CHAPTER SIX — THE CLOTHED BATTLEFIELD
Four hours.
He'd given her that much time—not as mercy, but as structure. Every second was another polished link in the chain he believed he fastened around her throat. Aria spent the first hour pacing, the second calculating, the third silent, and the fourth sharpening her expression into something unbreakable.
When Carmella reappeared, she didn't knock softly—she entered like this was routine.
"Your attire has been prepared," she said, stopping near the bed where a garment bag lay stretched across the duvet.
Aria didn't look at it. "I'm not your doll."
"No," Carmella replied, unbothered, "you're his contract."
Aria turned slowly. "And what does that make you?"
Carmella met her eyes calmly. "Necessary."
There was no arrogance in her tone—only truth.
Aria unzipped the garment bag without another word.
The dress was black. Entirely black. Not sheer, not lace, not fragile. It was structured, with a high slit and a low back, long sleeves, silk-lined. It wasn't meant to make her look soft. It was meant to make her look claimed.
She scoffed once under her breath. "Let him choke on the cost."
She dressed without hiding, without shame, without hurry.
Carmella, efficient as ever, set a pair of stiletto heels near the mirror, then placed a velvet box on the vanity.
Aria glanced at it. "What now, diamonds?"
Carmella opened the lid. Inside, a necklace glinted—platinum, heavy, wrapped in the cold gleam of stones cut like edges.
"He chose it for the announcement," Carmella said.
"He can wear it," Aria muttered.
But she picked it up anyway, weighing its chill in her palm. She fastened it at her neck like a collar forged from spite.
Hair, makeup, finishing touches—Carmella assisted only where necessary. She didn't ask Aria to smile. She didn't comment on the black fire in her eyes.
When she was done, Aria stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized herself.
She didn't look owned.
She looked dangerous.
Carmella stepped back. "He'll be waiting in the main hall."
Aria didn't thank her.
---
The hallway to the main entrance was long and lined with low golden sconces. Guards moved like shadows, unseen but present. Staff didn't cross her path. No one spoke.
As Aria descended the sweeping staircase, the house revealed him.
Damian Blackwood stood near the grand doors, arm straight at his side, dark suit immaculately cut, cufflinks catching the light. He didn't look up immediately—but she knew he had sensed her arrival the way predators sensed motion.
When his eyes did rise, they landed on her without reaction—no flicker of surprise, no approval, no desire. But something shifted in the room, subtle and undeniable, like tension acknowledging its mirror.
She stopped three steps from the bottom, refusing to descend fully into his presence.
His gaze traveled from the necklace to the dress to her face, lingering nowhere but missing nothing.
"You're late," he said.
She arched a brow. "I arrived before you spoke. You're welcome."
He didn't respond.
A driver held the door open. Damian stepped forward but didn't touch her.
She followed, not beside him but one pace behind—deliberate defiance.
Outside, a convoy of black cars waited. Not ostentatious. Not showy. Silent wealth.
He took the first vehicle.
She got in without being told.
The door closed.
Silence.
The divider remained up; they were alone in the back. The world outside blurred past the windows—trees, columns, iron gates.
Aria didn't look at him.
Damian didn't look at her.
Minutes passed. Then, without shifting his gaze from the window, he said, "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not deviate. You will remain at my side."
"And if someone asks how we met?" she asked, tone razor-thin.
"They won't."
"And if they do anyway?"
His jaw moved like stone adjusting. "You'll answer with what you're told."
"And if I don't?"
This time, he looked at her.
"You will."
The words were flat. Certain. Not threat—truth.
Aria folded her hands in her lap, fingers poised as if she might snap his spine with them.
"You think proximity is compliance."
"I think resistance has a price you can't pay."
"Everyone pays something eventually."
He didn't look away. "Then spend wisely."
Their eyes locked, unblinking. The air between them hummed with unspoken collisions.
Finally, the car slowed.
They arrived.
The venue was not public-facing—an estate turned event hall, private and secured, draped in quiet luxury. Lamps glowed along the entrance, casting soft light across the gravel. Guests in tailored suits and gowns drifted like curated ghosts.
The car door opened.
Damian stepped out first.
Aria followed.
He didn't offer his hand.
She didn't need it.
As they walked toward the entrance, all eyes turned.
No whispers yet—just awareness.
He placed his hand at the small of her back, not possessive, not gentle, just placement. A signal. A claim.
Her spine went rigid.
He spoke without moving his lips. "Smile, and I'll consider restraint. Don't—and I won't."
She didn't smile.
But she didn't pull away.
Inside, the ballroom was alive with wealth disguised as elegance. Chandeliers spilled pale light. Strings played in the background. Servers moved with choreography.
They were greeted almost immediately.
"Damian," an older man with steel-gray hair said, extending a hand. "I wasn't expecting to see you out of shadow tonight."
Damian shook his hand. "Caldwell."
The man's eyes slid to Aria. He waited.
Damian didn't introduce her.
Aria did.
"Aria," she said, offering her hand to Caldwell with a poise that could cut glass. "The contract he couldn't decline."
Damian's eyes flickered, barely.
Caldwell's brows rose with intrigue but no shock. "Ah. So it's true."
Damian's tone cooled. "Rumors are cheap."
"Not this one," Caldwell said, releasing her hand. "You don't move pieces you don't intend to keep."
He excused himself with a nod, drifting back to the crowd.
Aria stepped slightly away, but Damian didn't let her go far. His hand shifted from back to her wrist—not tight, but final.
"You speak out of turn again," he said quietly, "and I won't protect what you value."
She didn't flinch. "You don't protect. You cage."
"Cages can be crushed," he said, "or filled."
"You think I'll break?"
"You'll bend."
"You'll bleed."
A small smile touched his lips—not entertained, not warm. Acknowledging.
"Not before you."
They didn't get another moment alone.
More faces came. Names. Board members. Investors. Politicians. Each greeted Damian with calibrated respect—and each looked at Aria with calculation, not gossip.
Word had already spread.
One woman in her fifties approached with a champagne flute and a sharp gaze.
"So this is the one," she said mildly.
Damian said nothing.
Aria met the woman's stare. "Did you expect someone quieter?"
"I expected someone nonexistent," the woman replied.
"Disappointed?"
"Amused."
Aria lifted a glass from a passing tray and took a sip without permission.
"Watch her, Damian," the woman added. "She looks like she bites."
"She does," Aria said before he could answer.
The woman laughed once. "Good."
She left.
Aria didn't look at him.
But she knew he was watching closely.
He leaned in—not intimate, not gentle, just close enough that only she could hear.
"You play at disruption."
She kept her gaze forward. "I play to win."
"This isn't a game."
"It is," she said, voice quiet and vicious. "You just think you're the only one with a board."
He straightened, his hand sliding from her wrist but not his awareness.
"Stay close," he said.
"No."
"You don't walk this room alone."
"I already have."
He regarded her in silence, jaw ticking once.
Then they were approached again.
Dealmakers. Power brokers. People who understood leverage. Every introduction was sterile. No one called her Mrs. Blackwood. No one dared ask.
Hours passed in silk and venom.
By the time the speeches began at the front of the room, Aria's face was carved from ice.
Damian stood beside her near the balcony doors, one hand in his pocket, expression unreadable.
Cameras were limited—but not absent. Quiet flashes caught them in stolen frames.
He didn't
touch her again.
He didn't have to.
She stood there in silence, dark against the light, a storm clothed in black silk and spite.
But under it all, something deeper curled and waited—not surrender.
A beginning.
---