The storm that started as gossip became a hurricane by noon.
Every social feed, every blog, every glossy headline carried her name — Aria Bennett, the "mystery woman" linked to Damian Blackwood.
Some said she was his mistress.
Others said she was blackmailing him.
A few even claimed she'd broken up his engagement years ago — a lie that spread faster than truth ever could.
By afternoon, Aria couldn't step outside without seeing her own face flashing on a screen.
Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Her mother called ten times before Aria finally answered.
"Where are you?" Vivian's voice cracked through the line. "Do you have any idea what's happening? Reporters are camped outside the gate!"
"I know," Aria whispered. "I saw."
"You need to fix this—"
"I can't control what they say!"
Vivian's breath came fast, panicked. "You can't just hide, Aria! The board is pulling their investments. We'll lose everything—"
"Mom, please," Aria said softly. "I'm doing everything I can."
The silence that followed was heavy and familiar — the silence of disappointment, of a mother who saw her daughter as both savior and scapegoat.
When Vivian spoke again, her voice was small. "He should be the one fixing this, not you."
The line went dead.
By evening, Aria's nerves were raw. She drew the curtains shut, ignored the ringing phone, and tried to breathe.
That was when the knock came.
Sharp, firm, unmistakable.
Her heart sank before she even opened the door.
Damian stood in the hallway — black coat, rain still glistening in his hair, expression carved in stone. He didn't wait for an invitation.
"Pack a bag."
Aria blinked. "Excuse me?"
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You're not safe here. The press already knows your address. By morning, they'll have drones and cameras outside your windows."
"I can handle it."
He shot her a look. "Don't be foolish. You're moving to my penthouse until this dies down."
She stared at him, incredulous. "Your solution to a scandal linking us together is to live together?"
Damian's tone didn't waver. "My building has private security and controlled access. No one will get near you."
"I'm not going," she said, folding her arms. "You don't get to order me around like I'm one of your employees."
He took a slow step toward her. "I'm not giving you an order, Aria. I'm offering you protection."
"Protection," she echoed bitterly. "That's what you call it?"
Something flickered in his eyes — frustration, maybe guilt. "You think I enjoy this?"
"I don't know what you enjoy," she said, voice trembling, "because you don't let anyone see the man behind the mask."
That silenced him.
For a moment, the rain filled the space between them, a rhythm neither could escape.
Then he said quietly, "Five minutes. That's all I'm giving you."
The car ride was silent. City lights slid across the windows like ghosts.
Aria sat rigid in the passenger seat, clutching her coat around her. Damian drove without a word, his jaw set, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel.
She stole a glance at him — the man everyone called heartless, ruthless, untouchable. Yet here he was, driving her through the rain, soaked and tired, like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly.
He didn't look at her. "Because it's the only way to keep you out of the crossfire."
"You don't owe me anything."
He gave a humorless laugh. "You think this is about debt?"
"Then what is it about?"
Damian's silence was its own answer.
The elevator ride to his penthouse felt endless. When the doors opened, Aria hesitated.
The space was vast — walls of glass overlooking the storm, dark wood and marble gleaming in the low light. Everything smelled faintly of leather and rain.
"This place is…" She trailed off, unable to find the right word.
"Empty?" he finished.
Her gaze flicked to him. "That's one word for it."
He set her bag down by the sofa. "Guest room's upstairs. Don't answer the phone unless it's me or Claire. And stay off social media."
"Is that another order?"
He almost smiled — just barely. "Consider it advice."
She exhaled. "Thank you… I guess."
He looked at her then, really looked — at the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, the quiet tremor in her hands. "You shouldn't have had to deal with this."
Aria blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. "What did you just say?"
"I said it's not your fault."
For a moment, neither moved. The storm outside pressed against the glass, wind howling like a warning neither of them could heed.
"You can use the study if you need space," he said finally, stepping back. "I'll have someone bring food."
"Damian—" she began, but he was already walking toward the hallway.
She watched him go, something twisting deep inside her — anger, confusion, maybe something worse.
Hours later, the penthouse was quiet.
Aria sat curled on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders, watching the storm rage beyond the glass. She'd told herself she was just tired — that she'd rest, wake up, and everything would make sense again.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. The way he'd looked at her before walking away — as if he was fighting something he couldn't name.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
A message.
Unknown number.
"You think he can protect you? Ask him what happened to Cassandra."
Her breath caught. She stared at the words, her mind racing.
Cassandra. Damian's ex-fiancée. The woman everyone said left him without a word.
Her fingers hovered over the screen — reply, delete, or ignore.
Before she could decide, footsteps echoed from down the hall.
Damian appeared, sleeves rolled up, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He saw the phone in her hand and the look on her face.
"What is it?"
Aria hesitated. "Someone texted me."
"Let me see."
She handed him the phone. His eyes scanned the message, and for the first time, she saw something close to anger — not cold, calculated anger, but real, raw fury.
He deleted the message, tossed the phone on the table, and turned away.
"Who's Cassandra?" she asked quietly.
He froze.
The silence that followed was louder than the storm.
"She's no one," he said finally.
"You don't delete a message like that if she's no one."
He faced her then — eyes dark, unreadable, the calm mask slipping just enough to reveal the storm underneath.
"Drop it, Aria."
"No," she whispered. "Not until you tell me why someone thinks you can't protect me."
His hand clenched at his side. "Because once, I failed."
Her breath hitched. "Failed who?"
He looked away, toward the window. Rain streaked down the glass like tears the city refused to shed.
"Someone I swore I'd keep safe," he said quietly. "And I didn't."
Aria's voice softened. "Was it Cassandra?"
He didn't answer.
But the pain in his eyes said everything.
The thunder rolled outside, long and low. The air between them thickened — grief, guilt, and something unspoken binding them tighter than either wanted.
Finally, he said, "You should get some sleep."
She nodded slowly, but her feet didn't move.
When he turned to leave, she said his name — soft, barely a whisper.
"Damian."
He paused.
"Thank you," she said. "For… not walking away this time."
He didn't look back, but his voice was quiet when he spoke.
"Don't thank me yet."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Hours later, the rain stopped. But the quiet that followed wasn't peace — it was the kind that comes before everything falls apart.
At exactly 2:43 a.m., Damian's phone buzzed on his nightstand. He reached for it, eyes narrowing at the message flashing across the screen.
"You should've learned by now, Damian. Some ghosts don't stay buried."
He sat up, the shadows of the past flickering to life again.
Outside, lightning flashed — and somewhere in the dark, a camera shutter clicked.