The air smelled faintly of brewed coffee and toasted bread, carried by the efficient quiet that only Darcy could orchestrate. Yet Aria stood motionless at the threshold of the dining room, staring at Henry across the expanse of polished wood and untouched porcelain.
He was already there, immaculately dressed as always, his dark suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to reveal sharp wrists and the silver glint of his watch. His hair was neatly combed, his gaze fixed on the morning paper spread before him. It was a portrait of control, precision, detachment—Henry Lannister, in every detail.
But this morning, Aria wasn't going to let the silence swallow her questions.
She crossed the room, the echo of her heels tapping deliberately against the floor. He didn't look up immediately, only flicked his eyes toward her when she reached her seat opposite him.
"We didn't finish last night," Aria said, her voice steady, though her pulse quickened.
Henry folded the paper with calm exactness and set it aside. His eyes locked on hers—sharp, unwavering, too unreadable for comfort.
"You're speaking about Darcy," he said, not a question but a statement.
"Yes," she pressed, leaning forward slightly. "If you want to know where I am, Henry, then ask me. Directly. I don't want anyone shadowing me, reporting back like I'm some kind of liability in my own home."
The words hung in the air. For a heartbeat, Henry didn't answer. Then, with a measured nod, he said, "Very well. If I want to know something, I'll ask you."
Aria blinked at him. She had expected a denial, perhaps a cold deflection, not this calm agreement.
"Just like that?" she asked, searching his expression for hidden edges.
"Yes." He leaned back in his chair, the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw. "But understand why I arranged it. Ours may not be a marriage in truth, but it is a marriage in name. I expect us both to behave accordingly. Appearances matter. And appearances demand I know where my wife is."
Aria's lips tightened. The word wife sounded heavy, deliberate, almost mocking. But there was something else in it too—a seriousness she couldn't quite ignore.
"You talk about appearances," she said carefully. "Then what about yours? You weren't home last night."
Henry's eyes sharpened. "That I had a meeting."
"With who?"
He hesitated a fraction too long, but his answer came smooth, practiced. "Business partners. It was late, but necessary."
"And the mysterious guests Fin mentioned?"
"Also business," he replied flatly. His tone left no space for further questioning, though Aria's chest burned with frustration.
Before she could push further, Darcy's voice broke the taut silence. "Breakfast is served."
Aria didn't move right away. Neither did Henry. The moment stretched between them, charged and unresolved, before he rose first, offering no further explanation, no apology. She followed him to the dining room, the tension trailing after them like a shadow.
The long dining table glittered under the chandelier. Aria sat across from Henry, the sound of cutlery against porcelain oddly loud in the silence.
She sipped her coffee, gaze flicking up to him, wondering if he'd ever speak first. She didn't expect him to. But then—
"Yesterday," Henry said suddenly, his tone deceptively casual. "You spoke to Fin. Why?"
Aria froze. Her cup paused halfway to her lips. She set it down slowly, carefully, as though her hands had forgotten their strength.
"I asked about Clara," she admitted, forcing steadiness into her voice.
His eyes darkened instantly. He leaned back, crossing his arms, his composure sharpening like glass. "Why?"
Aria swallowed, her throat dry. "Because she was your past. I thought Fin might have known."
Henry's jaw tightened. "Fin doesn't know. Clara and I… our history is not something I share. Everything is already over. "
The certainty in his voice startled her. In her previous life, she had believed—no, she had been sure—that Henry and Clara had been entangled again and everyone in the office knew that. But this Henry's words carried a truth she couldn't dismiss.
Her chest constricted. Did this mean the timeline had shifted? That Clara and Henry's relationship hadn't begun yet? That it was still ahead, waiting like a knife to be twisted in her ribs?
She masked her unease with a shallow laugh. "It was just a moment of jealousy. A foolish question. Nothing more."
Henry's expression didn't soften. "Jealousy? That's unnecessary. You don't have that right."
The coldness in his words pierced sharper than she expected, though she schooled her face into calm. "Of course," she murmured.
For a moment, silence pressed between them, heavy and brittle. Then Henry's gaze fixed on her with disconcerting intensity.
"You've changed," he said quietly, almost accusingly. "Lately you're different."
Aria stiffened. "Different how?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on her face, searching, probing, as though he could carve the truth from her with nothing but his stare.
"Tell me," he said at last, "what is between you and Elias?"
Aria's lips parted. Of all the questions she expected, this one hit differently. She could hear the faintest undercurrent in his voice—not jealousy exactly, but something close. A guarded interest.
"There's nothing," she said firmly. "He's just a friend."
Henry didn't reply. He returned his attention to his plate, though he hadn't eaten more than a few bites. The conversation drifted into silence again, but this time it wasn't hostile. It was… reflective. Strange.
Aria realized with a start that this was the longest they had spoken without descending into a fight. A fragile truce, but a truce nonetheless.
When breakfast ended, Henry rose smoothly, adjusting his cuffs with that same meticulous care.
"This evening," he said, his tone formal once more. "We have an event to attend. Be prepared."
An event? Aria straightened slightly, curiosity sparking. "What kind of event?"
"A necessary one," he said, already turning away. "Darcy will give you the details. Wear something appropriate."
And with that, he left the room, his figure disappearing into the hall before she could ask more.
Aria sat in the empty silence he left behind, her fingers curling around her glass of water. The words echoed in her mind. An event. Public. Meaning eyes would be on them both.
If she had ever needed a stage to prove to the world that she wasn't the weak, pitiful woman of her last life—this was it.
The moment Henry's car had pulled away, Aria retreated to her room and dialed Lila's number.
"Tonight?" Lila's voice crackled with disbelief. "Oh, no, Aria. I can't. I have a date. The first in months. You'll survive without me for one evening."
Aria chuckled softly, despite the knot in her stomach. "Then may luck be on your side. You deserve it."
They said their goodbyes, and Aria stared at the phone in her hand for a long moment. In her previous life, she would have begged Lila to stay, clung to her for comfort. But that insecure woman was gone now. She could handle it on her own.
She dialed another number.
Her mother's stylists arrived within the hour, bustling into the mansion with trunks of dresses, palettes of makeup, racks of shoes. Their chatter filled the sterile silence, transforming the atmosphere into one of anticipation.
Before they began, Aria excused herself for a bath.
Steam curled in the air as she filled the marble tub with warm water, scattering fragrant petals across the surface. The scent of jasmine and rose rose around her, soothing and sharp all at once. She sank into the water, closing her eyes as the heat drew out the tension coiled in her body.
In another life, she had drowned herself in sorrow. Now, she would drown herself in determination.
Her fingers traced idle circles along the water's surface, catching flashes of red against her nails. A bold choice. A reminder to herself of who she wanted to be.
Tonight, she decided, her dress would match. Red.
Not for romance, not for seduction—but for power.
For the first time in a long time, she smiled.