CHAPTER THREE — THE MAN BEHIND THE CONTRACT
Aria didn't sit. She didn't rest. The moment Carmella's footsteps faded down the hall, she prowled the room like a caged predator, every breath edged with heat she refused to let spill over.
One hour.
He was summoning her like a subordinate.
She glanced at the clock mounted above the wide balcony doors. The seconds crawled in elegant silence—intentional, orderly, controlled. Everything in this place reflected him. Clean. Calculated. Untouchable.
When the knock came again, exactly sixty minutes later, it was softer this time but carried the same finality.
"Miss Dawson," Carmella's voice called through the door, smooth as slate. "It's time."
Aria didn't reply. She opened the door herself before Carmella could knock again.
She wasn't led through the same corridor. This time, they took a left down an extended hallway with dark paneled walls and warm recessed lighting. Heavy carpeting muffled their footsteps. The art displayed here wasn't decorative—it was deliberate, abstract, minimalist, and likely worth more than she'd made in the past five years combined.
The house wasn't a home.
It was an empire disguised as a residence.
They reached a tall door at the end of the hall, darker than the others, with a polished bronze handle. Carmella didn't knock—just opened it and stepped aside.
"He's waiting inside."
Aria didn't hesitate. She walked in and heard the door close behind her with the gentlest click.
The study was spacious but not excessive. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall, filled with books whose spines were unbroken. A wide window overlooked the back of the estate—trees, stone paths, the faint glint of water from a reflecting pool.
He stood by a long desk of blackwood, his jacket gone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Damian Blackwood didn't look at her immediately. He finished signing a document with slow precision before placing his pen down in absolute silence.
"Sit," he said without turning.
"I prefer standing," she replied.
He looked up.
His gaze landed on her like a physical force. Calm. Colder than titanium. Not surprised to see her, not angered, not pleased. He absorbed her presence the way one acknowledges something inevitable—without urgency, without emotion.
She met his eyes and didn't blink.
"That wasn't a request," he added.
She smiled, sharp and humorless. "Neither was my answer."
For a heartbeat, silence owned the room. If her defiance affected him, it didn't show. He leaned back slightly against the desk, crossing one ankle over the other with casual authority.
"You'll need to adjust to certain dynamics," he said. "Resistance only wastes time."
"You've already wasted mine."
His eyes didn't narrow, but there was a shift—barely there, but real.
"No, Aria," he said, speaking her name like it belonged in a file. "I've redirected it."
He moved toward a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The quiet clink of ice was the only sound between them. He didn't offer her any.
"You're remarkably composed for someone who's just been bought," she said.
"I don't buy people," he replied calmly. "I acquire solutions."
"And what exactly would my 'solution' be?"
He turned slightly, meeting her gaze again. "My father's will outlined a condition that threatened company stability. I removed the threat."
"By forcing a stranger into your life."
"By neutralizing a legal obstacle," he corrected. "I didn't choose you. The will did."
Aria took a slow step forward. "That makes it easier for you, doesn't it? Easier not to feel responsible."
"I don't process guilt," he said without hesitation. "I process outcomes."
She laughed once. A soft, poisonous sound. "You're a machine in a tailored shirt."
"And you," he said, unblinking, "are impulsive enough to think that insults change consequences."
She opened her mouth to retort, but he set his glass down, the ice clinking again with surgical precision.
"Your brother," he said.
Her blood went cold so fast she forgot how to breathe. "Don't say his name."
"I didn't."
"You were going to."
"Unlike you," he said, "I don't speak without intention."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "Leave him out of this."
"That depends entirely on you."
She moved closer, heat and venom in every step. "If you use him against me—"
"I don't use children," he said, cutting her off. "But I manage liabilities."
Her voice dropped into a warning whisper. "He is not a liability. He is a child and my responsibility."
"And as long as you remain cooperative," Damian responded evenly, "he will remain untouched by any of this."
Aria stared at him with the kind of hatred that made oxygen taste sharp.
"You think you can threaten me into submission."
"I don't threaten," he said. "I state assurances."
"You don't get to dictate my life."
"I already am."
Her next breath shook with the effort not to launch across the room and tear into him. She stepped back instead, dragging air through clenched teeth, and forced words past her throat.
"What is it you want from me?"
"For now," he said, retrieving his glass again, "public compliance."
"In other words, act like a wife."
"In other words," he clarified, "do not create scandal."
"And in private?"
His pause was deliberate. "We will define those terms as needed."
She laughed again, darker this time. "You think I'm just going to stay here and play along?"
"You won't leave," he said simply.
"You'd lock me up?"
"I'd prevent reckless decisions."
"By force?"
"If required."
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she took a step back.
"You don't know me," she said flatly.
"I know how to read what I need."
"No," she said quietly. "You read numbers, signatures, contracts—not people."
He didn't reply to that. Perhaps because she was right.
She moved toward the door, not waiting for dismissal.
As her fingers touched the handle, he spoke again. "We will formalize your media presence within the week. You'll receive guidance on appearances, statements, and wardrobe. Legal documentation for name registration will arrive by tomorrow morning. You'll sign when instructed."
She didn't turn around. "And what if I don't?"
"Then your brother's guardianship will be re-evaluated by the court system I control."
Her breath caught fire in her lungs. Slow. Brutal. Controlled only by sheer will.
She didn't answer.
She opened the door and walked out.
The corridor swallowed her footsteps.
—
She didn't go back to her room.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked without direction through the silent halls, turning corners she didn't care to remember. Every room she passed whispered wealth and emptiness—minimal furniture, flawless surfaces, expensive shadows.
Her mind spun with fury, panic, strategy.
She paused at an intersecting hallway and leaned back against the cool wall, letting the anger burn holes into her fear.
There had to be a way out.
Every cage had a weakness.
She just had to find his.
As she stood there in silence, a soft voice interrupted her thoughts.
"You must be the new one."
Aria turned.
A girl—no more than nineteen—stood at the end of the hall, holding a stack of linens. She had warm brown eyes and the careful posture of someone trained to be invisible.
"I'm Elise," the girl said softly. "I work in the east wing. Do you need anything?"
Aria studied her for a moment, then asked, "How many people work here?"
Elise hesitated, looking unsure if she was allowed to say. "A few. Not many stay long."
Aria's brows drew together. "Why?"
Elise hugged the linens a little tighter. "Because here… no one is free unless he wants them to be."
Then she walked past Aria, head down, disappearing into another hall.
Aria watched her
go.
Her heart beat slower now—not calmer, but colder.
He thinks he owns the board.
He hasn't seen the player he trapped.
Not yet.