The morning light spilled across the curtains, but Aria didn't feel its warmth. Her eyes were heavy from a night of restless sleep, haunted by her father's words echoing in her mind. You will obey, or you will lose everything.
She sat at the edge of the bed, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve to cover the fading bruise. Her stomach churned at the thought of what lay ahead: the dinner. A performance, orchestrated by her parents, meant to erase her voice and bind her fate tighter.
Henry entered quietly, carrying two cups of coffee. His gaze softened when it landed on her hunched figure.
"You didn't sleep," he said, setting the cups on the nightstand.
"Neither did you," she replied weakly.
He gave a small, humorless smile. "Touché." He lowered himself onto the mattress beside her, his arm brushing hers. "I know what today means to you. Or rather, what it forces you into."
Aria's throat tightened. "I don't think I can face them. Not after yesterday."
"You won't face them alone," Henry said firmly. "Not anymore."
She turned her head, searching his eyes for any trace of doubt. Instead, she found steel.
"Henry, you don't understand. My father—"
"I understand more than you think," he interrupted gently. "You told me what he did. What your family has done your whole life. Aria, listen to me." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "They've controlled you for too long. Tonight, I want you to let me take the lead."
Her breath caught. "What are you planning?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he brushed his thumb across her knuckles, grounding her. "Just trust me."
By evening, the grand dining room at the Lannister estate shimmered with polished silverware and chandeliers. The air was thick with the pretense of civility.
Charles Acherley arrived with his wife, their smiles tight, their eyes sharp. Aria followed a step behind, her expression pale but composed. Henry walked beside her, his presence solid, his hand lightly at her back — a gesture that told her he was watching, that she wasn't invisible.
"Henry, my boy!" Charles greeted boisterously, clapping him on the shoulder as though nothing had transpired the day before. "We're so pleased to be here. Families should stand together, after all."
Henry's jaw flexed, but he returned the handshake. "Indeed. Families should." His gaze flicked toward Aria's sleeve, hiding what Charles had left behind. His stomach tightened with anger.
Dinner began. Polite conversation filled the table — weather, business, politics — each word laced with subtle undercurrents. Aria's mother occasionally shot her daughter warning glances, as though to remind her of her role.
Halfway through the meal, Charles raised his glass. "We were all quite surprised by Aria's little… announcement," he said with a forced chuckle. "But as you see, she simply needed rest. Young people are prone to dramatics."
Aria froze, the words slicing through her like a blade. Her father's casual dismissal reduced her anguish to nothing but "dramatics." She lowered her gaze, blinking back tears.
Henry set his fork down, the sound sharp against the china. "I don't think it's dramatics," he said evenly.
The table stilled. All eyes turned to him.
Henry's gaze was locked on Charles. "Aria has every right to feel what she feels. Marriage isn't a performance for the sake of family image."
Charles's smile faltered. "Of course, of course. But surely you agree, Henry, that sometimes women… imagine problems where none exist. She's simply young, impressionable."
Henry leaned forward, his voice low, steady. "What I see is a woman who has been silenced her entire life. What I see is a bruise on her arm that shouldn't exist. And what I hear is a father who calls abuse 'imagination.'"
The room went silent. Aria's breath hitched; her hands trembled beneath the table.
Charles's face darkened, his mask cracking. "Careful, Henry. You don't know what you're implying."
"Oh, I know exactly what I'm implying," Henry shot back. His voice was calm, but his eyes blazed. "And if you think I'll sit here and watch her suffer in silence, you're wrong."
Aria's mother quickly interjected, her tone sharp. "This is a family matter. Not something to be discussed at dinner."
Henry's lips curved in a cold smile. "You brought it to dinner the moment you dismissed her feelings in front of everyone."
For the first time in her life, Aria saw her father falter — just slightly, but enough. She felt a strange mix of terror and awe. No one had ever stood up for her like this.
Her chest tightened, tears threatening to spill, but not from sorrow. From something else. Relief.
Charles cleared his throat, attempting to regain control. "We can discuss this later. Privately."
"No," Henry said firmly. "We'll discuss it now. Because from this day forward, I won't let Aria be treated as anything less than my equal."
The words hung heavy, irrevocable.
Aria's heart pounded. She stared at him, speechless, her vision blurring. She had never expected him to claim her side so publicly, so fiercely. For the first time, the chains around her heart loosened just a little.
Dinner continued, but the atmosphere was irrevocably changed. Tension simmered under every word. Charles's pride had been wounded, his power challenged. Aria knew he wouldn't forget this. Yet, beside her, Henry's steady presence was a shield she had never known she could have.
Later that night, when they returned home, Aria finally found her voice.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.
"Yes," Henry said, loosening his tie. His eyes met hers, unwavering. "I did. Someone had to."
Her lips trembled. "But you don't understand… He'll make you pay for this. For me."
Henry stepped closer, his hand cupping her cheek. "Let him try."
Her breath caught as he added, softer now, "You're not alone anymore, Aria. Not in this. Not ever."
And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe it.