The rain had a way of making the city look lonely. Cold silver drops slid down the black windows of the car as Aria Langston sat quietly in the backseat, hands clutched together on her lap. Her father's funeral had been yesterday, but the scent of lilies and damp soil still lingered in her memory like a heavy perfume she couldn't wash away.
Her parents were gone—both of them—in a single night of fire and glass, a car crash that left nothing but ashes of a life she once knew. The Langstons had been a name that opened doors, a family synonymous with wealth, influence, and elegance. Now, all of that felt like a cruel joke. Rich or not, death didn't discriminate.
And now it was just her. Her and the two little souls waiting at home—her siblings, Emma and Nathan. Seven and ten. They didn't understand why their parents weren't coming back. Aria had been the one to explain, her voice breaking as Emma sobbed into her chest. That memory alone made her chest ache even now.
She didn't have time for grief. Grief was a luxury. She had bills to pay, lawyers to talk to, companies to manage—and no idea where to begin. The Langston fortune was tied up in trust funds and investments she couldn't touch yet. She was nineteen, barely an adult, and already drowning in responsibilities.
The car slowed to a stop, jolting her out of her thoughts. Through the rain-smeared window, she saw the towering silhouette of a building stabbing into the night sky—The Veyron Hotel. Manhattan's crown jewel. A palace of glass and steel where only the powerful dared to walk.
She didn't want to be here. Every nerve in her body screamed to turn back, to run, to hide. But the letter in her bag burned like a brand against her skin. It was an invitation. No—more like a summons.
Mr. Damien Blackwell requests your presence at The Veyron Hotel. Midnight.
That was all it said. No explanation. No polite phrasing. Just an order.
And no one said no to Damien Blackwell.
Even she had heard his name whispered in her father's circle of friends. A billionaire. A king without a crown. The kind of man who didn't need introductions because his presence spoke louder than any words could.
The driver opened her door, and the chill of the rain swept over her. She pulled her coat tighter, her heels clicking against the marble pavement as she walked toward the entrance. Two men in black suits stood at the doors, their faces expressionless, eyes like shadows. They didn't speak—just opened the doors for her silently.
The lobby hit her like a dream. Glittering chandeliers spilled golden light across black marble floors. Everything gleamed, polished to perfection. There was wealth, and then there was this—opulence so sharp it could cut you.
She felt small. Out of place. Like a porcelain doll that didn't belong among wolves.
A woman in a sleek black dress approached her, her smile professional and empty. "Miss Langston? Mr. Blackwell is expecting you."
Aria nodded, her throat dry. She followed the woman across the lobby, her heels echoing in the vast, cold space. They stopped at a private elevator guarded by two more men in suits.
The woman pressed a button and stepped aside. "He's waiting in the penthouse."
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a mirrored box. Aria stepped in alone. As the doors closed, she saw her reflection—pale skin, wide blue eyes, chestnut hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She looked fragile, like someone who could break with a single wrong word.
The ride felt endless. Her heart thudded in her ears, her palms damp. She didn't know why he wanted to see her. Her father had known powerful men, yes, but Damien Blackwell wasn't just powerful. He was… something else. Something untouchable.
When the doors finally slid open, she stepped into a different world.
The penthouse wasn't loud with color or gaudy with wealth. It was dark. Sleek black walls, glass panels revealing the rain-slicked city below, soft pools of light from golden lamps. It was beautiful—and cold. Like its owner.
And there he was.
Damien Blackwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her, a glass of red liquid in his hand. He didn't turn immediately, as if he already knew every move she made. His presence filled the room like a shadow, heavy and consuming.
When he finally did turn, her breath caught.
He was… unreal. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black like sin given form. His face was sharp, carved from marble—cheekbones that could cut, a jaw that spoke of dominance, and eyes… God, his eyes. They were a shade of gray so pale they almost glowed, piercing straight through her like blades.
"Miss Langston," he said, his voice low, smooth, with an edge that made the hairs on her neck rise. "You came."
"I—yes." Her voice sounded small. Weak.
He walked toward her, slow, deliberate steps that echoed in the silence. Every movement spoke of power. Of control. Like a predator circling prey.
"Your father owed me a debt," he said simply, stopping just a breath away from her. She could feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence pressing against her skin. "And now… he's dead."
Her chest tightened. "I—I don't understand. What does that have to do with me?"
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Everything, Aria."
The way he said her name—soft, almost tender, yet laced with something dangerous—sent shivers down her spine.
"I don't owe you anything," she whispered, though her voice trembled.
"Oh, but you do," he murmured, leaning closer, his breath ghosting against her ear. "Because I don't forgive debts. And when I want something…" His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, and her breath hitched. "I take it."
She froze, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the rain.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, barely a whisper.
His gray eyes locked on hers, burning with something dark. Hungry. Possessive.
"You," he said simply.
The word sank into her like a brand.
"You belong to me now, Aria."
And somehow, deep down, she knew there was no escape.