By seven o’clock, the Hale estate had transformed from a home into a stage.

The air in the foyer smelled of fresh white orchids and expensive furniture polish. The lighting had been dimmed to a warm, golden glow, designed to make diamonds sparkle and skin look flawless. Every cushion was plumped, every surface gleamed, and the silence that usually filled the house had been replaced by the frantic, hushed energy of the staff moving in the background.

Aria stood at the top of the service staircase, pressing herself into the shadows of the alcove.

She was wearing a simple black dress, one that she usually wore for funerals or formal events where she was required to stand in the back and not speak. It was modest, high-necked, and blended perfectly with the darkness of the hallway.

Below her, the main foyer was a theater of anticipation.

"Is the wine breathing?" Desmond’s voice drifted up the stairs, sharp and agitated. "Alfred Cross drinks only the '82 vintage. If it’s not ready, heads will roll."

"It’s ready, sir," the butler replied, his voice calm.

"And Cassandra?"

"Miss Cassandra is in the drawing room, sir."

Aria shifted her weight, her hand gripping the cold wooden banister. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in her room, invisible, eating a tray of dinner that the cook would bring up later. But ten minutes ago, Cassandra had texted her: My clutch. The silver one. I left it in the library. Bring it down. Now.

So Aria was on a mission, trying to navigate the house without being seen, like a ghost haunting her own family.

She crept down the back stairs, the service entrance that led into the kitchen corridor. The kitchen was a war zone of steam and shouting chefs, so she kept her head down and slipped into the side hallway that connected to the library.

Her heart was doing a nervous flutter in her chest. The guests, the Cross family, were due to arrive at any second. If she bumped into them, her father would be furious. He didn't want his "mistake" of a daughter cluttering up his perfect business merger.

She reached the library, the room dark and smelling of leather. She found the silver clutch on the sofa where Cassandra had carelessly tossed it. Aria grabbed it, her fingers brushing the cold metal sequins.

Get in. Get out.

She turned to leave, stepping back into the corridor.

The front doorbell rang.

It wasn't a normal ring. It was a deep, resonating chime that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Aria froze. She was trapped in the hallway between the library and the foyer. If she moved forward, she would be seen. If she went back, she would be stuck in the library for hours until the dinner moved to the dining room.

She pressed her back against the wall, hiding behind a large potted fern, her breath catching in her throat.

Just wait, she told herself. Wait for them to move into the drawing room, then run.

She heard the heavy oak front doors open. The sound of the night air rushing in, followed by the firm click of shoes on marble.

"Alfred," Desmond’s voice boomed, overly jovial, dripping with the desperation to impress.

"Welcome. Thank you for coming."

"Desmond." The replying voice was dry, aged, and sounded like sandpaper rubbing against stone. That must be Alfred Cross.

Aria peeked through the leaves of the fern. She knew she shouldn't look. She knew it was dangerous. But curiosity was a pull she couldn't resist.

She saw her father shaking hands with an older man who looked as if he had been carved out of gray granite. Alfred Cross wore a suit that cost more than Aria’s entire life education. He didn't smile. He merely nodded.

And then, a shadow moved behind him.

Aria’s breath stopped.

Damian Cross walked through the door.

The magazine photo hadn't done him justice. It hadn't captured the sheer physical weight of his presence. He was tall, comfortably over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled the tailored black coat he wore. He moved with a predatory grace, slow, deliberate, like a large cat entering a new territory, checking for threats, checking for prey.

He stepped into the light of the foyer, and for a second, Aria felt the temperature in the hallway drop.

His face was striking, brutal in its symmetry. High cheekbones, a sharp, arrogant jawline, and hair as black as ink, swept back from his forehead. He wasn't handsome in the way movie stars were handsome; he was handsome in the way a weapon was beautiful. Dangerous. Cold. Perfect.

"Damian," Desmond said, extending a hand. "Good to see you."

