Aria's POV
The scent of rosemary still clung to her skin.
It followed her into the night like a ghost—faint, familiar, and far too gentle for a woman who had spent the last five years learning how to build walls out of steel.
Aria sat at the edge of the bed she hadn't meant to return to. The guest room Damien had prepared for her was pristine. Too pristine. She hadn't touched the sheets. Couldn't. Sleep, she'd realized, was a luxury best reserved for the unburdened.
The dinner had been… disarming.
Not perfect. Not a miracle. But it had made her laugh, once. Had made her look across the table and see not the man who left, but the one who tried to stay now.
That terrified her more than anything.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Incoming Call: Jordan Valehart
She hesitated.
Her brother didn't call often. Not without reason. And never without baggage.
She answered.
"Hey."
"Are you still at Thornewell's?"
Straight to it. No soft edges. Classic Jordan.
"I am."
A pause.
"I saw the press photos," he muttered. "You didn't think we'd notice? You look like you stepped out of a damn honeymoon ad."
"Don't," she warned.
"I'm not judging. I just… Aria, this isn't a game. Whatever he's telling you—"
"I know what he's telling me," she snapped. "And I don't need you to play big brother just because I finally let him speak."
"You think he deserves a second chance?"
"I think I deserve to decide that for myself."
That shut him up.
She ended the call before he could respond.
She didn't need Jordan's anger echoing in her already-crowded head.
She needed air.
---
Late Night – Thornewell Estate, Library
The library was different at night.
No sunbeams, no warmth. Just shadowed shelves and the scent of old wood and older stories. She traced a finger along the spine of a book she remembered Damien reading once—Les Fleurs du Mal. Fitting.
A faint creak behind her.
She turned.
Not Damien.
Callum.
Of course.
The black sheep. The unrepentant storm.
He looked worse than the last time she'd seen him. Hollow eyes, thin frame, as if his sins were starting to devour him from the inside out.
"You shouldn't be here," she said evenly.
He smirked. "Neither should you."
She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"
"Honesty? I wanted to see what kind of woman forgives a man like Damien."
"I haven't forgiven him."
"Could've fooled me. The staff say you've taken breakfast in the garden. That he made you dinner. Sounds romantic."
"Don't pretend you care."
He moved closer, eyes sharp. "You think he told you everything? That little file he gave you—the financials, the cover-ups—that's just the surface."
Her pulse kicked. "What do you mean?"
"There's more, Aria. There always was. You think my brother's a saint now just because he finally started bleeding in front of you? Don't be naïve."
She narrowed her eyes. "And I suppose you're here to enlighten me?"
He smiled. Cruel. "I'm here because I'm tired of being blamed for everything. Because if he gets to rewrite his story, then so do I."
Callum's smirk deepened, but his eyes flickered with something raw and desperate. "You think this is about me? About tearing him down? No. It's about the truth you deserve—no matter how ugly."
Aria squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze without flinching, though her voice trembled beneath the surface. "And what truth is that, Callum? That Damien's been playing us all like puppets? That he's the monster in the family story you want everyone to believe?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He's no saint. But neither am I. Maybe it's time you stopped looking for heroes in a war where everyone's bleeding."
She swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling coldly in her chest. "Maybe I'm just tired of fighting battles where no one wins."
He dropped a flash drive onto the desk between them.
"What's this?"
"Proof. Of what he didn't tell you. Watch it, don't watch it—makes no difference to me. But when the rest of the world sees it, I guarantee they won't be so quick to swoon."
He turned and left before she could stop him.
---
Morning – Aria's Guest Suite
She hadn't slept.
The flash drive sat on the edge of the dresser, daring her.
She hated that her hands shook when she reached for it. Hated more that a part of her already believed Callum.
Because trust, once cracked, never quite sealed the same.
She plugged it into her laptop.
A single file. No label. Just a timestamp.
She clicked.
Footage. Grainy. A camera angle inside an office—Thornewell Enterprises, judging by the painting on the wall. Damien sat at the desk. Angry. Frantic. On the phone.
"…I don't care what it takes—clean it up, bury it. No one else takes the fall, do you understand me? If the board finds out, it's over."
Another voice crackled on the other end. Unintelligible.
Damien continued. "No paper trail. No witnesses. If she finds out—"
The video cut.
Aria sat frozen.
If she finds out.
She closed the laptop.
---
Afternoon – Garden Terrace
Damien found her there.
Of course he did.
"You didn't come down for breakfast," he said carefully.
She didn't look at him. "Did you mean it?"
He frowned. "Mean what?"
"The night I left. The night you let me walk away."
His silence answered for him.
She turned to him then, eyes sharper than knives. "You told me everything. You promised. But there's more, isn't there?"
He froze. "Aria—"
She stepped back. "Don't lie."
"I didn't want to hurt you."
"You already did."
The air shifted. Like the garden itself had stilled to listen.
She didn't yell.
Didn't cry.
But when she spoke again, her voice was colder than any scream.
"Next time you ask for my trust, Damien—remember this: I only believe in love if it hurts. And right now, I believe you more than I want to."
She walked away before he could follow.