Aria lay awake long after the ballroom emptied, the sheets cool against her skin but her mind burning. Darius slept beside her, his breathing steady, yet his presence felt like both fortress and prison.
The stranger's words haunted her: You've painted a target on your back.
She stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks in the dark. She could keep pretending this was just a marriage of convenience, a gilded cage she'd eventually learn to live inside. Or she could peel back the curtains Darius so carefully kept closed — and risk seeing the monsters lurking behind them.
By dawn, the choice felt like it had already been made.
She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded softly to his office. The heavy door resisted her push, but she eased it open. The air inside was different — colder, laced with leather, smoke, and something sharper: secrecy.
His desk was immaculate, every paper stacked in precise order. Too precise. She pulled open a drawer. Empty. Another — locked. Her pulse quickened. She rummaged quietly, fingers brushing over files, pens, a sealed envelope with her name written in Darius's hand.
She froze.
The envelope was thick, weighty. She hesitated, but curiosity tipped her fingers open. Inside were photographs — not of her, but of strangers. Men in suits. Women with sharp eyes. Faces marked with ink: X's through some, circles around others. Notes in Darius's bold script. Words like debt, betrayal, owed.
Her stomach lurched. This wasn't business. It was blood ledger.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The voice struck like a blade. She whirled to find Darius in the doorway, still in his robe, his expression unreadable.
"I—"
He crossed the room slowly, each step measured. His eyes flicked to the open envelope in her hand. "Curiosity," he said softly, "is the first nail in a coffin."
Aria forced herself to meet his gaze. "Then maybe I'd rather die knowing than live blind."
For the first time, something shifted in him — not anger, not control, but something rawer. Fear.