wing, a new voice stopped her.
"Stop," the man said, stepping in front of her.
He was young—mid-twenties at most. Broad-shouldered, armed, and full of confidence he hadn't earned. His posture screamed freshly recruited muscle.
"You're not allowed in there," he said sharply. "Mr. Velenzo is in a meeting."
Aria blinked once. Slowly.
Then she tilted her head. "Move."
"I said you can't go in."
"Oh?" she asked sweetly. "And who exactly are you to tell me what I can't do?"
"I'm part of Mr. Velenzo's security team," he replied stiffly. "And I was given strict orders—"
She rolled her eyes and walked past him.
"Hey—wait—!"
The doors to the study were slightly open, but she pushed them wider without hesitation.
Inside, Damian stood at the head of a long, polished table, dark eyes cold, his sleeves rolled up, a glass of bourbon untouched beside him. Around him were a few senior men—and a handful of new recruits, including the one she'd just ignored.
Every head turned when she stepped in.
Silence fell.
Even the man speaking beside Damian froze mid-report.
Aria didn't stop.
She sauntered in, like this room had always belonged to her. Her gaze locked with Damian's, unblinking, like she was daring him to look away first.
The recruit behind her finally caught up, stammering. "S-Sir, I told her you were busy, I didn't know—"
Damian didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
His eyes were glued to her, unmoving.
His voice, when it came, was cold and low.
"Leave us."
The men began to move—fast.
Chairs scraped.
Paperwork gathered.
One by one, the room emptied, including the flustered new recruit who now understood, too late, that the girl he tried to stop wasn't just anyone.
She was the only one.
Damian didn't speak until the last door shut.
Only then did he move.
Slowly. Silently.
And Aria… just stood there. Smiling like a sinner in church.
Little fox," he murmured, voice deeper than she remembered.
She tilted her head. "Miss me, ghost?"
His eyes flicked to her lips.
Then back to her eyes.
"I never stopped."
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