Damian didn't smile. He didn't offer a polite greeting. He simply took Desmond’s hand, gave it a single, firm shake, and released it.

"Desmond," Damian said.

His voice was a low baritone, dark and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel. It sent a strange vibration through the floor, a sound that seemed to bypass Aria’s ears and settle straight into her stomach.

"Come in, come in," Desmond ushered them. "Cassandra is waiting in the drawing room. Drinks are poured."

The men began to move. Aria let out a silent exhale, her shoulders relaxing. They were walking away from her. She was safe.

She waited until they disappeared into the drawing room on the left. The heavy doors closed with a soft click.

Silence returned to the hallway.

Aria peeled herself away from the wall, clutching Cassandra’s silver bag to her chest. She needed to get this to the drawing room, hand it to a maid to deliver, and then disappear upstairs.

She walked quickly, her footsteps silent on the runner rug.

But as she passed the open archway of the dining room, she hesitated.

The table was set for four. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, white orchids. It was perfect.

And then, she felt it.

A prickle on the back of her neck. A sudden, irrational feeling that she was exposed.

She turned her head.

The drawing room doors she thought were closed... weren't. One was cracked open just an inch.

And through that crack, an eye was watching her.

Dark. heavy. Unblinking.

Aria froze mid-step. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

It was him.

Damian Cross was standing just inside the drawing room, his back to the party, looking through the gap in the doors. He wasn't listening to her father. He wasn't looking at Cassandra.

He was looking at her.

She couldn't move. The distance between them was twenty feet, but his gaze felt physical, like a hand gripping her throat. He didn't look away when she caught him. Most people would have politely averted their eyes, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Damian didn't.

He widened the gap in the door slightly with one hand, pushing the wood back, revealing half of his face. His expression was completely unreadable, no surprise, no interest, no warmth. Just cold, clinical observation. He looked at her the way a scientist looks at a specimen under a microscope.

He looked at her simple black dress. He looked at her messy hair, tied back in a rush. He looked at the silver clutch she was gripping so hard her knuckles were white.

Aria felt a flush of heat rise up her neck, shame, fear, confusion. She felt small. She felt dirty compared to the perfection of the house.

She broke the contact. She couldn't handle the weight of it.

She spun around, ducking her head, and hurried toward the kitchen, her legs feeling unsteady. She pushed through the swinging door, the noise of the chefs hitting her like a wall, drowning out the silence of the hallway.

She leaned against the stainless steel counter, gasping for air, her hand pressing against her racing heart.

"Miss Aria?" the head cook, Mrs. Higgins, asked, pausing over a pot of soup. "Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Aria swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I... I’m fine. Just... here." She held out the bag, her hand trembling. "Can you please give this to one of the servers to take to Cassandra? She needs it."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Higgins took the bag, looking at her with pity. "You go upstairs now. I’ll send a plate up for you."

"Thank you," Aria whispered.

She turned and fled. She took the back stairs two at a time, needing to put walls and floors between herself and the ground floor.

She reached her room and shut the door, leaning her back against it, breathing hard in the darkness.

She was safe. He was down there, in the world of business and lies, and she was up here, where she belonged.

But as she closed her eyes, she could still feel it.

That dark, heavy gaze.

It hadn't felt like a glance. It hadn't felt like an accident.

It felt like he had memorized her.

*****

Downstairs, the dinner began.

The conversation was dominated by Desmond and Alfred, talking about market shares, Asian expansion, and stock valuations. Cassandra was charming, laughing at the right moments, touching Damian’s arm lightly, playing the part of the perfect trophy wife.

Damian sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but dominant. He twirled the stem of his wine glass between his long fingers, watching the red liquid swirl.

He answered when spoken to. He nodded at the right times. He was polite, efficient, and completely detached.

"My daughter has quite the eye for interior design," Desmond was boasting, gesturing to Cassandra. "She practically redecorated the west wing herself."

"It’s lovely," Damian said, his voice flat.

"We believe in family values," Alfred added, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "A strong home makes a strong empire."

