Aria woke up to the smell of winter.
It was a crisp, clean scent—like cedarwood, cold rain, and expensive musk. It was a scent that shouldn't exist in the musty, lavender-choked hotel room she remembered from her nightmare.
She shifted slightly, burrowing deeper into the source of the warmth. The "pillow" beneath her cheek was hard, warm, and moved rhythmically with a slow, steady beat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
'Wait. Pillows don't have heartbeats.'
Aria's eyes snapped open.
Her vision was filled with skin. Pale, smooth, marble-like skin stretched over pectoral muscles that looked like they had been carved by a master sculptor.
Her hand was splayed wide across a firm abdomen, her fingers resting dangerously close to the waistband of black dress pants. Her leg was thrown over a pair of long, powerful legs, tangling them together.
Memories of the previous night crashed into her brain like a freight train. The drug. The escape. The Penthouse. The Monster.
Aria stiffened, slowly lifting her head.
She found herself staring directly into a pair of molten golden eyes.
Damien Sinclair was awake.
He was propped up against the black leather headboard, one arm resting behind his head, the other resting heavily on her waist, keeping her pinned to him. His silver hair was a messy halo around his sharp face, strands falling over his forehead.
He looked lethal. He looked predatory. And god, he looked expensive.
"Had a good sleep?" his voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating directly against her cheek. It was a deep, raspy baritone—the kind of voice that made toes curl.
Aria scrambled backward, but his arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her in place.
"Don't move," he ordered lazily. "My head hurts less when you're close."
Aria froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The drug had worn off, leaving her with a pounding dehydration headache and the terrifying clarity of sobriety.
She was in bed with the Demon King of the Capital. And she had... treated him like a body pillow all night.
"Mr. Sinclair," Aria said, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the heat rising in her cheeks. "It's morning. The transaction is over."
"Is it?"
Damien looked down at her. His gaze was heavy, hooded. For the first time in three years, he had slept for six straight hours. No nightmares. No blinding white noise. Just silence and the scent of moonlit orchids.
He felt... hungry. Not for food. For this.
"You said you could cure me," Damien said, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip through the thin silk of her torn dress. "Last night was just... a sample. It wore off the moment you pulled away just now."
It was true. As soon as she had tried to scramble back, the ringing in his ears had returned—a low, buzzing mosquito sound. It was bearable, but annoying.
Aria narrowed her emerald eyes. She saw the calculation in his gaze. He didn't see a woman; he saw a human aspirin.
'Good. Use that.'
"I told you," she said, slapping his hand away from her hip and sitting up. She winced as her head spun, but she maintained her posture. She pulled her torn strap up, trying to preserve some dignity. "I'm the only one who can do it. My technique isn't just massage; it's qi manipulation. It requires... sustained contact."
"Sustained contact," Damien repeated, testing the words. He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist.
The sight of his bare torso in the morning light was an attack on the senses. Scars—faint, silver lines—crisscrossed his ribs and left shoulder, hinting at a violent past that matched the rumors.
"So," he said, turning to face her fully. "The price is marriage?"
"A contract marriage," Aria corrected. She reached for her purse on the nightstand, her hands shaking slightly. "I don't need your money. I don't need your love. I need your name."
"To fight Lucas?"
Aria paused. She looked at him, surprised.
Damien smirked, a cold, arrogant tilt of his lips. "I checked your ID while you were drooling on my chest. Aria Vale. The 'disgraced' fiancée who was supposed to be ruined in Room 1202 last night."
He picked up his phone from the nightstand and tapped the screen, tossing it onto the duvet between them.
"Take a look. You're trending."
Aria looked at the screen.
[BREAKING: Vale Heiress No-Show at Fiancé's Birthday! Did She Run Away with a Gigolo?]
[Lucas Sinclair Heartbroken: "I just want to know she's safe."]
[Bella Vale Faints from Worry: "My sister has been acting strange lately..."]
Aria read the headlines, her expression turning icy. Her fingers curled into fists. They were controlling the narrative perfectly. If she walked out there now, alone and disheveled, they would spin it as her "Walk of Shame" after a night of debauchery.
"They have cameras at the lobby," Aria murmured. "They're waiting for me to leave."
"Correct," Damien said. He leaned forward, invading her personal space. "If you walk out that door, you're ruined. Your father will disown you. Lucas will play the victim. You lose."
He paused, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
"But... if you walk out that door with me..."
Aria looked up at him. She understood instantly.
If she walked out with Damien Sinclair, the narrative wouldn't be "Aria slept with a gigolo." It would be "Aria climbed the highest branch in the tree."
It would be a slap in the face so hard it would shatter the entire Vale family.
"I have conditions," Aria said, her voice firm.
Damien raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to negotiate, Little Doctor."
"I am," she countered. "Because without me, the screaming in your head comes back. And next time, the pills won't work at all."
Damien's expression darkened. The playfulness vanished, replaced by the terrifying aura of the Demon King. He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up.
"Careful," he warned softly. "I don't like threats."
"It's not a threat," Aria whispered, not looking away. "It's a diagnosis."
They stared at each other for a long, charged moment. The air in the room crackled with tension—part animosity, part undeniable, magnetic attraction.
Finally, Damien released her chin.
"Fine," he said. "State your terms."
"One," Aria said, holding up a finger. "We marry for one year. Or until I have reclaimed my mother's company."
"Agreed."
"Two. You protect me from my family. If I slap someone, you handle the lawsuit."
"I have a team of lawyers who are bored. Done."
"Three," Aria's voice wavered slightly. "No... physical obligations. We share a bed for treatment purposes only. You don't touch me unless I say so."
Damien let out a short, dry laugh. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Deal," he said dismissively. "I have mysophobia. Touching people disgusts me."
Aria blinked. 'Disgusts him? He was clinging to me like a koala five minutes ago.'
"Great," she said. "Then we have a deal."
She held out her hand.
Damien looked at her small, pale hand. He hesitated. Then, he reached out and enveloped her hand in his massive one. His skin was cool, his grip firm.
"Deal, Mrs. Sinclair."
Knock. Knock.
The heavy mahogany door creaked open.
"Boss?" A terrified voice squeaked from the doorway. "I brought the... uh... clothes you asked for. And the car is ready."
Damien's personal assistant, a young man named Ken, peeked into the room. His eyes went wide when he saw the scene: His terrifying boss, shirtless and scarred, sitting in bed with a disheveled woman in a torn red dress.
And they were holding hands.
Ken's jaw dropped. 'The Boss finally... deflowered someone?'
"Ken," Damien barked, his voice snapping the assistant out of his stupor. "Get in here. Bring the contract."
"Y-Yes, sir!"
Ken scurried in, trying desperately not to look at Aria's exposed legs. He placed a garment bag and a tablet on the bed.
Damien stood up, unashamed of his nudity, walking toward the bathroom.
"Get dressed," he threw over his shoulder at Aria. "We have a birthday party to crash."
Aria looked at the garment bag. It was a brand new, limited edition Chanel dress. Black. Elegant. Severe.
She looked at Damien's retreating back.
'He prepared clothes for me while I was sleeping?'
Maybe the Demon King wasn't completely heartless.
Aria grabbed the dress, a cold smile touching her lips.
"Lucas," she whispered to the empty room. "Get your knees ready. Auntie is coming."