The guests dispersed like vultures denied a feast.
Lucien didn't wait. The moment the cameras were gone, he turned and walked out of the ballroom. No words. No glance.
Aria followed. Not because she wanted to—but because she had to.
Their car was waiting outside, sleek and black like everything else tied to Lucien Blackthorne. The driver opened the door. Aria stepped in without hesitation.
He joined her seconds later, the door clicking shut with a finality that felt like a trap snapping shut.
Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unspoken.
"Was that really necessary?" Aria asked, voice calm, almost bored.
Lucien didn't even look at her. "You wanted a show. I gave you one."
"I wanted a wedding. You gave me a press scandal."
He turned his head then—slowly, sharply.
"You wanted money, Miss Lin. Let's not pretend this is anything more than that."
Aria smiled, the kind of smile that made enemies underestimate her.
"And you wanted a scapegoat. So congratulations, Mr. Blackthorne. We both got what we came for."
Lucien studied her for a moment. His eyes were colder up close, as if they could slice through skin and pride alike. But he said nothing.
The car stopped.
They had arrived.
The Blackthorne Estate towered before them like something torn from a gothic dream—stone, glass, and shadows. Intimidating. Isolated.
Aria stepped out first.
"Should I sleep in the west wing or the dungeon?"
Lucien brushed past her, voice low. "You'll stay in the guest wing. We're not playing house."
"Fine by me," she muttered. "You're not exactly my type."
He paused.
Turned.
And in a voice edged with quiet warning, he said:
"Don't push me, Aria."
She stepped closer, just enough for him to smell the perfume on her skin—sharp, like citrus and defiance.
"You married me, Lucien. I'm already in your way. So either deal with it… or get out of mine."
He stared at her, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.
Then, without a word, he walked inside.
She followed.
And the war officially began.
---