"Agreed," Desmond said. "Cassandra is the heart of this house. We are very proud of her."

Damian took a slow sip of wine. His eyes drifted away from the conversation, moving toward the open doorway of the dining room, toward the dark hallway beyond.

The shadows were empty now.

"Desmond," Damian said suddenly, cutting through the conversation.

The table went quiet. Desmond looked eager. "Yes?"

Damian set his glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the tablecloth was soft, but it sounded like a gavel.

"I saw a girl in the hallway earlier."

The air in the room grew stiff.

Cassandra’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Desmond stiffened, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

"A girl?" Desmond laughed nervously. "Oh, you must mean one of the maids. I apologize if she was in the way. I’ll speak to the staff manager."

"She wasn't wearing a uniform," Damian said. He wasn't asking. He was stating a fact.

Desmond cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. He looked annoyed, embarrassed. "Ah. Yes. That would be... Aria."

"Aria," Damian repeated.

He said the name slowly, testing the weight of it on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it, darker, heavier.

"My youngest," Desmond said dismissively, waving a hand as if to shoo the topic away. "She’s... quiet. Shy. She prefers to stay out of the way. She’s not really involved in the family affairs."

"I see," Damian said.

"She’s a bit odd," Cassandra added, letting out a small, musical laugh. "Always hiding in corners. We try to get her to socialize, but she’s just so... awkward. You know how some people are."

"Awkward," Damian said, his eyes still fixed on the empty hallway.

"Yes," Cassandra smiled, leaning closer to him. "But let’s not talk about her. Father was just telling us about the merger timeline."

Damian turned his gaze back to Cassandra. His eyes were blank, void of any emotion, shielding his thoughts completely.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "The timeline."

He picked up his knife and fork, resuming his meal.

But for the rest of the dinner, while Desmond boasted and Cassandra flirted, Damian Cross did not say another word. He simply ate, drank, and stared into the middle distance, his mind working behind the wall of his silence.

He was thinking about the girl in the black dress. He was thinking about the fear in her eyes. And he was thinking about the way she had looked at him, like she was the only person in this entire house who saw the monster sitting at the table.

And Damian liked being seen.

The morning after the dinner, the Hale estate felt different.

Usually, the house was a tomb of silence, but today it vibrated with a manic, electric energy. It was the frequency of ambition. The merger had gone well. The handshake had happened. And, as Aria learned before she had even brushed her teeth, the wedding date had been set.

"Six months," Cassandra announced.

She was sitting at the vanity in her bedroom, staring at her own reflection with the intensity of an artist admiring a masterpiece. Aria stood by the door, holding a basket of fresh linens she had been collecting from the hallway.

"Father says we can't wait longer," Cassandra continued, applying a layer of peach gloss to her lips. "The fiscal year ends in December. We need the stocks to merge before then. So, I have six months to plan the wedding of the century."

She turned to look at Aria, her eyes bright with triumph. "Can you imagine it? Mrs. Cassandra Cross. It sounds expensive, doesn’t it?"

Aria gripped the wicker handle of the basket tighter. "It sounds… powerful."

"Exactly." Cassandra stood up, smoothing the silk of her dressing gown. "He’s richer than God, Aria. I’m going to have access to accounts that have more zeros than you can count. The penthouse in the city, the estate in the Hamptons, the private jet fleet. It’s all mine."

Aria hesitated. "And… Damian?"

Cassandra frowned, as if she had forgotten he was part of the equation. "What about him?"

"Do you… do you like him?"

Cassandra laughed. It was a sharp, incredulous sound. "Oh, grow up, Aria. This isn't a fairy tale. I don't need to 'like' him. I need to handle him. He’s cold, he’s boring, and he works twenty hours a day. Which is perfect. I’ll have the credit card, and he’ll have his office. We’ll barely have to speak."

