The silence in the car was different now. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the ride over, nor the frantic, painful silence of Damien's earlier episode. It was a comfortable, drowsy silence.
Damien's breathing had evened out. The deep furrow between his brows had smoothed. He was still holding Aria—he hadn't let go even after the car stopped at the private underground entrance of the hotel—but the desperate, crushing grip had loosened into a heavy, possessive weight.
"We're here, sir," Ken whispered from the front seat, terrified to break the mood.
Damien opened his golden eyes. They were clear. The red veins of agony were gone.
He looked down at Aria. She was wedged between his legs, her hands resting on his chest, looking up at him with wide, wary eyes.
"You're useful," Damien murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
Aria slapped his hand away. "I'm not a Swiss Army Knife. Get off."
Damien smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rare, genuine expression of amusement. He opened the door and stepped out, pulling Aria with him before she could protest.
The ride up the private elevator was swift. When the doors opened to the Penthouse, the familiar scent of cold air and expensive leather greeted them.
"Contract," Damien commanded, tossing his suit jacket onto the sofa.
Ken materialized from the shadows, placing a thick stack of papers on the obsidian coffee table. "Drafted as requested, sir. The dowry transfer is also being processed. Mr. Vale has already signed the release forms."
Aria sat down, crossing her legs. She picked up a pen, twirling it between her fingers. "I assume you've added a confidentiality clause?"
"Page 4," Damien said, loosening his tie and pouring himself a glass of water. He didn't drink alcohol when the pain was this manageable; he wanted to savor the clarity. "If you leak my condition to the press, you owe me fifty billion."
"Fifty billion?" Aria choked. "I don't have that kind of money."
"Then don't leak it." Damien sat opposite her, his long legs stretching out. He watched her read. "You were ruthless tonight. 'Incest'? I didn't know my wife had such a sharp tongue."
"Fiancée," Aria corrected without looking up. "And he deserved it. Lucas cares about his image more than his life. Calling him a pervert destroys him faster than a lawsuit."
She flipped to the final page. Her eyes narrowed.
"Clause 9: The Wife must be available 24/7 for 'medical emergencies'. Failure to appear within 5 minutes results in a breach of contract."
Aria looked up, pen hovering over the paper. "I have a career. I can't be your on-call nurse if I'm filming. What if I'm on location?"
"I bought the production company," Damien said casually, taking a sip of water. "If you're filming, I'll be the executive producer on set. If I need you, we cut for a 'technical break'."
Aria's mouth opened, then closed. 'He bought the production company? In the last two hours?'
"You're insane," she muttered, signing her name at the bottom. Aria Vale.
Damien took the paper. He signed his name in bold, aggressive strokes. Damien Sinclair.
"Done," he said. "Ken, file it. Get the marriage license ready for tomorrow morning."
Ken nodded and vanished, leaving them alone in the vast, dim room.
Aria stood up, stretching her arms. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her exhausted. "Well, business is concluded. Which room is mine? The guest suite?"
Damien stood up too. He loomed over her, blocking the light.
"The Master Suite," he said.
Aria stepped back. "Excuse me? We agreed. No physical obligations. Clause 3."
"And Clause 9 says you must be available within 5 minutes," Damien countered smoothly. "If I wake up at 3 AM feeling like my head is splitting open, I'm not walking down the hallway to find you. You sleep where I sleep."
"That wasn't the deal!" Aria argued, her cheeks flushing pink. "I can't sleep in the same bed as you every night! People will... you know..."
"I have mysophobia," Damien reminded her, stepping closer until she backed into the sofa. "I have no interest in touching you sexually. You are a medical device."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. His golden eyes gleamed with a challenge.
"Unless... you're afraid you can't control yourself around me?"
Aria bristled. 'The arrogance of this man.'
"In your dreams, Old Man," she snapped.
Damien's eyes glinted. "Old Man? I'm twenty-nine."
"Compared to me, you're ancient." Aria pushed past him, marching toward the bedroom. "Fine. I'll sleep in the bed. But I'm building a wall."
Damien watched her storm off, a strange warmth spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with pain relief.
Twenty minutes later, the King-sized bed looked like a fortress.
Aria had raided every closet in the penthouse. She had constructed a barrier of pillows, bolsters, and rolled-up blankets down the exact center of the mattress.
She lay on her side, dressed in one of Damien's oversized white shirts (since she refused to sleep in the Chanel dress and had no luggage), glaring at him. The shirt swallowed her small frame, the sleeves falling over her hands, making her look ridiculously small and cute.
"Cross this line," she warned, pointing at the pillow wall, "and I stick a needle in your kidney."
Damien stood by the bed, shirtless again. He looked at the ridiculous fortification. He looked at the small, fierce woman huddled on the other side.
For the first time in years, the penthouse didn't feel like a tomb. It felt... occupied.
"Goodnight, Little Doctor," he murmured.
He climbed into his side, turning off the lamp. The darkness wasn't lonely anymore. Because just a few inches away, he could smell the faint scent of moonlit orchids, and he could hear the steady rhythm of another heartbeat.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in his life, Damien Sinclair didn't need pills to fall asleep.