While Peter spent his time with his two women and his stepdaughter—who was also, in one of those beautiful contradictions his life seemed to specialize in, his first love—going on dates as a three, eating at restaurants where he pulled chairs out for all of them and the waitstaff tried not to stare, holding hands across tables while Maya pretended she wasn't pressing her thigh against his under the cloth—
ARIA was busy.
They'd been spotted four times in three days. Each time, ARIA had the photos scrubbed within ninety seconds — except the ones she chose to keep.
The ones where Genevieve's hand rested on his arm and Isabella's head was tilted back in laughter.
The ones that made him look like exactly what he was: a man with two stunning women and a shy, blushing girl in round glasses who couldn't stop looking at him when she thought nobody was watching.
ARIA kept those. Filed them.
Would deploy them later, when the narrative required it.