She walked past Aria, trailing the scent of expensive rose perfume. "Now, stop standing there like a statue. Father is in the study with the lawyers. He needs the files you organized yesterday. Bring them down. Immediately."

Aria’s stomach gave a small, uncomfortable lurch. "Is… is Mr. Cross still here?"

"No, he left last night," Cassandra said, checking her phone. "But his lawyers are here. Go. Don't make Father wait."

Relief washed over Aria. He was gone. The dark shadow that had stood in the dining room doorway was gone.

"Okay," Aria whispered.

She hurried to her room, put down the laundry basket, and smoothed her hair. She checked her reflection in the small, cracked mirror on her wall. She looked tired. There were faint shadows under her eyes from a night spent staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Damian Cross had looked at her through the crack in the door.

It was nothing, she told herself for the hundredth time. He was just looking at a noise. A distraction. You are nothing to him.

She took a deep breath, picked up the file folder from her desk, and headed downstairs.

The house was busy. Staff members were moving furniture, polishing silver, preparing for the influx of wedding planners that Cassandra had already summoned. Aria moved through them like a ghost, dodging elbows and apologizing to empty air.

She reached the heavy oak doors of the study. She could hear voices inside, her father’s booming baritone and the sharp, clipped tones of legal counsel.

She knocked softly.

"Come in!" Desmond barked.

Aria pushed the door open and stepped inside, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"The files, Father," she said softly, walking toward the desk.

"Finally," Desmond grunted. He was standing by the window, a cigar in one hand. "Put them on the desk. And pour water for everyone. The staff is useless today."

Aria nodded. She placed the blue folder on the center of the massive mahogany desk. Then, keeping her head down, she moved to the side table where the crystal water pitcher sat.

She poured a glass for her father. She poured a glass for the lawyer sitting in the leather armchair. She poured a glass for the man sitting in the high-backed chair in the corner, obscured by the shadows of the bookshelves.

She stepped forward to place the glass on the coaster near his hand.

"Here is your, "

She froze.

The hand resting on the armrest wasn't wearing a lawyer’s watch. It was wearing a platinum Rolex, the face dark, the band heavy. The hand itself was large, tanned, and strong, with long fingers that tapped rhythmically against the leather.

Aria’s gaze traveled up the sleeve of the immaculate black suit jacket, past the broad shoulders, to the face.

Damian Cross.

He hadn't left.

He was sitting deep in the chair, his legs crossed at the ankle, looking completely at ease in her father’s territory. He wasn't looking at the papers. He wasn't looking at Desmond.

He was looking up at her.

The glass in Aria’s hand wobbled. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the expensive Persian rug.

"I, I’m so sorry," she gasped, her face burning instantly.

She scrambled to pull a tissue from her pocket, dropping to her knees to dab at the tiny wet spot on the rug. "I didn't know… I thought you were…"

"Clumsy," Desmond snapped from the window. "God, Aria. Leave it. Get up."

Aria flinched at her father’s tone. She stopped wiping the rug, her fingers trembling. She felt humiliated. Stupid. Invisible girl makes a mess. That was the headline of her life.

She started to stand up, keeping her eyes averted, preparing to apologize again and run.

But a hand entered her vision.

Damian had leaned forward. He didn't reach for the water. He reached out and, with slow, deliberate precision, took the wet tissue from her shaking fingers.

His skin brushed hers.

It was a fraction of a second. A mistake of physics. But the contact sent a shock through her body that was so sharp, so electric, it almost hurt. His fingers were warm, rougher than she expected, and firm.

"It’s just water," Damian said.

His voice was low, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. He wasn't speaking to Desmond. He was speaking to her.

Aria looked up, trapped by the sound of his voice.

He was close. Much closer than he had been in the hallway. She could see the flecks of gray in his black eyes. She could smell him, a scent of sandalwood, crisp rain, and something darker, like burnt sugar.

"I… I’m sorry," she whispered again, unable to find any other words.

"Don't apologize for gravity," he said.

