The morning light crept into the villa like a secret soft, golden, and uninvited.
Ariana woke to the faint sound of footsteps and the scent of strong black coffee.
For a moment, she forgot where she was. The silk sheets. The marble walls. The shimmering water outside the balcony.
Then it hit her she wasn't Ariana Cruz, fashion student from Lagos anymore.
She was Aria Volkov, billionaire's wife.
Or at least, pretending to be.
She stepped into the dining hall and stopped short.
Alexander Volkov sat at the long glass table, already dressed in a charcoal suit, his silver watch gleaming against tanned skin. The morning newspaper lay open before him.
Without looking up, he said, "You're awake late. Your schedule used to start at six."
Ariana blinked. "I didn't sleep well."
"That's new," he murmured, eyes still on the paper. "You used to sleep soundly no matter what."
Every word was a test. A trap.
She forced a calm smile. "Maybe I've changed."
This time, he looked up. His storm-gray eyes met hers unreadable, calculating.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "Or maybe you're hiding something."
Her breath caught, but he returned to his newspaper as if the conversation never happened.
After breakfast, Alexander left for his office at Volkov International, his sleek black car disappearing into the Venetian streets.
The silence in the villa was deafening.
Ariana wandered through the vast halls walls lined with portraits, art from Russia, Italy, and France. Everything screamed wealth and history and secrecy.
Then she found the study.
The door was slightly ajar, though Alexander had clearly said never enter his private wing.
Her curiosity won.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of cedar and ink. Books lined the walls but it was the photograph on the desk that froze her.
Two people stood in the picture: Alexander and Aria.
But Aria's smile looked strained. Forced.
And Alexander's arm around her seemed like a cage.
Under the frame, a silver key glinted beside a leather folder stamped CONFIDENTIAL: Volkov International Holdings.
Ariana reached for it and stopped.
A soft voice behind her said, "You shouldn't be here."
She spun around. A tall man stood at the doorway sharp jawline, kind eyes. She recognized him from the wedding.
Rafael Kim.
He smiled faintly, though his gaze was cautious. "You really are playing with fire, Aria."
"I was just looking for Alexander."
"Lying already?" he teased gently, stepping closer. "That's not like you. Or maybe it is."
She stiffened. "What do you mean?"
Rafael studied her face. "You've been different since the wedding. Softer. Nicer. Almost like"
He tilted his head.
"you're someone else."
Her blood ran cold.
Then he chuckled. "Relax. I'm joking."
He brushed past her, grabbing a document from the shelf but his lingering look told her he wasn't joking at all.
That night, Ariana stood on the balcony, staring at the canal lights flickering like distant stars.
Alexander entered quietly, his tie loosened, exhaustion shadowing his face. For the first time, he looked human.
"You were out late," she said softly.
He glanced at her. "Board meeting."
"Long day?"
He hesitated, then shrugged. "They're all long."
Silence fell between them again not hostile, just heavy.
And then, unexpectedly, he said, "You didn't come here for love, did you?"
Ariana froze.
He turned toward her, his expression unreadable. "So tell me, Aria… what do you really want from me?"
She opened her mouth but before she could answer, his phone buzzed on the table.
He picked it up. His face changed instantly.
Cold. Pale.
Without a word, he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
Ariana approached the phone the screen still lit.
The message read:
"She's back in Milan. Your real wife."