The guest wing was beautiful.
Lavish, pristine, and colder than the man who owned it.
Aria stood in front of the antique mirror, still wearing the wedding gown that now felt more like armor than silk. Her reflection stared back at her—perfect makeup, flawless hair, expression unreadable.
She didn't recognize the woman in white.
Not anymore.
Her fingers went to the necklace at her throat—a small locket, tarnished at the edges. Hidden beneath it was a photo no one had seen in years. She pressed it to her palm, tightly.
"He would've hated this," she whispered.
There was a knock at the door. She dropped the locket quickly.
A maid entered, polite and pale.
"Mr. Blackthorne asked me to deliver this," she said, offering a manila envelope. "Your… wedding gift."
Aria arched a brow. "He got me a present?"
The maid didn't respond.
Aria waited until she left, then tore open the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
A list of rules.
Marriage Contract – Clause 3B: Conditions of Co-habitation
1. No interference in business affairs.
2. No public interviews without written consent.
3. No romantic expectations.
4. Absolute discretion.
5. No entering the Master Bedroom.
She let out a low laugh.
"He really thinks I care about his bed."
Still, the last rule stung.
Because once upon a time—before her world burned—she had imagined love. A real marriage. A real future.
But love had no place in the world of Blackthornes. It had died the day Elias did.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:
"You're playing a dangerous game, Aria. He doesn't forget—and he never forgives."
Her blood turned to ice.
She typed back:
"Neither do I."