He didn't smile. His face remained completely impassive, a mask of stone. But his eyes were doing it again. They were tracing her face, cataloging the shape of her jaw, the tremble of her lip, the flush on her cheeks.

"Damian," Desmond interrupted, oblivious to the frequency shift in the room. "The prenup terms regarding the joint assets. We need to finalize clause four."

Damian didn't look away from Aria. He held her gaze for three seconds longer, three seconds that felt like three hours.

Then, slowly, he released her eyes and turned back to her father. The warmth vanished. The attention vanished. He became the machine again.

"Clause four is non-negotiable, Desmond," Damian said coldly. "Cross Industries retains 51% of all acquisition rights. Take it or leave it."

Aria scrambled to her feet, clutching the silver tray against her chest like a shield.

"Get out, Aria," Desmond muttered, waving a hand at her without looking. "Close the door."

She didn't need to be told twice.

She backed away, her legs feeling like jelly. She reached the door, pulled it open, and slipped into the hallway.

She closed the heavy wood barrier between them and leaned back against it, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

She raised her hand, the hand he had touched. Her fingertips still tingled, a phantom sensation of heat where his skin had grazed hers.

It’s just water.

He had defended her. It was a small thing. A tiny, insignificant comment. But in a house where her father called her clumsy and her sister called her useless, Damian Cross, the cold, ruthless monster everyone feared, had told her not to apologize.

Why?

Inside the study, she heard the low rumble of his voice again, discussing millions of dollars and asset forfeiture as if he hadn't just stopped time for her.

Aria pushed herself off the door. She needed to get away. She needed to go to the garden, to the greenhouse, to the only place where the air didn't feel like it was thinning.

But as she walked down the hall, she realized something terrifying.

She wasn't invisible anymore.

Not to him.

***

Two hours later, the meeting ended.

Damian walked out of the Hale estate, flanked by his lawyers. The sun was high now, glaring off the polished hoods of the black SUVs waiting in the driveway.

Desmond was shaking his hand again, smiling that desperate, eager smile. Cassandra had come down to say goodbye, posing on the front steps like a queen waving to her subjects.

"I’ll see you at the engagement party on Saturday," Cassandra purred, touching his lapel.

"Saturday," Damian repeated.

He stepped away from her, moving toward his car. His driver opened the rear door.

Damian paused.

He looked over the roof of the car, his gaze scanning the grounds of the estate. He looked past the fountain, past the manicured hedges, toward the old glass greenhouse at the edge of the property.

Through the glass, blurry and distant, he could see a figure in a beige sweater, tending to a row of plants.

She was alone. She was hiding.

Damian watched her for a long moment, his hand resting on the car door. He felt a tightening in his chest, a strange, dark hunger that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with possession.

"Sir?" his driver asked.

Damian blinked, the mask sliding back into place.

"Drive," he said.

He got into the car, the tinted window sliding up to seal him in darkness. As the car rolled down the long driveway, he didn't look back at his fiancée. He didn't look back at his business partner.

He opened his phone and typed a message to his head of security.

Find out everything about Aria Hale. Where she goes. Who she talks to. Everything.

He hit send, locked the screen, and stared into the black reflection of the glass.

The game had begun.

The engagement party was designed to be a coronation.

The ballroom of the Hale estate, usually draped in dust sheets, was now alive with five hundred guests, three string quartets, and enough white roses to bury a small village. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and the metallic tang of ambition.

Aria stood near the service entrance, her back pressed against the velvet wallpaper.

She was wearing a dress Cassandra had selected for her, a pale gray chiffon that washed out her skin tone and hung loosely on her frame. "It’s modest," Cassandra had said, tossing it onto Aria’s bed. "We don't want you looking… desperate."

Aria tugged at the hem of the sleeve. She felt like a shadow stitched into the background of a painting. She held a glass of sparkling water she had been nursing for an hour, watching the swirl of elites move across the floor.

They were all there. The politicians, the tycoons, the socialites. They laughed with open mouths and touched each other’s arms with fake familiarity.

