The Blackthorne dining room was larger than Aria's old apartment. A long glass table stretched across the marble floor, flanked by windows that framed the city like a painting.
Aria sat at one end, robe traded for a cream silk blouse and tailored pants—effortlessly elegant, deliberately sharp.
Lucien walked in minutes later, still in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, phone in hand.
He didn't greet her.
Didn't even glance.
Typical.
She buttered her toast slowly. "Good morning to you, too."
He lowered his phone. "Is this part of your plan? Domestic bliss?"
"No. This is called being polite. You should try it sometime."
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the room—light, sugary, and dripping with poison.
"Oh. Am I interrupting?"
Aria turned. A woman stood in the doorway, high heels clicking against the floor.
Celeste Ward.
Perfect curls. Designer red dress. And the kind of confidence that came from being someone's first love—or at least their favorite mistake.
"Celeste," Lucien said coolly. "What are you doing here?"
"Your assistant let me in. We used to share more than just boardrooms, remember?"
She gave Aria a pointed smile, then walked over and kissed Lucien's cheek—territorial, possessive, and completely intentional.
Aria sipped her tea, unfazed.
"How quaint," she said. "Your ex shows up the morning after our wedding. Should I expect a parade of them?"
Celeste blinked, clearly not used to being dismissed.
Lucien's gaze shifted to Aria. And something in it—approval? amusement?—flickered before vanishing again.
"Celeste, we're done. You know that."
"Do you?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Because marrying her—it doesn't feel like you."
Aria stood then, calm as ever. She walked to Lucien's side, placed a hand gently on his chest, and smiled sweetly.
"You'd be surprised what he's like behind closed doors."
Celeste paled.
Aria leaned in just enough to whisper, "Thanks for the visit. Try not to trip on your way out."
Silence.
Then Celeste turned and stormed out, heels echoing behind her.
Lucien didn't speak.
But when Aria started walking away, his voice stopped her.
"You enjoyed that."
She turned her head. "Immensely."
He studied her, something unreadable behind his eyes.
"You're not what I expected."
"Good," she replied. "I'd hate to be predictable."
And just like that, she left him in the silence—wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was the one pulling the strings.