The cameras never loved anyone the way they loved Damian Black.
"Damian! Over here! One more shot with your wife—closer, closer!"
"Aria, give us that smile—yes, perfect!"
Flashes burst like fireworks along the crimson carpet, turning night into a false, glittering day. Damian's arm curled tightly around Aria's waist, his sculpted face angled toward her with the kind of smile that belonged on billboards.
To the world, he was flawless: Hollywood's golden prince, every movement polished, every glance calculated to melt hearts. To the crowd, she was lucky to have him. To the cameras, they were the dream couple, the kind who belonged in magazines and glossy posters.
But Aria knew better.
She kept her chin high, lips curved in a practiced smile, while his hand dug into her side just enough to bruise.
"Don't mess this up," Damian's voice slid into her ear, low and sharp beneath the mask of charm. "Don't stumble. Don't speak unless I say so."
Aria's smile never faltered, though her throat burned. "Yes, Damian," she murmured, lips barely moving.
"Good girl." He shifted his grip, pulling her closer as if he adored her. The crowd went wild.
The lights, the cheers, the clamor—it was all a lie. A stage. Their marriage had become the longest-running performance in Hollywood, scripted by contracts, fueled by appearances. And Aria had been playing the obedient supporting role for three years.
A hundred times, she'd signed divorce papers. A hundred times, she'd been humiliated, discarded, then reeled back in when he needed her smile for the cameras.
Ninety-nine times, she had begged him to stay.
But tonight—her heart whispered—the count was nearing its end.
The award show blurred into glitter and applause. Damian's film won big, as everyone knew it would. He thanked the academy, the fans, his director—then turned, smiled at her, and said:
"And to my wife, Aria, who makes every day brighter."
The crowd cooed. She smiled on cue. Inside, she wanted to laugh. The only thing he gave her daily was silence, and the occasional blade of a cruel word.
When the cameras cut away, his smile died. "Don't look so stiff," he muttered as they walked offstage. "You're supposed to look proud, not pathetic."
Aria's fingers clenched in her gown, but she said nothing. Silence was safer.
The after-party
Gold chandeliers spilled light across the ballroom, paparazzi still lurking in corners, waiting to catch unguarded moments. Music hummed low, champagne glasses clinked. Damian glided through it like a king among mortals, his cousin Celeste at his side.
Celeste—beautiful, venomous, and hopelessly in love with him. She was officially his manager. Unofficially, she was Aria's tormentor.
"Aria, darling," Celeste purred, offering her a flute of champagne. "You must be parched."
Aria hesitated. Her stomach knotted. She knew better than to trust anything Celeste handed her. But refusing in public would look worse.
She accepted the glass, lifting it to her lips just as Damian appeared at her side. "Drink," he urged with a smooth smile. "Celebrate my win properly."
So she sipped.
The burn hit instantly. Not from alcohol—but from the faint trace of almond hidden within. Her throat tightened, her chest constricted.
Allergy.
Panic flashed in her eyes. She set the glass down with trembling fingers, her breath shallow. "Damian—I—"
Instead of helping, his smile widened for the room, but his words cut like a knife: "God, Aria. Can't you go one night without creating drama?"
Gasps rippled around them. Celeste pressed a hand to her mouth, feigning shock. "Oh, poor thing—are you really that delicate?"
Aria's lungs burned. She fought to keep calm, to breathe through the tightening, to keep her face composed for the flashing phones capturing everything.
Damian leaned closer, his hand gripping her elbow as if steadying her, though his whisper was ice. "Embarrass me again, and I'll make sure you never step outside this marriage with your dignity intact."
Tears pricked her eyes, but she forced a dazzling smile. She nodded faintly, as if agreeing with a joke no one else heard.
A waiter rushed forward with water and an antihistamine. Aria swallowed it quickly, willing her body to calm. Slowly, painfully, her breathing steadied.
The crowd lost interest. The cameras turned away. The lie continued.
In the gilded restroom, Aria braced her palms against the marble sink, staring at her reflection. Perfect makeup. Perfect gown. Perfect lie.
Her chest still ached, but not from the allergy. From him.
Ninety-nine humiliations. Ninety-nine goodbyes signed in anger and torn up in fear.
Her reflection blurred as tears filled her eyes. She swiped them away before they could fall.
One more, she promised herself. One more, and it's over. The 100th goodbye will be the last.
When she returned to the ballroom, Damian was already on the balcony, cameras snapping again as he raised his glass. His eyes found hers—sharp, commanding. He crooned for the crowd, "Ah, my wife returns. Come here, darling."
Her body obeyed before her heart did. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple that made the photographers cheer.
The flashes blinded her. Her lips curved upward. The performance resumed.
But this time, as her smile painted over her pain, Aria made a silent vow:
The next time you hand me divorce papers, Damian Black… I won't beg you to stay.
The 100th goodbye will be yours to regret.
And the cameras caught her smile just as her heart caught fire.