The Ashford townhouse was exactly what Aria expected: old money elegance that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings that were probably worth more than most people's houses. Every detail carefully curated to remind visitors of exactly who the Ashfords were.
Damien's hand was steady at the small of her back as a uniformed butler led them toward the formal dining room.
"Remember," he murmured in her ear, "you have nothing to prove to these people."
"Easy for you to say. You were born into this."
"Which is exactly why I know it's all theater. Meaningless tradition designed to make people feel superior for accidents of birth." His hand tightened on her waist. "You're worth ten of anyone in that room."
Before she could respond, they reached the dining room entrance, and Victoria appeared like she'd been waiting for their exact moment of arrival.
