Aria stood before the full-length mirror in her room, the scarlet fabric of her dress draped over her arm like a promise. She slid into it with practiced ease, feeling the soft embrace of the material contouring to her form. The hem rested just above her knees, daring yet controlled, a balance she had never dared attempt in her past life.
Her black stiletto heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she adjusted them, elongating her posture and lending her a sense of poise that mirrored the confidence in her reflection. She lifted her wrist, adjusting a slender gold bracelet. Her necklace, delicate yet precise, caught the light, complementing the subtle gold studs in her ears. Even her small black clutch, with its golden clasp, felt like a statement in her hand. Everything was deliberate. Everything was intentional.
A stylist brushed her hair into soft, flowing waves that tumbled over her shoulders, the effortless elegance hiding hours of meticulous shaping. Makeup was applied with painstaking care—rosy cheeks, eyes defined just enough to command attention, lips a bold red that matched her dress. She examined herself, noting how the colors enhanced the warmth of her skin, how the curves of her silhouette were no longer something to hide, but something to showcase.
"You look radiant," stylists commented, stepping back with a faint smile. "Absolutely stunning."
Aria allowed herself the faintest curve of satisfaction. For years, she had avoided attention, terrified of the stares that seemed to measure and judge every flaw. But today, there was no fear. Today, she commanded the gaze of everyone around her.
Once the stylists and makeup artists departed, Aria approached Darcy. "Tell me everything about tonight," she said, her voice firm.
Darcy handed her a sleek tablet. "It's the 70th-anniversary celebration of Clarke Industries," she said. "Your family has a longstanding connection with them, and everyone important will be there. Henry, as you know, is close to the son of the owner. It will be… socially significant."
Aria's chest tightened slightly, a familiar nervousness twisting in her stomach. She knew what Darcy meant. She remembered the galas of her previous life—the black knee-length dress, the tight bun, the invisible girl hiding behind her timid composure.
Her past self had been nothing like this. In that life, the dress had been plain, unremarkable, and her hair pulled tight in an effort to erase her presence. She had been frail and overlooked, her sorrow and exhaustion etched into the contours of her face. Henry had towered beside her, a presence so commanding that the pitying eyes of young women around him had always fallen upon her. She had avoided attention, fearing the kind of beauty she now wielded with purpose.
And Taylor Blackwell. She couldn't suppress the memory. The cruel, sharp words hurled across a crowded ballroom: "You look like an old woman. Frail, fraught. You lucky to have Henry. Do you think you deserve him?" Taylor and her circle had laughed, leaving Aria frozen, humiliated, consumed by a weight she could not escape.
Aria pushed the memories aside, letting the bold red of her dress remind her of the power she now held. She was not the same girl. She would not shrink. She would not allow past humiliation to dictate her present.
Taking a steadying breath, she retrieved her phone and dialed Henry. The line rang, each echo matching the drumbeat of her heart.
"I'll be home in thirty minutes," he said, his voice calm, precise, grounding her fluttering nerves.
She hung up, her hands tightening around her small black clutch. Inside, she added a few essential items—lipstick, compact powder, and a spritz of her signature perfume. She shut it carefully, her movements tinged with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
The sound of the front door opening signaled Henry's return. Aria straightened instinctively, smoothing the folds of her dress. When she turned, she caught his gaze. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, followed quickly by a rare, approving warmth.
"You look… beautiful," he said, the words concise yet potent. He did not linger, did not elaborate, yet the acknowledgment carried weight.
Aria nodded, a faint smile playing at her lips, and retreated to her room for last-minute adjustments. She checked her hair, the fall of her waves, the flawless application of her makeup. She inhaled deeply, allowing herself to feel the power in the moment, the control she wielded over her presence and perception.
When Henry was ready they descending the stairs together, they stepped into the waiting car. The city unfolded before them in a blur of gold and glass, the fading sunlight casting warm reflections over the sleek curves of the vehicle. Aria gripped her clutch, her mind cycling through the expectations of the evening, but her breathing remained controlled.
The hotel emerged, grand and ostentatious. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, golden accents reflecting the late afternoon sun—it was a palace of wealth and influence. The valet took the car, and immediately, every eye in the lobby turned toward them. Murmurs spread, a ripple of attention that brushed against Aria like a tangible force.
She felt it, the silent weighing of her presence, the subtle calculation of every glance. People noticed. People whispered. And she welcomed it, her chest rising with the faint thrill of command.
Henry led her through the crowd, their movements fluid and synchronized, a pair who knew their place and power. Conversations paused, eyes flicked in curiosity and admiration, and Aria allowed herself a brief internal smile. She had become the woman she had never dared to be.
As they moved through the grand ballroom, the old businessmen offering a warm handshake to Henry. Aria noted the careful observation from other guests—every detail of their presence noted, every gesture weighed. She was aware of the power of the image she projected, and she wielded it consciously.
Aria's gaze swept the room. Faces from her past life emerged briefly in memory, but she dismissed them as she stepped further into the present. She did not need to dwell on the humiliation, the judgment, the cruel laughter. She was here now. Strong, poised, radiant. She would not let old ghosts dictate her strength.
Henry's hand brushed against hers—a grounding touch, a reminder of their shared presence. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and found not the judgment or detachment she had feared, but recognition. He saw her as she was, no longer fragile, no longer timid.
Guests whispered as they passed, their expressions reflecting surprise and admiration. "An angel in red…" "Radiant…" "Absolutely captivating…" Aria allowed their words to wash over her, not as a boost of vanity, but as confirmation of her own agency.
Her eyes occasionally swept the room for any trace of Taylor Blackwell. Relief surged when she saw none. The memory of past cruelty lingered, but it was powerless now. The ballroom was hers to command. She noticed that some people hadn't arrived yet. Compared to her past experiences, they must have joined the celebration earlier.
They walked to his family together with Henry. Henry greeted them politely, and Aria behaved according to her role. In truth, she didn't even want to see them. Mr. Acherley still maintained the same stern expression. He gave his daughter a formal glance and shook her hand. Her mother cast looks at Aria, clearly displeased with her dress. After Henry and his father briefly discussed how things were going, they stepped away. Finally. That brief moment felt endless to Aria.
As greetings and compliments flew through the air, they spotted the Lannister family. Mrs. Lannister embraced Henry and Aria. She was a polite woman, calm and unobtrusive. Although their conversation didn't go beyond brief exchanges, Aria sensed she was sincere. Her youthful appearance for her age was complemented by a beige dress. Fiona Lannister, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, was a strikingly beautiful woman.
Henry's father seemed even more despotic than his own father. After the formal handshakes, Mrs. Lannister lightened the atmosphere and invited them to visit one day. She offered compliments to Aria and even asked her to share her beauty secrets. After some soft laughter, they departed.
Beneath her hand, Henry's body was tense."Are you alright?" Aria asked. Before Henry could respond, he was met with a tight hug. "Welcome, my friend!"
This was Ronan Clarke, the only son of the Clarke family and Henry's closest friend.