The city glittered beneath the penthouse windows like spilled diamonds on black velvet, but Ariana Torres saw none of its beauty. She stood with one hand resting against the glass, her reflection a ghostly overlay on the skyline. The champagne flute in her other hand caught the light, tiny bubbles spiraling upward in delicate streams. She hadn't taken a sip.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. Their anniversary. A night for romance and champagne toasts. For the world, at least.
For her, it was a date carved into her bones, the night that had once shattered her life.
August 12th.
Five years ago, this night had marked the beginning of her destruction. Five years ago, she had stood in a candlelit restaurant in a silk dress and a foolish smile, waiting to surprise her husband. She'd been younger then, softer, still naïve enough to believe love was unbreakable.
The memory came without mercy.
She saw herself again, standing at the edge of the restaurant's private dining room, clutching a bouquet of white roses she'd bought herself because Damien had been "too busy" to arrange them. She had wanted to surprise him, wanted to rekindle the spark they'd lost in the endless business dinners and late nights.
Then she had seen them.
Damien, her husband, sitting across from a woman she knew too well. Rhea. Her best friend since university.
They weren't kissing, not yet. But the intimacy in their smiles, the low murmur of their voices, the way Damien's hand brushed over Rhea's fingers on the table—it had been more damning than any embrace.
Her heart had frozen, but her body had burned. She remembered every detail: the flicker of candlelight on Damien's cufflink, the glint of satisfaction in Rhea's eyes when she noticed Ariana standing there.
She'd turned and walked away. The roses had slipped from her hands, falling to the carpet in a scatter of white petals.
By morning, the rumors had begun. Within a week, her father's company was under attack. Contracts dissolved overnight, deals collapsed, and the Torres name became a cautionary tale whispered in boardrooms. She had gone from social darling to scandal's plaything in days.
And Damien Blackwood? He had watched it all with those cold, unreadable eyes and signed the papers that ensured her family's empire would crumble for good.
Ariana tore herself out of the memory with a sharp breath, her nails biting into the delicate glass stem of her champagne. Not tonight. She wouldn't drown in the past tonight.
The elevator chimed behind her. She didn't turn. She didn't have to. The air shifted when he entered the room, the way it always did—subtle, yet inescapable, like the scent of rain before a storm.
"You're ready," Damien's voice came, smooth and deep, the faintest trace of amusement threading through it.
Ariana turned slowly, her gown sweeping around her legs like a spill of blood. It was crimson silk, cut to hug her curves and slit high enough to show the curve of one thigh when she moved. Her hair fell in dark, glossy waves over one bare shoulder. She had painted her lips the same shade as her dress, the color of temptation and danger.
"You look…" Damien's gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second too long before meeting her eyes again. "…like you're about to start a war."
Her lips curved, but her eyes stayed cold. "Maybe I am."
His smile was faint, unreadable. "Then let's make sure we win it."
They left together, descending into the waiting black car. The driver didn't speak; he never did. The silence between them was thick, filled with unspoken things. Ariana glanced out at the blur of city lights, her fingers resting lightly on the leather seat. Damien's hand was on the seat beside hers, close enough that his knuckles almost brushed her skin, but not quite. He never touched her unless there was an audience.
The gala was a fortress of glass and light when they arrived, a cathedral for the city's elite. Cameras flashed in a staccato storm as soon as they stepped out of the car.
Ariana slid her arm through Damien's, her nails grazing his sleeve just enough to feel the muscle beneath. To the cameras, they were the perfect couple. In reality, every step they took together was part of a silent duel.
"Mr. Blackwood, Mrs. Blackwood—over here!""Is it true tonight marks your third anniversary?"
Damien gave the photographers a practiced smile. "It's true. And I couldn't be happier."
Ariana tilted her head, leaning in as if to whisper something sweet. Her lips brushed his ear, her voice soft enough for him alone. "Careful," she murmured. "You might start believing your own lies."
Inside, the gala buzzed with champagne-fueled laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of whispered deals. Ariana moved through the crowd like she owned the room, her smile warm, her eyes sharp. She knew exactly who to greet and who to ignore, who needed flattery and who deserved only a cool nod. Every interaction was a calculated move.
She was mid-conversation with the wife of a shipping magnate when she saw her.
Rhea.
The woman who had once been her best friend now stood across the room in a shimmering silver gown, a flute of champagne in her hand. Her hair was swept up, exposing the long line of her neck, and her lips were curved in a knowing smile.
Ariana excused herself with a polite murmur and walked toward her. The crowd seemed to part around them, as though sensing the tension before the first word was spoken.
"Ariana," Rhea said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Still playing the perfect wife?"
Ariana's smile didn't falter. "Better than you ever could."
Rhea's eyes flicked to Damien, who had appeared beside Ariana like a shadow. He didn't speak, but his hand found her waist—a silent message, whether to her or to Rhea, Ariana couldn't tell.
The speeches began, and Ariana took the opportunity to step away, seeking the cool air of the balcony. The city spread before her in glittering sprawl, each light a reminder of how much she had lost and how much she intended to take back.
She heard him before she felt him.
"You think you're playing the game," Damien said quietly behind her. "But you've been on my board since day one."
She turned, meeting his gaze without blinking. "Then you'd better pray I don't flip it."
His lips curved, slow and deliberate. "Pray? Ariana… I don't pray. I win."
Her clutch vibrated. She pulled out her phone, frowning. One message. No name. Just a photo.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was impossible.
The photo showed a man. Gray-haired, eyes sharp even through the grainy quality. Her father.
Alive.
The champagne glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the marble at her feet.
And just like that, the anniversary was no longer about Damien Blackwood.
It was about war.