In the center of it all was Cassandra.

She was radiant in emerald green silk, a diamond choker glittering at her throat. She held court, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, accepting compliments as if they were tithes.

And next to her stood Damian.

He was the anchor in the storm of frivolity. While Cassandra moved and shimmered, Damian stood perfectly still. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like armor. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression bored, almost disdainful.

He nodded when spoken to. He answered in monosyllables. He looked like a wolf surrounded by peacocks? tolerating them only because he hadn't decided to eat them yet.

Aria watched him. She couldn't help it.

It had been three days since the incident in the study, since his fingers had brushed hers over a wet tissue. She had spent those three days avoiding the main house, terrified of running into him.

But tonight, escape was impossible.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Aria jumped, her water sloshing in the glass.

A young waiter was standing in front of her, holding a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He had kind eyes and a nervous smile. He looked about her age, maybe a student working for extra cash.

"Would you like a canapé?" he asked, smiling at her. "Crab cakes. They’re actually really good, I snuck one earlier."

Aria blinked, surprised to be seen. "Oh. No, thank you. I’m okay."

"Are you sure?" The waiter lowered the tray slightly, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper.

"You look like you’d rather be anywhere else. I thought a crab cake might help the pain."

Aria felt a small smile tug at the corner of her lips. It was the first genuine human interaction she’d had all night. "I... I really shouldn't."

"Suit yourself," he grinned. "I’m Mark, by the way. If you need to be rescued from boredom, just wave."

"I'm Aria," she whispered.

"Nice to meet you, Aria. Nice dress, by the way. Matches your eyes."

He winked playfully and moved back into the crowd.

Aria felt a flush of warmth in her cheeks. It was a harmless flirtation, a tiny moment of normalcy.

Then, the temperature dropped.

She felt it before she saw it. The air around her seemed to thin, the noise of the party fading into a dull buzz.

She looked up.

Across the room, fifty feet away, Damian Cross was watching her.

He wasn't looking at Cassandra, who was clinging to his arm. He wasn't looking at the Senator shaking his hand.

He was looking directly at Aria.

And he looked furious.

It wasn't a hot, explosive anger. It was cold. Zero degrees Kelvin. His jaw was locked tight, a muscle ticking rhythmically in his cheek. His eyes were dark pits, fixed on the spot where the waiter had just been standing.

Aria’s breath hitched. Why is he looking at me like that?

She saw him lean down, whisper something brief to Cassandra, and then detach her hand from his arm. He started walking.

He wasn't walking toward the bar. He wasn't walking toward the exit.

He was cutting a straight line through the crowd, heading directly toward the corner where Aria stood.

Panic flared in her chest.

Run.

She couldn't let him corner her here. Not in front of everyone. Not with that look on his face.

Aria turned and slipped through the open French doors behind her, stepping out onto the terrace.

The night air was crisp and cool, a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the ballroom. The terrace was empty, the stone balustrade overlooking the dark gardens below.

Aria walked to the far end, gripping the cold stone railing, trying to calm her racing heart.

He wasn't coming for me, she reasoned. He probably just needed air. You’re imagining it. You’re nobody.

"Who was he?"

The voice came from the shadows behind her. Low. Deep. Vibrating with a restrained threat.

Aria spun around, gasping.

Damian was standing ten feet away, silhouetted against the light pouring from the ballroom. He took a step forward, his shoes silent on the stone.

"Who?" Aria squeaked, her voice failing her.

"The waiter," Damian said. He took another step. "The boy."

He stopped three feet from her. Close enough for her to smell the expensive scotch on his breath and the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. He loomed over her, blocking out the light, blocking out the escape.

"He... I don't know his name," Aria lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He just offered me a snack."

"He was smiling," Damian observed. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, yet somehow it sounded like an accusation. "He was leaning close."

"He was just being polite," Aria whispered, pressing her back against the stone railing. "Why... Why does it matter?"

