Aria adjusted the silver bracelet on her wrist for the fifth time, as if shifting it might change what it meant.
It didn't.
It still shimmered like something precious—and felt like something permanent.
She was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a dressing suite bigger than her old bedroom, while a stylist fussed over the straps of a black evening gown that hugged her body like a second skin.
"Do you like it, Miss James?" the woman asked in a tone that didn't care about the answer.
"It's fine," Aria muttered, tugging the neckline higher. It barely moved.
"Mr. Castellan selected it himself."
Of course he did.
Because god forbid she have a say in how much skin she showed at a public event she never agreed to attend.
She hadn't seen Leon since last night. Not in person. But the staff? They moved around her like clockwork, following some invisible command.
Stylist. Hairdresser. Manicurist. Security briefing.
It was all too perfect.
Too polished.
Too… planned.
By the time she was escorted downstairs, the town car was already waiting, sleek and silent.
She slid into the back seat, and Leon was already inside.
Wearing a dark navy suit that molded to his body like it had been designed with him in mind—and probably had. His shirt was black. His tie, the same silver as her bracelet. A subtle, coordinated detail that told the world they were a pair.
Or rather, that she belonged to him.
He looked up from his phone just once.
And didn't speak.
Neither did she.
The gala was held at the Crestmont Hotel, all champagne fountains and velvet ropes. A press line waited just outside the entrance, cameras flashing behind gold barricades.
Leon stepped out first.
The moment he emerged, the crowd erupted in activity. Shouts. Photos. A flurry of motion.
Then he turned—and held out his hand to her.
Aria hesitated.
Just for a second.
But the pause cost her.
A camera flash caught her mid-step, mid-reach, mid-uncertainty.
Too late.
The headlines were already writing themselves.
"Who Is Leon Castellan's Auctioned Arm Candy?"
She took his hand anyway, letting him pull her from the car.
His grip was strong. Not painful. But commanding.
He didn't look at her as he leaned in and said, "Smile."
Aria plastered one on like a mask, raising her chin and squaring her shoulders as if this were any other society event—back before her name meant scandal and shame.
They walked the carpet together, pausing for cameras, nodding at socialites and businessmen whose faces she recognized and whose whispers she could already hear.
That's Aria James?
Didn't her father go bankrupt?
I heard she's with Leon now. Sold at an auction like a pretty little prize.
Inside, the ballroom pulsed with luxury.
Live music. Towering floral displays. Waiters offering champagne on silver trays.
Leon guided her through the crowd like he was navigating a boardroom, nodding to investors, exchanging cold smiles with people who clearly respected him—but didn't like him.
And then came her.
A blonde in a glittering emerald dress, curves poured into couture, lips curved in the kind of smile that said she knew too much.
"Leon," she purred, brushing her hand down his arm. "It's been too long."
Leon gave a cool nod. "Sabrina."
Aria watched with narrowed eyes as the woman turned her gaze to her.
"And this must be the new accessory," Sabrina said, voice as sweet as poison. "Lovely. I almost didn't recognize you, Miss James. I thought you'd disappeared after… well, you know."
Aria smiled tightly. "Bankruptcy? Betrayal? Public disgrace? Feel free to pick your favorite."
Sabrina blinked.
Leon said nothing.
So Aria kept going.
"It's funny. Most people whisper behind my back. You're bold enough to insult me directly. I respect that."
Sabrina's expression faltered.
Aria tilted her head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I see a tray of champagne calling my name."
She turned, snagged a glass, and took a long sip before walking away.
Her heart pounded, but she didn't look back.
She found a quiet corner near one of the windows and stood alone, watching the city lights flicker beyond the glass.
Minutes passed.
Then came the low voice she was already learning to anticipate.
"You shouldn't have done that."
She turned. Leon stood beside her now, hands in his pockets, jaw set like stone.
"Sabrina's father owns a controlling stake in a media outlet I've been negotiating with," he said. "That scene cost me."
Aria scoffed. "She insulted me."
"She insulted you because she thought you wouldn't bite back. You proved her wrong. And made yourself look like a threat."
Aria looked up at him, eyes flashing. "I am a threat. Get used to it."
Leon stared at her for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
Then, without warning, he stepped forward, invading her space.
Her back hit the window.
He didn't touch her. Just leaned in, voice a breath against her lips.
"You belong to me, Aria. In public. In private. In every whisper and headline. Do you understand that?"
She glared at him. "I'm not your pet."
"No," he murmured, eyes dropping to her mouth. "You're more dangerous than that."
He pulled back.
And for a moment, she almost wished he hadn't.
Almost.
Back in the car, silence reigned again—until Leon spoke.
"You handled her well," he said quietly.
Aria raised an eyebrow. "You're complimenting me?"
"No." His lips twitched. "I'm warning you. Do it again, and you'll have to deal with the consequences."
She leaned back against the leather seat. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"No," he said again. "It's supposed to excite you."
She turned her head slowly, pulse hammering in her throat.
Leon's eyes met hers—cool, composed, devastating.
And in them, she saw the truth.
He didn't want a woman who would obey every rule.
He wanted the challenge.
And that made this game far more dangerous than she ever imagined.