Night in Manhattan had teeth. Glass towers blazed against the dark, a thousand windows lit like open eyes. From the penthouse, Ethan watched cabs crawl through glowing arteries of the city, the world below moving too fast, too random, too alive. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, eyes burning, breath fogging up his own reflection. For a moment, he wished he could disappear behind the blur.
Aria wasn't home yet.
He checked his phone—again. No new messages. The last one had been a simple "Fitting's running late. Don't wait up." No kissy-face, no heart, not even a period. He held onto the phone like it might vibrate if he stared hard enough.
She was different. He kept cataloguing the evidence, a mental spreadsheet with rows labeled: Old Aria, New Aria. Old: She'd have texted hourly, sent photos, worried he thought she was being selfish. New: She was—what? Cautious? Cold? Or just outgrowing him?
He set his phone down and crossed to the kitchen. The old clock above the stove ticked loud in the quiet. He poured bourbon, no ice. The glass clinked against the counter, and his hand remembered how to tremble even if his face didn't.
His journal lay open on the breakfast bar. Unreadable scrawl from last night:
Day 7. She's building something. Marcus. Shell companies. Not sure if it's protection or war.
He ran a finger across the words, as if maybe he could smooth out the jagged lines in his head.
He heard her key in the lock. Quick, efficient, no hesitation. She walked in carrying a garment bag, her heels clicking sharp. Her eyes flicked over him, cataloguing his mood, his glass, the pen in his hand. She was always watching, these days—like a chess player, not a lover.
"Hey," he said, careful not to sound needy.
"Hey," Aria replied, voice tired but even. She dropped the bag on a chair, peeled out of her coat in one graceful motion. "You're up late."
"Was waiting." He tried a smile, but it felt thin. "How was the rehearsal?"
Aria shrugged, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. "Fine. Catherine and Vanessa tried the usual mind games. I passed. Emerald dress, platinum jewelry—no notes."
He forced a laugh, relief mixing with something sour. "You'll look better than all of them. I'll have to fight men off all night."
She rolled her eyes, but the smile she gave him was automatic, brittle. She crossed to the fridge, poured herself water.
He watched her, taking in every detail—her posture, the angle of her wrist as she held the glass. In the first timeline, he'd missed so much. Now, every twitch was data.
"Long day?" he asked, leaning against the counter.
She pressed the glass to her forehead, closing her eyes. "Long week. I forgot how exhausting all this can be."
He wanted to say, "Let me help." But he didn't know what help looked like anymore.
Instead, he reached for the old familiar script. "If you want to skip the gala, I could fake a stomach bug, tell them we're stuck in bed."
She shot him a sidelong look—half exasperated, half amused. "We both know Catherine would drag you out by your hair. And someone has to keep Vanessa from poisoning the canapés."
They both chuckled, but the laughter died too soon. The silence between them stretched—uncomfortable, loaded.
He tried again. "You've been busy," he said, nodding at the laptop she pulled from her tote.
She busied herself with the zipper. "Trying to make myself useful."
"You're more than useful, Aria." He forced his voice gentle, steady. "You don't have to prove anything."
"Don't I?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were flint. "In this family, in this city, you're only as valuable as what you bring to the table."
He felt the old urge to defend himself. To say, "You're my wife, that's enough." But he'd lost the right to make things simple. Not after last time. Not after what he'd done.
He crossed to her, reached for her hand. She let him, fingers cool and limp in his. He felt, for a heartbeat, the old connection—a current barely there.
"I know things haven't been easy," he said softly. "If you want to talk, about anything—"
She pulled her hand back, not harsh, but final. "I'm fine, Ethan. I just need some space."
He nodded, swallowing disappointment. He watched her disappear into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
He finished his drink, staring at the penthouse's reflection. He thought about following her. About knocking, apologizing—for what, he wasn't sure. For everything, maybe. For the timeline he'd failed. For the one he was already losing.
His phone buzzed—a text from Daniel Holt: Call me. Something odd in the foundation's accounts.
He dialed, grateful for the distraction. Daniel's voice came sharp and low. "There's movement we didn't initiate. Someone's rerouting donation funds. Not enough to trip alarms, but enough to suggest they know the system. Your father's sniffing around."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "Can you pin it down?"
"Not yet. But whoever it is, they're good. Might even be someone on the inside. Or—" Daniel hesitated. "—someone close to you."
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, exhaustion scraping him raw. "I'll take care of it. Keep my father out of it for now."
"Understood."
He hung up, mind spinning. Was it Aria? Was she protecting herself, or building something he didn't understand? He wanted to trust her. God, he wanted to. But trust wasn't enough anymore. Not with the stakes this high.
He paced the penthouse, memories surfacing unbidden—Aria smiling shyly over breakfast, Aria bleeding in a hospital bed, Aria's body going cold as machines whined. "I need to think of my real family now." The words he'd spoken, the words that had ended everything.
The cracks were showing. In her, in him, in the life they'd patched together from broken pieces. He wondered if love was possible when the foundation was made of regret.
He walked to the bedroom door, hesitated. Raised his hand to knock, then let it fall. Some wounds needed distance.
He wandered back to the living room, opened his journal, wrote:
She's changing. Maybe she's protecting herself from me. Maybe she's right to. I want to tell her everything, confess, beg for a new start. But what if it only makes things worse? What if she remembers too?
He stared at the words, heart pounding. The possibility was always there—Aria, regressed, remembering another life, another death. But she'd never let him see behind the mask.
He shut the journal, checked the time. Midnight. The city whirred outside, relentless.
The bedroom door opened. Aria stepped out, hair pulled back, face bare. She looked softer, a little lost. She walked to him, stood close.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low.
She shook her head. "Neither could you."
He wanted to say, "Let's try again." He wanted to say, "Tell me what you're hiding." He wanted to say, "Forgive me."
Instead, he placed his hand over hers on the kitchen island. She didn't pull away. For a long moment, they stood in the hush together, two ghosts in the city's bright dark.
She spoke first. "Tomorrow, we're on display. The perfect couple, the perfect life. Can you do it?"
He squeezed her hand, a promise and a plea. "With you, always."
She gave him a long, unreadable look. "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Goodnight, Aria."
She disappeared down the hall. He listened to the sound of her steps, the door closing, soft as the night. The cracks were showing. But maybe, just maybe, the light could get in.