Twilight descended over the city, bringing with it the evening of the Astor charity gala. In the master bedroom of the Blackwood estate, Aria stood in front of a full-length mirror as a stylist finished the last touches on her attire. The dress Damien had arranged for her was a sleek, off-shoulder gown in midnight blue that hugged her figure and made her green eyes luminous. Aria hardly recognized the elegant woman gazing back at her—poised and serene on the outside, while inside her stomach fluttered wildly.
Damien entered the bedroom just as the stylist departed. He paused in the doorway, his breath catching for an instant as he took her in. "You look stunning," he said, a soft marvel in his tone.
Despite her nerves, Aria felt heat rise to her cheeks at his open admiration. "Thank you," she murmured, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. Her hands were trembling slightly.
Damien crossed the room to her. He was debonair in a classic black tuxedo, all clean lines and quiet confidence. When he reached Aria, he gently took her hands in his, steadying them. "How are you holding up?" he asked, eyes full of concern.
Aria inhaled, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. "I'm alright," she lied lightly. Then, seeing his raised brow, she amended, "Maybe a little nervous."
His lips quirked. "Understandable." He lifted one of her hands and pressed a reassuring kiss to her knuckles. "But remember, you're not facing this alone."
She nodded, exhaling some tension. All afternoon she had watched Damien move into action—speaking with his PR team, issuing statements to quash the wildest rumors, even calling in favors with friendly media contacts. He had handled it all with composed efficiency. If he was worried about tonight, he didn't show it. Aria wished she shared even half his composure.
"Most of the press stories have already been tempered," Damien added, as if reading her thoughts. "The official line is that your father's past is old news and you've long been estranged from him. By tomorrow, it should blow over."
Aria mustered a small smile. "I hope you're right."
He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "Trust me."
She leaned into his touch, finding solace in the simple gesture.
A rapid patter of feet in the hallway announced Noah's arrival. Their son skidded into the bedroom, eyes wide when he saw Aria. "Mommy! You look like a princess!" he exclaimed.
Aria's heart swelled. She bent down carefully in her gown and opened her arms. Noah scampered into them, giving her a sticky-fingered hug (the remains of his pre-dinner cookie clinging to his hands). "Thank you, my love," Aria laughed softly. "And what does Daddy look like?"
Noah pulled back and examined Damien, who stood with a mock-serious expression. "Daddy looks like a prince!" he declared, then added proudly, "That's good, 'cause princes always protect the princess."
A surprised laugh escaped Aria, and even Damien chuckled, ruffling Noah's hair. "That's the plan, buddy," Damien said warmly.
A honk outside signaled the car ready to take them. The nanny appeared at the door, smiling as she came to collect Noah for bedtime.
Aria hugged her son tightly once more. "You be good for Miss Ellen, alright? We'll be back later."
"'Kay. Love you, Mommy," Noah murmured, snuggling into her neck.
"I love you too," she whispered, kissing his cheek. She handed him over to the nanny, who assured them Noah would get an extra bedtime story and his favorite lullaby.
As Noah waved bye-bye enthusiastically in the nanny's arms, Damien placed a supportive hand at the small of Aria's back. "Time to go," he said gently.
Nerves fluttered anew in Aria's chest, but she straightened her shoulders. "Time to go," she echoed.
Moments later, Aria and Damien were settled in the back of a limousine gliding through the illuminated streets. Aria watched the city lights blur past the window, her heart thumping faster the closer they got to the upscale hotel venue. She realized she was twisting her fingers in her lap and forced herself to stop.
Damien noticed. He reached over and entwined his fingers with hers. The warmth of his hand was calming. "Remember," he said softly, "the narrative is ours now. We walk in there side by side, head high. If anyone whispers, let them. They'll soon see we have nothing to hide."
Aria turned to look at him. In the dim cabin light, his profile was strong and sure. She drew strength from it and from his unwavering grip. "Thank you," she said quietly.
He tilted his head, a question in his eyes.
"For standing by me through all this," she clarified. "You could have...handled it differently. Many would have."
Understanding dawned in his expression. He lifted her joined hands to his lips. "Those 'many' don't know what they'd be missing," he said, brushing a tender kiss across her fingers. "I meant what I said, Aria. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not the press, not society gossips, not Victor—no one."
Emotion thickened in her throat. Sometimes it felt like a miracle how much her life had changed in such a short time— from being alone and guarded to having this man willing to move mountains for her. She blinked against a sudden prick of tears (careful not to smudge the subtle makeup the stylist had applied). "I don't know how I can ever repay you," she whispered.
"You don't have to." Damien gave a slight smile. "We're a team, remember? This is what husbands and wives do."
Husbands and wives. The words sent a gentle warmth through Aria. How strange that their marriage had started as a cold agreement, and now here they were—hand in hand, facing challenges as true partners.
The limousine rolled to a smooth stop. Through the tinted window, Aria could see the glow of camera flashes and a crowd gathered behind velvet ropes. Her stomach flipped. This was it.
The driver stepped out to open their door. Damien squeezed Aria's fingers one last time. "Ready?" he murmured.
She inhaled deeply. "Ready."
Outside, the evening air pulsed with the shouts of paparazzi and curious onlookers. The limousine door opened, and Damien emerged first into the lights. Aria scooted across the seat toward the open door, heart pounding in her ears. A dozen camera flashes went off like mini explosions of lightning.
Damien turned, extending his hand back into the car. Aria placed her trembling hand in his steady grasp and stepped out. The crowd's murmurs swelled to a roar at her appearance.
Cameras blinded her for an instant. Aria squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, remembering Damien's words. He tucked her arm firmly in the crook of his and covered her hand with his own as they began to walk the red carpet.
Questions were already being flung their way by press voices from behind the ropes:
"Mr. Blackwood, is it true your wife's father was convicted of fraud?"
"Mrs. Blackwood, any comment on the Millstone scandal?"
Damien set a protective pace, guiding Aria smoothly forward. She kept her eyes ahead, a polite, composed half-smile fixed on her face even as her pulse raced.
"No comment, thank you," Damien called calmly over the barrage of questions. The security detail flanking them ensured no one got too close.
Aria's arm pressed against Damien's solid one. Each step felt surreal, but the reassuring pressure of his hand over hers kept her grounded. She focused on the grand entrance ahead—golden doors leading into the ballroom—and tried to shut out the intrusive queries.
They climbed the marble steps, and moments later a uniformed attendant swept open the doors. Warm light and the strains of classical music spilled out.
As they stepped inside the gilded ballroom, a ripple of silence spread through the crowd. Scores of eyes turned toward them—some curious, others sharp with judgment. Aria's stomach clenched, but the solid presence of Damien at her side kept her steady. She lifted her chin, determined to meet those stares with quiet confidence. The moment of truth had arrived, and whatever happened next, she would face it with him.