It was supposed to be simple.
A black-tie charity dinner.
A single appearance.
Smile, speak, pose, leave.
But nothing about that night went according to plan.
It started with the dress.
The courier delayed Aria's gown—custom, elegant, the one Leon had sent from Paris. It arrived hours late and in the wrong size.
Then came the car.
Their driver was stuck behind an overturned bus near Westminster. By the time a backup arrived, the city was locked in a Friday-night snarl of rain and brake lights.
Leon, already on edge from a brutal day of back-to-back negotiations, checked his watch again.
"We're going to miss the speeches."
Aria, fixing the clasp on her heels, looked up from the seat beside him.
"So what? They'll survive."
"They won't see it that way."
She smiled. "Then maybe they should spend less time watching and more time doing."
Leon didn't smile.
Not yet.
But his hand found hers in the dim light of the car.
And didn't let go.
By the time they arrived, the dinner was already halfway over.
Flashbulbs erupted the moment they stepped out of the car.
"Leon, over here!"
"Aria, how does it feel living in London now?"
"Any wedding plans yet?"
Leon didn't flinch.
He didn't smile, either.
But he placed a hand at the small of her back—just enough to steady her as they moved through the chaos.
Inside, they were ushered toward the head table with barely concealed irritation.
The host smiled thinly. "Lovely of you to finally join us."
Leon's reply was cooler than ice.
"Lovely of you to wait."
Aria sat beside him, calm but taut.
The dinner was stiff.
Too many people talking about too little that mattered.
Leon responded to pleasantries with clipped charm, but Aria saw it—the strain behind his jaw. The tension in his shoulders.
He was trying.
For her.
But he hated this room.
And after thirty minutes of tight smiles and polite jabs, she leaned close and whispered:
"Let's leave."
Leon turned to her, brow furrowed. "Now?"
She nodded. "Before I take this soup bowl and make headlines with it."
He chuckled—softly, unexpectedly.
And then he stood.
Didn't make a scene.
Just took her hand, offered a nod to the host, and walked them out the way they came in.
They didn't speak until they were back in the car.
Rain still fell.
London glistened in shades of gold and steel.
Leon let out a long breath and leaned back against the seat.
"Sorry," he muttered. "It was supposed to be… smooth."
"It was." Aria turned to face him. "We showed up. We stayed kind. We didn't kill anyone. That's a win."
He smiled.
Finally.
A real one.
"You looked beautiful, by the way."
"Even in the wrong dress?"
"Especially in the wrong dress. You didn't look perfect. You looked real. Like someone who didn't have to try so hard to belong."
Aria tilted her head.
"You know what else is real?"
"What?"
"I'm starving."
They found a hole-in-the-wall café two blocks from their apartment.
No paparazzi.
No white tablecloths.
Just vinyl booths, warm soup, and the best garlic bread she'd ever tasted.
Leon sat across from her, tie loosened, coat draped over the seat, watching her eat like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
"What?" she asked, chewing.
"I love this," he said simply.
She blinked. "The bread?"
"No. This. You. Us. Right here. No performance."
Aria smiled softly.
Reached across the table for his hand.
"Then let's make this our tradition. Whenever life goes to hell—garlic bread and honesty."
He grinned.
"Deal."
Later that night, curled up on their couch, leftover dessert in hand, Aria murmured:
"That dinner could've ruined the night."
Leon shook his head.
"No, it couldn't have."
"Why not?"
"Because we didn't let it."