Aria's POV
"Say it again," I whispered, my voice jagged, as if the words themselves were made of glass that would slice me open if I let them in.
Margaret's eyes glistened, holding nothing back. She didn't flinch. She didn't even try to soften the blow. "I'm your mother, Aria."
The air was sucked out of the room. My chest cinched tight, ribs straining like a cage too small for the storm raging inside me.
Damon stiffened beside me, every muscle carved into stone, his fist clenching so hard the tendons on his hand stood out like ropes.
Marcus—powerful, untouchable Marcus Westin—looked like a man already dead, haunted by ghosts he'd buried too deep.
"No." My head shook violently, as if shaking could undo the sound of her voice, could unmake the word. "That's not… that's not possible."
"Aria—" Margaret stepped forward, hesitant but desperate, like someone reaching across fire.
