(Aria's POV)
The city wouldn't stop screaming my name.
Even up here—forty floors above the chaos—the sound carried. Sirens. Distant cameras. The faint echo of reporters shouting from the gates below. It was like the world had swallowed me whole and was still chewing.
I pressed my palms to the glass. Below, screens the size of buildings blazed with my face. The hotel photo. The ring. The caption bold enough to burn:
"THE WOMAN WHO TAMED BLACKWELL."
A cruel joke.
Behind me, the elevator chimed. The sound sliced through the silence like a blade.
He was back.
Leo stepped out, jacket gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His expression unreadable, his movements calm—too calm, like a predator after the kill.
"Still awake," he said lightly, setting his phone on the table. "You're trending in twenty-three countries."
My throat burned. "You think this is funny?"
"No," he said, walking closer. "Predictable."
He poured himself a drink, ice clinking. "You should get used to it. Public fascination comes with the name."
"I never wanted your name."
His eyes lifted, catching mine. "You signed for it."
The reminder hit harder than a slap.
He studied me for a moment, then gestured toward the glass wall where my reflection trembled beside his. "Do you know what separates people like me from people like you, Aria?"
"I don't care."
"You should." His voice turned low, deliberate. "Control. I own my narrative. You let yours own you."
"I didn't ask for this!"
He took a slow step forward. "No one asks to drown, Aria. They just stop swimming."
The words hit too deep. Too close.
He stopped in front of me, the city's light catching the hard edges of his face. "This life has rules," he said quietly. "Break them, and it breaks you."
He extended a folded piece of paper. His handwriting—precise, sharp.
I hesitated before taking it.
THE RULES:
Publicly, we are married. You smile, you play the part, and you never contradict me.
You don't speak to the press without my approval.
You don't leave the penthouse without security.
You answer when I call.
You never lie to me.
Each line felt like a chain tightening.
I looked up. "And what happens if I break one?"
Leo's mouth curved—not into a smile, but something colder. "Don't."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact." He stepped even closer, his cologne threading through the air—rich, expensive, suffocating. "You made a deal with the devil, Aria. Now you learn how to survive hell."
I wanted to hit him. Scream. Anything to break the composure that made him untouchable. Instead, I whispered, "Why me?"
For the first time, his mask slipped—just slightly. Something flickered in his eyes, sharp and secret.
"You remind me," he said slowly, "of someone who didn't stay."
The confession hung in the air, cold and heavy.
Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. He turned away, answering in that same measured tone he used to control empires. Within seconds, I was invisible again.
I stood there—just his wife on paper, his prisoner in truth—while he issued orders to people who moved the world.
Through the glass, the city kept flashing my face, chanting my name.
And behind me, Leo Blackwell's reflection loomed like a shadow I'd never escape.
My world wasn't spinning anymore.
He'd stopped it—
and claimed the silence for himself.
By the time Leo disappeared into his office, the penthouse felt like a tomb made of glass and gold.
I stared at the paper still clutched in my hand—The Rules. Each word cut deeper the longer I looked. My reflection wavered on the polished marble floor: a stranger in borrowed luxury, wrapped in someone else's name.
The city kept flashing outside, mocking me with headlines that wouldn't die.
LEO BLACKWELL'S SECRET BRIDE.
WHO IS ARIA HALE?
THE WOMAN WHO BROKE THE UNTOUCHABLE CEO.
The noise was endless. Even up here, silence couldn't hide it.
I crumpled the paper and shoved it into the nearest drawer. It didn't matter. The rules weren't on paper anymore. They were inside me now—written across my skin, carved into my breath.
The cameras blinked red from the corners. Always watching. Always waiting.
I moved toward the hallway, past the cold gleam of the kitchen, past the expensive art that looked too lifeless to be real. When I opened the door to what was now my room, the smell of new linen and untouched air greeted me.
Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
Like it had been staged.
The wardrobe doors stood open—rows of designer clothes in my size. Dresses I'd never wear. Heels I'd never asked for.
My old life—my apartment, my cluttered desk, my tiny balcony—felt like a dream I'd already lost.
I sank onto the bed. It was too soft. Too big. I felt like I could fall into it and never find the bottom.
Then I saw it.
On the nightstand, a phone. Sleek. New. A single message glowed on the screen.
Unknown Number:
Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwell.
I froze.
My gaze flicked to the ceiling—another camera light winked. Watching. Recording.
Something inside me snapped.
I hurled the phone across the room. It shattered against the wall, the sound echoing through the penthouse. The city lights beyond the glass shimmered with cruel indifference.
I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth to keep from screaming.
Tears blurred the skyline. The weight of everything—his control, the headlines, the cameras—crashed down until I couldn't tell where I ended and his world began.
Somewhere behind a hundred locked doors, Leo was probably watching. Calm. Detached. Knowing.
I curled into myself on the edge of the bed, shaking, whispering into the dark like a prayer no one would hear.
"I didn't marry you… I survived you."
But even as I said it, I knew survival wasn't freedom. Not here. Not anymore.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, heavy and low, echoing through the glass.
And for one fleeting second, I thought I saw his reflection in the window—cold, silent, unblinking.
Watching me.
Always watching.