Back in the city, the silence felt louder.
Traffic. Phones. Elevator dings. Polished shoes on marble floors.
It wasn't jarring — just different. Like waking from a dream and realizing the real world still demanded masks and headlines.
But Aria felt different, too.
Like something had settled inside her bones.
She wasn't here as an ornament anymore. Not a clause in a contract or the woman on Leon Castellan's arm.
She was his.
And he was hers.
Whatever that meant in the real world.
They arrived at Castellan Holdings together on Monday morning.
Leon in a perfectly tailored gray suit.
Aria in a black blazer, wide-legged slacks, and her hair swept up in a loose knot. Subtle. Strong. Effortless.
The front desk staff tried not to stare.
One junior associate spilled her coffee.
Aria kept walking.
But Leon's hand didn't leave the small of her back until they stepped into his private office.
"Am I staying here today?" she asked.
"You can," he said, "or you could come upstairs."
She raised an eyebrow. "Upstairs?"
"There's an investor briefing. A few new players are meeting the team."
"And you want me there?"
"I want you with me."
The top-floor boardroom was the kind of space where names were made and empires were shaped.
Long glass walls.
Twelve-figure deals discussed between sips of espresso.
Aria had never been in this room before.
Leon had never brought anyone who wasn't legal counsel or board-approved.
So when he walked in, hand on Aria's lower back, the entire table froze.
Even Dahl looked up, startled for once.
Leon didn't flinch.
Didn't explain.
He just pulled out a chair at the head of the table — his chair — then patted the one beside it.
"Sit," he said simply.
Aria sat.
Her heartbeat didn't settle.
Not when the first question came.
Not when the French investor with a smug smile leaned forward and asked:
"And who is she, if I may?"
Leon didn't blink.
"This is Aria Rousseau."
His tone was calm.
But absolute.
"She's not here to be explained. She's here because she's earned the right to know what happens in my world."
A pause.
The investor cleared his throat.
Dahl shifted.
And Aria...
She didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Because he said her name like it mattered.
Not a whisper. Not a deflection.
But a declaration.
Later, after the meeting, Dahl pulled Leon aside.
"Are you sure about this? You're putting her in full view. There's risk."
Leon looked him in the eye.
"I've built an empire that can survive risk. If it can't survive love, I've built the wrong thing."
Back in the office, Aria stood by the window, watching the city move.
Leon came up behind her.
Slid his arms around her waist.
"I didn't know you were going to do that," she said softly.
"I didn't plan to. I just... couldn't let them look at you like a stranger."
She turned in his arms.
"I'm not," she whispered.
"No," he said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. "You're everything but."
That night, they didn't go out.
No gala.
No event.
Just takeout on the coffee table, jazz playing low, and Aria in her glasses curled against him on the couch, laughing at something he said mid-sip.
Leon reached over and plucked a grain of rice from her lip.
She caught his wrist.
Held it.
"That room today," she said. "You didn't just speak for me. You gave me a place at the table."
"You've always deserved one."
"But no one's ever given me one."
Leon looked at her.
Then leaned in.
"That's because you weren't mine yet."