Damian stared down at her. His hands were in his pockets, but his shoulders were tense, the fabric of his jacket straining slightly.

"It matters," he said softly, "because you are a Hale. It looks unprofessional for the family to be fraternizing with the help."

The excuse was weak. They both knew it. Cassandra flirted with the tennis instructor openly. Desmond slept with his secretaries.

"Fraternizing" wasn't a crime in this house.

But Aria didn't argue. She nodded quickly, desperate to end the conversation.

"I’m sorry," she said, lowering her eyes. "I’ll... I’ll stay away from him. I was just leaving anyway."

She made a move to step around him, to flee back inside.

Damian moved.

He didn't grab her. He simply shifted his weight, stepping directly into her path.

Aria froze. She was trapped between the stone railing and his body. There was barely six inches of space between them.

She looked up, startled. "Mr. Cross...?"

"Damian," he corrected.

"Damian," she breathed. "Please. I need to go."

"Why?" He tilted his head slightly, studying her face in the moonlight. "You don't like the party?"

"I don't belong in there," she admitted, the truth slipping out before she could stop it.

"No," he said quietly. "You don't."

He looked at her gray dress, his gaze sweeping down her body and back up, lingering on her face. It wasn't a look of disgust. It was a look of... recognition.

"They dressed you to disappear," he murmured. It sounded like he was talking to himself.

Aria felt a lump form in her throat. "I prefer to disappear."

"Do you?"

He took one hand out of his pocket. For a terrifying second, she thought he was going to touch her. She thought he was going to reach out and brush the stray lock of hair from her cheek.

Her breath stalled. She didn't move. She couldn't.

Damian’s hand hovered for a fraction of a second, his fingers flexing. A war was happening behind his eyes, control versus impulse.

Then, he clenched his hand into a fist and dropped it back to his side.

"Go inside, Aria," he said, his voice rougher now. "Go to your room."

"My room?" she blinked, confused by the dismissal.

"Yes," he said, looking over her shoulder, staring into the dark garden as if he couldn't bear to look at her anymore. "Before I do something that will ruin your sister’s night."

Aria didn't ask what he meant. The warning in his tone was clear.

She slipped past him, her shoulder brushing against his arm. The contact burned.

She didn't run, but she walked fast, her heels clicking on the stone. She didn't look back.

If she had, she would have seen Damian Cross gripping the stone railing where she had just been standing, his knuckles white, staring at the empty spot as if he was trying to exorcise a ghost.

She would have seen him take a deep, shaky breath, composing the mask before turning back to the woman he was supposed to marry.

Inside the ballroom, Mark the waiter was clearing empty champagne flutes near the entrance.

As Damian re-entered the room, he paused.

He signaled to the head of the catering staff, a man in a black vest. The manager hurried over, bowing slightly. "Mr. Cross? Is everything to your satisfaction?"

Damian looked at Mark, who was laughing with another server across the room.

"That one," Damian said calmly, nodding toward the boy. "The one with the brown hair."

"Mark, sir? Yes, he’s new. Did he do something wrong?"

Damian adjusted his cufflinks, his face perfectly serene.

"He’s clumsy," Damian said. "I don't want to see him at the wedding. Or at any event I attend in the future. Is that clear?"

The manager paled. "Absolutely, Mr. Cross. I’ll handle it immediately."

"Good."

Damian walked away without a second glance.

He rejoined Cassandra, who was waiting for him with a glass of champagne and a pout.

"Where did you go?" she asked, linking her arm

through his. "You left me alone for ten minutes."

"Just getting some air," Damian said.

He took the champagne glass from her hand and took a long sip, the bubbles burning his throat. He looked toward the staircase, where a gray dress was disappearing around the corner.

"Did you miss me?" Cassandra teased, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"Desperately," Damian lied.

He didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel remorse.

He just felt the lingering warmth of a girl who tried to be invisible, and the cold satisfaction of knowing that the boy who made her smile was gone.