The jet to Paris was silent, tension suspended in the air like an invisible thread waiting to snap.
Aria sat across from Damien, legs crossed, hands perfectly still on her lap. He read a briefing folder, eyes darting across the pages like a machine. Not once did he look at her.
But she knew he was aware of her every breath.
Her phone buzzed once.
A single message:
"There's a kill-switch in his system. I can try. But it'll cost more than money."
She quickly deleted it.
They landed in Paris at midnight. His mansion sat on a secluded hill, its gothic edges softened by the moonlight. Inside, marble and gold met shadowed corridors.
"You'll stay in the west wing," he told her. "Don't go into the cellar."
"What's in the cellar?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
At the Tech Gala, Aria wore a silver backless gown that shimmered under the lights. Damien looked like royalty beside her, a dark prince of industry.
They played their roles perfectly. The loving glance. The soft touch. The laugh she rehearsed until her voice felt raw.
But every time his hand grazed her back, she wondered:
"Does he know what I'm planning?"
Midway through the gala, a man approached them—mid-40s, sleek gray hair, a diamond pin on his lapel.
"Aria, this is Lucien Virel," Damien said. "CEO of Paratech."
Lucien smiled as he kissed her hand. "Enchanté, Madame Roth. I didn't expect Damien to settle down."
Damien's gaze flicked toward her, then back. "Sometimes we find what we weren't looking for."
The smile didn't reach his eyes.
Lucien held her hand a moment too long. "I've heard of Lena Monroe. But I thought she disappeared after Bangkok?"
Aria's breath caught.
"Just a retreat from the public," she said smoothly. "The world got too loud."
Lucien studied her. Then he laughed.
"Well, I hope it was restful. You'll need it if you're married to "him".
He walked away, but the dread clung to her.
Damien leaned in close. "You handled that well."
"I'm good at improvising."
He whispered so low only she could hear.
"Don't make me regret letting you live."
That night, back at the mansion, Aria crept into the cellar. Her footsteps echoed on the stone steps.
The basement was darker than night itself. But eventually, her hand found a light switch.
Rows of computers. Servers humming. Wires crisscrossing like arteries in a monster's body.
On the far wall—more screens.
"Surveillance again. But different this time."
One screen showed "Lucien Virel's" office.
Another—"Interpol classified documents."
And one… her real identity file.
She clicked.
Her photo. Real name. Birth records. Hacker aliases. Every lie she had ever told.
A red stamp at the top: "OBSERVE – DO NOT TERMINATE"
She swallowed.
Damien hadn't just found out who she was—he had known "from the beginning".
She backed away.
A hand gripped her shoulder.
"You shouldn't be down here."
She gasped and spun.
Damien's face was half-lit, half-shadow.
He took a step closer. "You've seen too much now."
"Why didn't you turn me in?" she whispered.
His reply was a blade:
"Because broken things make the best puppets."
She slapped him.
The crack echoed.
But he didn't flinch.
"I could expose you too," she spat.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.
"You try… and Julian dies."
Time stopped.
Her heart collapsed into her stomach.
"You're lying," she choked.
"Am I?" he asked, holding up his phone.
A live feed of Julian's room. The nurse leaning over him.
Damien tapped the screen. "Do you really want to test me?"
Aria trembled.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was a "deal with the devil".
Later that night, alone in her bedroom, she cried for the first time since she was fifteen. Not because she was afraid for herself.
But because she didn't know how to win.
She had always been the smartest person in the room.
Now, she was trapped in a chess game with a man who had already moved her pieces.
And still smiled.
She checked her burner again. One message:
"I found the kill-switch. One tap and it all burns. But it'll burn you too."
She stared at the screen.
Then at the black night outside.
And whispered:
"What have I done?"