The storm hit just after midnight.
Thunder rolled across the city skyline as rain lashed against the tall windows of Voss Manor. The wind howled like it was trying to rip through the very walls.
But inside, the real storm was brewing in the drawing room.
Aria stood in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her gown from the gala had been replaced by a silk robe, but her eyes burned hotter than ever.
Damien stood a few feet away, jaw clenched, hands shoved into his pockets.
"You disappeared for twenty minutes," he said coldly.
Aria raised a brow. "I didn't realize I needed permission to breathe."
"You're my wife. At a public event. You don't vanish without telling me."
She laughed bitterly. "Are we playing the 'dutiful husband' card now? How adorable."
He stepped closer. "Don't test me, Aria."
She met his gaze head on. "Or what? You'll scowl me to death?"
Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the windows. Neither of them flinched.
Damien's eyes narrowed. "I know you're hiding something."
"And I know you're used to control. But newsflash, Damien I'm not one of your employees you can intimidate into obedience."
His expression darkened. "Then maybe I made a mistake marrying you."
The words sliced deeper than he probably intended.
Aria's breath caught, but she recovered quickly. "Good. That makes two of us."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Damien's fingers flexed at his sides. "You're not the woman I thought you were."
Aria stepped toward him slowly. "And who did you think I was, Damien? A trophy? A quiet, obedient wife who'd smile and pose for your puppet show?"
"You were supposed to stay out of my way," he snapped.
"And you were supposed to be human."
Lightning flashed. For a second, the entire room lit up and so did the tension between them.
Their anger sizzled. Tangled. Crashed.
Then, without warning, Damien grabbed her wrist not rough, but firm and pulled her closer.
Their faces were inches apart. His breath was hot, uneven.
"You drive me insane," he muttered.
Aria's voice came out shaky but defiant. "Good. At least that makes two things we have in common."
His lips hovered over hers.
She didn't move.
But he didn't kiss her.
Not this time.
Instead, he released her and stepped back. His eyes were unreadable again, the wall rebuilt in an instant.
"Stay out of the west wing," he said flatly.
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
Aria stood frozen, heart thudding in her chest.
Why did that feel like a beginning and an ending at the same time?
She placed a hand on her stomach.
The baby.
She was running out of time.
Soon, she wouldn't be able to hide it. Soon, Damien would know. And everything she built the revenge, the lies, the plan would unravel.
Unless...
She beat him to the truth first.
The Next Morning
Aria entered the dining hall expecting another round of icy silence.
But Damien wasn't there.
Instead, the butler handed her a note:
"Out for meetings. Will return late.
Stay out of my study.
– D."
She rolled her eyes.
Of course he'd leave a note like that cold, distant, and full of instructions.
But it wasn't the study she was interested in.
It was the west wing.
The one part of the mansion she wasn't allowed to enter.
She finished breakfast slowly, thinking.
Then she made her move.
West Wing – Third Floor
The hallway was silent, almost too still.
She passed empty guest rooms, locked doors, and thick velvet curtains. At the end of the hall stood a set of double doors dark wood with brass handles.
Locked.
Of course.
She pulled a pin from her hair, bent it slightly, and began to work the lock. Her father had been a locksmith before he passed. She'd learned a few tricks before life got ugly.
Click.
The door swung open.
And what she saw made her breath catch.
The room wasn't dark or cold.
It was warm. Soft. Full of light.
It was a nursery.
A forgotten, untouched nursery.
White walls. Stuffed animals. A crib with untouched bedding. Shelves of books. A rocking chair.
But everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.
Unused. Abandoned.
A name was painted on the wall in faded silver letters: "Elena."
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Damien had a child?
Or…
Had one?
The room told a story.
Of grief. Of something or someone lost.
And suddenly, her heart cracked in a way she didn't expect.
He wasn't just cruel. He was broken.
And now she was pregnant with the child of a man whose past was full of pain.
Downstairs, Damien stood at the front gate in the rain, watching a car pull away.
His phone buzzed.
Marcus (text):
"Aria entered the west wing 20 minutes ago. Do you want me to stop her?"
Damien stared at the screen, jaw tight.
Then he typed:
"No. Let her see."