The rain finally came that night.
It pounded against the Blackwood estate like a relentless drumbeat, washing the city streets below in a shimmer of silver. From her bedroom window, Aria watched it fall in sheets, her reflection pale against the glass. The storm matched the one in her chest — restless, merciless, unending.
Behind her, she heard Damien's voice through the half-open study door across the hall. Even muffled, his tone carried the same sharp command it always did when he was plotting.
"His accounts are vulnerable," Damien was saying. "Move the funds where they'll hurt. Quietly. I don't want the trail leading back here."
A pause, then: "And the men? Good. Keep them rotating shifts. I want every blind spot covered. If he so much as breathes near this property, I'll know."
Aria hugged her arms around herself. Every word cut deeper into her.
Victor had threatened her, yes. But this Damien — the one tightening his net, sharpening every edge — terrified her too.
Later, when Damien finally emerged, his expression was as hard as the storm outside. He moved with controlled precision, every step heavy with purpose.
"You should be resting," he said, noticing her still by the window.
"How can I?" Aria's voice cracked despite her attempt to hold it steady. "When you're—when you're planning to destroy him like this?"
Damien's jaw flexed. "He came into this house, Aria. Into your space. Into Noah's. Do you expect me to let that slide?"
Her heart thudded painfully. "I expect you not to lose yourself in the process."
He came closer, his hand cupping her face with startling gentleness despite the storm in his eyes. "The only thing I'm losing is patience. Don't ask me to stop protecting what's mine."
His words made her shiver. Part fear. Part something else she dared not name.
The next morning, the house was a hive of activity.
Security men rotated in and out, their earpieces flashing in the light as they patrolled the grounds. Marianne moved with unusual briskness, coordinating the staff to reinforce routines that had never needed reinforcement before.
Aria sat at the kitchen island with Noah, trying to keep breakfast normal, but the boy sensed the shift. His brow furrowed as he pushed cereal around in his bowl.
"Mommy," he asked quietly, "why are there so many guards?"
Aria forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's just for extra safety. Like superheroes making sure nothing bad happens."
Noah tilted his head. "But Daddy's already a superhero."
The words pierced her. She swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.
When Damien entered moments later, Noah beamed, as though his thought had conjured him. Damien ruffled his son's hair, a rare softness in his expression.
But when his gaze met Aria's, the softness vanished, replaced by grim determination.
"I'll be late tonight," he said. "Don't wait up."
Her chest tightened. "Where are you going?"
"Handling it." That was all he offered before moving toward the door, his security trailing him like shadows.
Aria's hands clenched on the counter.
Hours later, she found herself pacing her room, Victor's photographs still etched in her mind. His words from that night echoed: Convince me, Aria. Convince me to play nice.
What if Damien's trap failed? What if Victor struck first?
And what if Damien's need for vengeance destroyed him before it destroyed Victor?
The thought twisted her insides.
For so long, she had kept her past buried to protect Noah. But what if the only way to truly protect both of them now was to step out of Damien's shadow — and face Victor herself?
The decision crystallized with terrifying clarity.
Aria crossed to her vanity, pulled open the drawer, and withdrew the single card Victor had slipped beneath the photograph days earlier. His private number, scrawled in neat ink.
Her hands shook as she held it. Reaching out to him was madness. But maybe madness was the only way left.
That evening, Damien sat in a darkened office downtown, flanked by two of his most trusted men. Before them, screens displayed data streams — accounts siphoning funds, contacts traced, movements tracked.
"We have him," one man said. "He's bleeding money fast. If we keep this pressure, he'll have no choice but to surface."
"Good," Damien said, his voice like granite.
He thought of Aria's trembling form in his arms, of Noah's wide, innocent eyes. Fury coiled tighter inside him. This wasn't just business. This was war.
His phone buzzed. A message. He glanced at it — routine. Nothing urgent.
But while Damien tightened his net around Victor, another thread was unraveling back home.
In her bedroom, Aria sat on the edge of the bed, phone clutched in her hand, staring at the number on the card.
One call. That was all it would take.
Her finger hovered over the dial.
This is for Noah, she told herself. This is to keep Damien from drowning in his own fury. If I can just reason with Victor—if I can convince him to back off—
Her thumb pressed the button.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then clicked.
"Aria," Victor's voice purred, smooth and satisfied. "I was wondering when you'd call."
Her stomach dropped, but she forced her voice steady. "We need to talk."
"Of course we do," he said, his amusement curling through the line. "Shall I come by? Or would you prefer somewhere neutral?"
"Somewhere public," she said quickly. "Tomorrow. Noon. The Riverside Café."
A chuckle. "So cautious. Very well. Noon it is."
The line went dead.
Aria's hand trembled as she set the phone down. Her heart hammered so loud she feared it would wake the entire house.
She had done it. She had betrayed Damien's plan.
And tomorrow, she would face the devil herself.