The days in Astor Manor blurred into velvet nights and whispered commands. Aria had never felt more out of control—and yet so seen. Every corner of this place held a secret, and every secret somehow led back to Zayn.
He had rules.
Rules she wasn't allowed to question.
Rooms she couldn't enter.
Doors she couldn't unlock.
Naturally, Aria wanted to break every single one.
Late one night, with the mansion blanketed in silence, she stepped barefoot into the forbidden west wing—her heart pounding like thunder in her ears. The air was colder here. Heavy. Like it remembered pain.
She brushed her fingers across an antique doorknob and slowly turned it.
Inside: darkness, lined with old books, leather-bound journals, and a single framed photograph of Zayn... with a woman. Her face was soft, almost familiar, but the eyes were haunted.
"Curiosity looks good on you."
Aria gasped and turned.
Zayn stood in the doorway. The moonlight slicing across his face made him look like something carved from stone—elegant, sharp, deadly.
"You said I couldn't come here."
"I said you shouldn't," he replied, stepping closer. "But then again, you've never been good at listening."
She held his gaze, refusing to back down. "Who is she?"
He reached past her, brushing her shoulder without apology, and lifted the frame from the shelf. For a moment, the cocky mask dropped. His jaw clenched.
"She was my mistake."
Aria's heart twisted. "Are you trying to make me your next one?"
"No," he said darkly. "You're something else entirely. You're the consequence."
And then he kissed her.
Not softly. Not sweetly.
It was a kiss that warned, claimed, and punished. The kind that bruised pride and awakened something wild in her veins. She wanted to slap him—and never stop touching him.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, her voice shook.
"You're not safe."
He smirked, his fingers brushing her cheek. "Neither are you, Lancaster."