The chapel was too quiet.
Not solemn or sacred, just… empty. Heavy with tension instead of reverence.
Aria stood at the entrance, clutching her bouquet so tightly that a thorn from one of the roses pierced her thumb. She didn't even flinch. Her heart beat too loudly in her chest, drowning out the pain, the soft murmur of the guests, the sound of organ keys that hadn't been touched yet.
The veil felt like a curtain of iron draped over her head. She couldn't breathe through the lace. The dress—borrowed, too long in the sleeves, tight at the waist—felt like it belonged to someone else's life. And maybe it did.
This wasn't her story. Not really.
This was her grandmother's.
Our blood is old, Aria, Nana had whispered just two days ago from the hospital bed, IV lines running along her frail arms. You come from a legacy, a promise sealed generations ago. If we lose that connection, we lose everything. He's the only one who can keep our family standing.
Aria hadn't asked for his name.
She hadn't asked for terms or reasons.
She had looked at her grandmother's fading eyes, and then she had said yes.
Not for herself.
For the woman who raised her when her parents vanished in a plane over the Atlantic. For the woman who stayed up knitting her winter sweaters, who sold off her heirlooms to fund Aria's dream of owning a flower shop in NYC. For the woman who never stopped calling her "our last hope."
Now, here she stood.
Alone, about to marry a stranger.
Every step down the aisle echoed like a verdict.
There were no petals strewn across the floor. No flower girls. No beaming family. Just a smattering of unfamiliar faces in stiff formalwear, all watching her with cold curiosity, as if wondering what kind of girl marries a man she's never seen.
And then—him.
Her eyes landed on the man waiting at the altar. He didn't blink. Didn't look away. He was tall, sharply dressed in black, and carved from ice. His features were aristocratic: strong jawline, high cheekbones, hair neatly combed back, but there was no warmth. Just precision. Control. Rage barely restrained.
Damian.
Her groom.
Her stomach turned. She had half-expected him to be older, maybe a stoic business tycoon in his late forties, like some of the men her grandmother once socialized with.
But this man? He looked like he walked straight off the pages of a scandal magazine—powerful, arrogant, and angry. So very angry.
He wasn't confused.
He wasn't nervous.
He knew who she was.
And for some reason, he hated her.
Aria's feet faltered, just for a moment. The world tilted sideways. She could hear Zara's voice from the night before echoing in her head.
"You said yes to a wedding and didn't even ask who the groom was? Aria! That's insane. You're not some helpless little debutante in a Victorian novel—"
"Zara, please—"
"Don't please me. This is a lifetime decision. A legal binding contract. What if he's a monster? What if he's a psycho with a vendetta—?"
"I already said yes."
Zara had gone silent then, the kind of silence that only came from heartbreak.
"I just want you to be okay," she'd whispered eventually. "Don't let this destroy you."
Now Aria swallowed hard and forced herself forward. The music began to swell—low, haunting notes that felt more like a dirge than a celebration.
Damian didn't reach for her hand.
He didn't move at all.
His expression didn't flicker when she reached his side, didn't shift when she turned to face him. Not a twitch. Not even a breath.
He looked at her like a ghost.
And in a way, maybe she was. The ghost of a girl who once believed in romance, in dreams, in possibility. That girl was gone.
There was only duty now.
Only survival.
The priest began to speak, but Aria didn't register the words. Her pulse drummed in her ears, and her fingers felt cold.
Still, she lifted her chin.
She wouldn't be weak. Not in front of this man.
He might loathe her. He might believe whatever lie he carried inside him. But she wasn't here to be pitied or punished. She was here to save her family. Fulfill Her grandmother's wish. And save Herself.
And nothing—not even the fury burning in his eyes—would break or stop her.
Damian stared at her hard. She didn't even flinch.
He had expected her to.
He had expected shaking hands, quivering lips, maybe even tears. Guilt. At the very least, fear.
But Aria Monroe stood beside him like she had every right to be there. Regal. Controlled. Cloaked in her innocence like it was armor.
And it disgusted him.
He knew exactly who she was the moment she stepped into the chapel.
She hadn't seen him, but he had seen her—months ago, in the photos that ruined everything.
Aria Monroe. Floral artist. The woman whose presence at that cursed gala sealed Elena's fate. The girl smiling, laughing, caught in a photo just over Elena's shoulder as the headlines screamed SHAME and SCANDAL.
Elena had been a rising star—engaged to a politician, adored by the media. Until someone leaked her secrets.
Until the world found out about the everything.
Until she tried to take her life.
And Aria had been there.
Careless. Complicit.
Laughing.
Damian's hands curled into fists behind his back.
When his grandfather proposed this marriage alliance to save the crumbling dynasty, Damian had resisted. Until he heard her name. Until he saw her face in the file. Until he realized this could be the perfect retribution.
Marry her. Control her. Bleed her emotionally dry the way Elena had bled.
Make her pay.
The priest's voice faded into the background as Damian glanced sideways at her.
She was smaller than he imagined. Fragile-looking. But she held herself like a queen. That bothered him.
Does she really not remember? Or is she just that skilled at playing innocent?
As the priest declared them husband and wife, he leaned in slightly, his lips brushing the air beside her ear.
"Aria Monroe, my wife." he murmured.
He saw her shoulder stiffen. Just a little. Saw her nails press into the bouquet. But still—no tears. No flinch.
Fine.
Let the game begin.
"Let's see how you handle being the villain this time." he murmured to himself. And then he kissed her.