The night of the Blackwood Foundation Gala arrived like a storm — glittering, merciless, impossible to avoid.
By seven, the estate's driveway gleamed with polished cars pulling up in neat procession, each releasing men in sharp tuxedos and women draped in silks and diamonds. Paparazzi lined the entrance gates, their bulbs flashing like lightning as they fought for a single shot of Damien Blackwood and his wife.
Inside, the ballroom was already alive with the hum of voices, laughter gilded by champagne. Crystal chandeliers cast light that glimmered across marble floors, catching the silver accents in the sea of gowns. Waiters moved like shadows, balancing trays of champagne flutes and canapés. The air buzzed with the careful choreography of power — greetings, handshakes, alliances stitched in silk and glass.
Aria stood at the top of the staircase that overlooked the ballroom, her hands clasped tightly on the railing. She had been dressed — curated — for this moment.
The gown Damien had sent to her room was a deep sapphire silk that seemed to drink in the light, cut to flatter her frame without being ostentatious. Its neckline was modest, but the sweep of the skirt gave her a quiet grace that she hadn't felt in years. Her hair had been pinned into an elegant twist, a few soft strands framing her face. Diamonds sparkled delicately at her ears — not gaudy, but impossible to ignore.
She looked the part of Damien Blackwood's wife. The perfect counterpart to his empire.
But beneath the silk, her skin prickled with unease.
She could still feel the photograph tucked away upstairs, hidden in the drawer of her vanity — her own image caught unguarded in her kitchen, Victor's handwriting like a brand on the back: See you tomorrow night.
Tomorrow night was now.
And she knew he was somewhere close.
"Aria."
Damien's voice pulled her back from the storm in her head. She turned to find him at her side, already dressed in his signature black tuxedo. His presence seemed to fill the landing — sharp, commanding, impossible to look away from.
For a moment, she forgot her fear. His eyes swept over her, lingering, something unreadable flickering there before his expression hardened again.
"You look…" He paused, as if the compliment caught on his tongue. Finally: "You'll do."
Her lips twitched. "High praise from you."
But his gaze softened just slightly, betraying more than his words. He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
Aria slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him guide her down the sweeping staircase. The crowd parted subtly at their arrival, all eyes turning upward. The flash of cameras from the entrance doors intensified, though the reporters were held back by velvet ropes.
"Mr. Blackwood!" "Over here!" "Smile for us, Mrs. Blackwood!"
Aria kept her face composed, her smile practiced but not too polished. She had learned enough from her father's world to know how to project poise — the serene mask of a woman unshaken.
Damien, meanwhile, radiated authority. He shook hands with investors, spoke in clipped, assured tones to board members, accepted compliments on the foundation's latest projects. Aria stood beside him, smiling when expected, her presence the silent confirmation that Damien Blackwood had a wife, a family, a story that rounded out his empire.
But every time she glanced across the glittering room, she half-expected to find Victor's eyes.
An hour passed. Speeches were made, toasts given. Music swelled and fell as couples took to the dance floor. Aria moved like an ornament through the crowd — admired, appraised, spoken to in polite snippets she barely heard.
And then it happened.
She felt the shift before she saw him.
Across the ballroom, near the champagne tower, a man stood watching her. Not mingling, not conversing — just watching.
Charcoal suit. That lazy confidence in the way he held his glass. The faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as if he knew a secret no one else did.
Victor.
Her chest constricted. She almost dropped the glass in her hand.
"Aria."
Damien's voice was low at her side, and she realized too late that he'd noticed her distraction. His gaze followed hers across the room.
"Who is that?"
Her heart stuttered. "No one," she said quickly, too quickly. "I don't recognize him."
But Damien's stare was sharp, his jaw tightening. "Funny. He seems to recognize you."
Victor raised his glass toward them in mock salute, his smirk widening. Then he turned away, striking up a casual conversation with a pair of businessmen as if he belonged here.
Aria's blood ran cold. He wasn't just stalking her anymore. He had infiltrated.
Damien's hand closed firmly around hers. "Come with me."
He didn't drag her, but his grip left no room for argument as he steered her through the crowd, murmuring polite excuses until they reached a quieter corridor near the back of the ballroom.
Only when they were alone did he turn on her, eyes blazing.
"Aria. Tell me the truth. Who is that man?"
Her pulse hammered. She opened her mouth — but the words tangled on her tongue.
"He's from my past," she admitted finally, her voice trembling. "Someone who… who knows things about me. Things I didn't want anyone here to know."
Damien's expression hardened. "And he's using that to threaten you."
She flinched. "Yes."
Silence stretched between them. His jaw worked, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous.
"You should have told me the moment he resurfaced."
"I wanted to protect you—"
"Protect me?" His laugh was harsh, empty of humor. "He's not after me, Aria. He's after you. And Noah. That is what I can't forgive."
Her chest tightened. "I thought I could handle it. I thought if I gave him what he wanted—"
"What does he want?" Damien's voice cut like a blade.
Aria faltered. She had never said it aloud. The words tasted poisonous. "Access. To you. To your business. He wants power."
Damien's eyes went cold. "Then he picked the wrong family."
They returned to the ballroom just as the music shifted into a slower number. Couples drifted to the floor, and Aria felt the weight of eyes again — investors, socialites, all curious to see how Damien Blackwood and his wife would perform under the spotlight.
Without asking, Damien pulled her onto the dance floor. His hand pressed firm at her back, the other guiding hers.
She stumbled at first, her nerves rattled, but his grip steadied her. They moved together in time with the music, the image of a perfect couple gliding through the lights.
To anyone watching, they were untouchable.
But Aria could feel the tension in his body, the storm brewing beneath his calm.
"Smile," Damien murmured, his lips barely moving. "He's watching."
She forced her lips to curve, though inside she was unraveling.
"After tonight," Damien continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear, "we end this. Whatever he thinks he has over you — I'll make sure it dies with him."
Her breath caught. She searched his eyes, saw the steel there. He meant every word.
And in that moment, she wasn't sure if she was more afraid of Victor… or of what Damien was willing to do to protect her.
The song ended. Applause rose. Damien released her only long enough to bow his head slightly, then guided her firmly from the floor.
She risked one last glance across the room.
Victor was gone.
But she knew this was only the beginning.