The black sedan waiting at the curb wasn't the understated vehicle Aria had taken to the office. It was the Rolls Royce Phantom again.
Apparently, "unmarked" vehicles were only for business hours. Lunch was a formal affair.
Aria slid into the back seat, the cool leather instantly soothing her frayed nerves. Damien was already there, his laptop open.
"You set that contact name," Aria accused, buckling her seatbelt.
Damien didn't look up from the screen. " 'The Wallet'? It seemed appropriate given that your first act as Mrs. Sinclair was to demand 20% of a company and triple your salary."
"It's called knowing my worth," Aria countered. She leaned back, eyeing him. "And you were watching the audition? Isn't that a little creepy? Do you have cameras in the bathroom too?"
Damien finally glanced at her. His golden eyes were amused. "I own the building, Aria. I have cameras everywhere except the bathrooms. And for the record, your performance was... adequate."
"Adequate?" Aria scoffed. "I terrified them. Lucas looked like he needed a diaper change."
"He always looks like that," Damien said dismissively. He closed his laptop. "We're going to Le Vian. I ordered the Wagyu. Don't embarrass me by asking for ketchup."
Le Vian was the kind of restaurant where the water cost more than Aria's old rent. It was a place of hushed whispers, clinking crystal, and "Old Money" judgment.
When Damien and Aria walked in, the maître d' nearly tripped over his own feet to bow.
"Mr. Sinclair! Your usual table is ready."
They were led to a private booth near the window, secluded by velvet ropes. As they sat down, Aria noticed the stares. They weren't the curious stares of the paparazzi; these were the icy, assessing stares of the elite.
"Ignore them," Damien murmured, picking up the wine list. "They're just wondering why I haven't fired them yet."
Aria chuckled, picking up her napkin. But before she could unfold it, a shadow fell over their table.
"Damien?" A soft, cultured voice chimed. "My goodness, it really is you."
Aria looked up.
Standing there was a woman who looked like she had been born wearing pearls. She had perfectly coiffed brunette hair, a cream-colored Chanel suit that cost more than a car, and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
It was Lady Elena Sterling. The daughter of the banking tycoon, and—according to the tabloids—the woman most likely to marry Damien Sinclair (before Aria stole the spot).
Elena ignored Aria completely. Her gaze was fixed solely on Damien.
"I haven't seen you since the gala in Milan," Elena said, stepping closer to the table but careful not to breach Damien's personal space. "Mother was asking about you. She heard about your... health issues. We were so worried."
Damien looked up. His expression was blank.
"And you are?"
Elena's smile faltered. "Damien, stop joking. It's Elena. We grew up together? I used to steal your crayons?"
"I don't recall owning crayons," Damien said coldly. "I was trading stocks at six."
Aria bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Elena flushed pink, but she recovered quickly. She finally turned her gaze to Aria. It was a look of pure, distilled condescension.
"Oh," Elena said, her voice dropping a few degrees. "And this must be... the guest. I heard you were sponsoring a charity case from the entertainment industry, Damien. It's so noble of you to feed the less fortunate."
She looked at Aria's jeans. "Though, usually, guests adhere to the dress code. Denim is so... brave."
Aria picked up her water glass, swirling it gently. 'Brave? No, honey. Brave is insulting the woman sitting next to the Demon King.'
"Lady Elena, was it?" Aria smiled sweetly. "I'm not a charity case. I'm the fiancée. And as for the jeans... well, when you own the production company, you can wear pajamas to the board meeting. It's a perk of being the boss's wife."
Elena froze. "Wife?" She looked at Damien, laughing nervously. "Damien, she's joking, right? You can't possibly be marrying an... actress."
The way she said "actress" sounded like "leper."
Damien didn't answer immediately.
The waiter arrived with their steaks. Two sizzling plates of A5 Wagyu.
Damien picked up his knife and fork. But he didn't cut his own steak.
He reached across the table and pulled Aria's plate toward him.
Silence fell over the nearby tables. Everyone was watching. Damien Sinclair, the man who wore gloves to avoid touching people, was cutting a woman's steak?
With methodical precision, Damien sliced the meat into bite-sized, perfect cubes. He didn't look at Elena once. He focused entirely on the task, as if ensuring Aria's lunch was the most important business deal of the day.
When he was finished, he pushed the plate back to Aria.
"Eat," Damien commanded softly. "You're too thin. The dress was loose on the shoulders."
Aria stared at the plate, then at him. Her heart did a traitorous little flip.
Damien finally turned to Elena. His golden eyes were bored.
"Ms. Sterling," he said, finally using her name but stripping it of the title. "My fiancée prefers a quiet environment for digestion. Your perfume is clashing with the truffle oil. Please leave."
Elena turned the color of a boiled beet. She had been dismissed. Not just rejected, but treated like a bad smell.
"I... I see," Elena stammered. She shot a look of pure venom at Aria. "Enjoy your meal, Miss Vale. Do be careful with the silverware. It's heavier than plastic."
She turned and marched away, her heels clicking angrily on the marble.
Aria picked up her fork, spearing a piece of steak.
"That was brutal," she commented, popping the meat into her mouth. It melted like butter. "She's going to hate me forever."
"Let her hate you," Damien said, cutting his own steak now. "She's irrelevant."
"She's powerful," Aria corrected. "The Sterling family controls the banks. If she teams up with Bella..."
"Then I buy the bank," Damien said simply.
Aria paused, chewing slowly. She looked at him. He wasn't bragging. He was stating a fact.
"You really spoil me, Mr. Sinclair," she murmured. "Cutting my steak? Defending my jeans? If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually liked me."
Damien stopped eating. He looked up, his gaze locking onto hers.
"I don't like you," he said.
He reached out, his thumb brushing a crumb from the corner of her lip. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight down Aria's spine.
"I need you," Damien corrected, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "There's a difference."
Aria swallowed hard.
"Right," she whispered, looking away to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. "Clause 3. No feelings. Just business."
"Just business," Damien agreed.
But as he watched her eat, his hand rested on the table, inching forward until his pinky finger hooked over hers.
He didn't pull away. And neither did she.