Damien's POV
She was crying before she even walked through the courthouse door.
I watched Aria Zhang climb out of Vincent's car, her hands clutching a small bouquet of grocery store flowers like a lifeline. She wore a simple dress—not white, not fancy, just plain and sad. Her eyes were red and swollen. She'd been crying for hours, maybe all night.
Good. Tears meant she understood what this was. No fairytale. No romance. Just business.
So why did seeing her cry make my chest feel tight?
"She looks terrified," Vincent muttered beside me. "Maybe we should—"
"No." I cut him off. "This is happening."
But even as I said it, something felt wrong. Yesterday, I'd spent twelve hours hunting for the traitor who planted that warning note. We'd found nothing. Whoever did it knew how to cover their tracks. And this morning, Vincent discovered something worse—someone had sent Aria anonymous texts with articles about my ex-girlfriends.
The three who died.
"She knows about the accidents," Vincent had told me an hour ago. "She's convinced you're dangerous."
"I didn't kill them." My voice had come out too sharp, too defensive.
"I know that. But the timing was suspicious enough that even the police investigated. You were cleared, but—" Vincent had paused. "Someone's working very hard to make her afraid of you. Question is why."
Now, watching Aria walk toward me with fear in every step, I had my answer. Someone wanted this marriage to fail. Someone wanted her to run.
Which meant this arrangement threatened someone powerful.
But who?
"Mr. Wolfe." Aria stopped three feet away, not meeting my eyes. Her voice shook. "I'm ready."
She wasn't ready. Anyone could see that. She looked like she might throw up or faint or bolt for the door.
I should have said something kind. Something to calm her down.
Instead, I heard my father's voice in my head: Don't be kind. Kind gives them hope.
"Let's get this over with," I said coldly.
She flinched like I'd slapped her. Something flickered across her face—hurt, then anger, then resignation. She lifted her chin slightly, and for just a second, I saw steel underneath her fear.
Interesting.
We walked into the courthouse together but not touching. The judge's chamber was small and gray. No flowers, no music, no guests. Just a tired-looking judge shuffling papers and Vincent standing in the corner as our only witness.
This was the opposite of every wedding I'd ever imagined as a kid, back before my mother died and I learned that love was a trap.
"Do you, Damien Wolfe, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" The judge's voice was bored. He probably did ten of these a day.
I looked at Aria. Really looked at her.
She was plain like Vincent said—no makeup, messy hair, too thin from stress and poverty. Nothing special. Nothing that should matter.
But her hands were shaking so hard the cheap flowers rattled. And her eyes—dark brown, too big for her face—held something I recognized.
Pain. The kind that doesn't go away.
My mother had eyes like that before she died.
"I do," I said, my voice flat.
The judge turned to Aria. "And do you, Aria Zhang, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
The silence stretched. Vincent shifted uncomfortably. The judge frowned.
Aria's eyes finally met mine, and I saw her decision happening in real-time. She was weighing options. Measuring consequences. Choosing between terrible and worse.
Just like I'd done when I agreed to this plan.
"I do," she whispered.
Something should have changed in that moment. Some feeling should have sparked. But I felt nothing. Just the familiar emptiness I'd carried since I was twelve years old.
"By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The judge closed his book. "You may kiss the bride."
I hadn't thought about this part.
Aria hadn't either, judging by her panicked expression.
We stood there, married but strangers, neither of us moving. The moment stretched into something awkward and painful.
Finally, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to her forehead. Quick. Impersonal. Like kissing a child goodnight.
She let out a breath she'd been holding.
"Congratulations," the judge said without enthusiasm. "Sign here."
We signed. Aria Zhang became Aria Wolfe. Legally mine.
The whole thing took eleven minutes.
Walking out of the courthouse, Vincent handed me an envelope. "Your father wants you at the compound tonight. Family dinner to celebrate the marriage."
My blood went cold. "No. We agreed he'd stay out of this."
"He insists. Eight PM sharp." Vincent's face was grim. "He says it's important."
Aria looked between us, confused and frightened. "What compound? What family?"
I'd been planning to take her straight to my penthouse, establish boundaries, keep everything cold and professional. But my father summoning us changed everything.
"My family has certain... traditions," I said carefully. "Dinner tonight. You'll meet my father."
"The man who bought my debt?" Her voice was small.
"Yes."
She paled. Good instincts. Marcus Wolfe was more dangerous than any loan shark.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Congratulations on your wedding. How long do you think she'll survive? My bet is six months. Just like Jessica.
Jessica. My second girlfriend. The one who drowned.
My hand clenched around the phone so hard the screen cracked.
"What is it?" Vincent asked sharply.
I showed him. His face went white.
Another text came through: Tonight at dinner, watch your father carefully. Ask him about the women. Ask him what really happened to them.
"What women?" Aria asked, reading over my shoulder before I could stop her. "Who's Jessica?"
I couldn't answer. My mind was racing.
Someone was threatening my new wife on our wedding day.
Someone who knew about Jessica's death.
Someone who had access to my private number.
And they were telling me to suspect my own father.
Vincent's phone buzzed. Then mine again. Then his. Then mine.
We both looked at our screens.
Photos. Dozens of photos flooding our phones.
Pictures of my three ex-girlfriends. Alive, smiling, happy.
Then crime scene photos. Bodies. Blood. Death.
And with each set, a message: Accident? Or murder?
Aria gasped, seeing the images. Her grocery store flowers fell from her hands and scattered across the courthouse steps.
"This is sick," she whispered. "Someone's trying to—"
My phone rang. Unknown number.
Against every instinct, I answered.
A voice I didn't recognize—disguised, mechanical—spoke: "Hello, Damien. Congratulations on your wedding. I thought you should know the truth before tonight. Your father didn't just arrange your marriage. He arranged their deaths too. All three of them. And Aria is next."
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone in hand, my new wife trembling beside me, while my entire world tilted sideways.
My father. My own father. Killing the women I dated.
But why?
Vincent grabbed my arm. "We need to move. Now. If someone's targeting Aria—"
"No." I looked at my wife—my terrified, trapped wife who'd just signed her life away to a family that murdered women. "We're going to that dinner tonight. We're going to face my father. And we're going to find out the truth."
"Are you insane?" Aria's voice cracked. "If your father killed those women, if someone's warning us—"
"Then we need answers." I met her eyes. "And the only way to get them is to walk straight into the lion's den."
Her face showed pure terror. "I want out. I want to void the contract. I want—"
"Too late." I held up my left hand, showing the gold ring I'd slipped on during the ceremony. "You're Aria Wolfe now. For better or worse, you're mine. And I protect what's mine."
Even from my own father, if necessary.
But as we drove away from the courthouse toward whatever nightmare waited at the family compound, one question burned in my mind:
If my father had killed those women, was it to protect the family?
Or was he planning to kill Aria too?
And if I had to choose between my father and this stranger I'd just married—this girl with sad eyes and shaking hands—which one would I sacrifice?
I was about to find out.