Chapter 2: A Ring That Burns
Aria stared down at the ring on her finger long after she left Damien's office.
It was cold at first. Then warm. Now… it pulsed like a heartbeat—her heartbeat. She clenched her hand, trying to ignore the strange sensation crawling up her wrist. She told herself it was just nerves. Exhaustion. Maybe even fear. But somewhere deep in her chest, something whispered that it wasn't just a ring.
It was a promise.
A warning.
And she had just stepped into something she didn't fully understand.
Back at her small penthouse—what was left of her once-glorious world—Aria stood before the mirror. Her reflection looked foreign to her now. The blue dress still clung to her figure, but her eyes… they looked older than yesterday. Heavier.
She reached up and unpinned her hair, letting the dark waves fall over her shoulders.
"You said yes," she whispered to herself.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she had no other choice.
Her mother was still in the hospital. Her younger brother had run off to avoid scandal. The Lancaster family name had become a headline in every finance blog—once respected, now rotting under the weight of her father's crimes.
She had nothing left but this marriage contract.
And Damien Westwood.
The man with eyes like winter and a voice like glass breaking beneath your feet.
At exactly 6:59 PM, a sleek black car arrived at her doorstep.
The driver handed her a garment bag with no words, only a slight nod. Inside was a dress—blood red, floor-length, satin. Elegant. Bold. Dangerous. Just like him.
Aria hesitated for only a moment before slipping into it. She didn't ask how they knew her size. She didn't question how the fabric felt like it was tailored to her skin.
When she looked in the mirror again, even she had to pause.
She looked like a woman who belonged beside Damien Westwood.
A woman who could break hearts and walk away.
Even if she didn't feel like one.
The gala was held in a massive glass tower overlooking the city. Aria stepped out of the car into a sea of flashing cameras, glittering gowns, and voices that buzzed with curiosity and hunger.
But the moment she stepped onto the marble stairs, silence rippled through the crowd.
Because Damien was waiting at the top.
And he wasn't looking at anyone but her.
He wore black again. Always black. As if he were mourning something the rest of the world hadn't yet noticed was gone.
His eyes roamed over her as she ascended the steps—not lewdly, not cruelly. Like he was reading something on her skin that she couldn't see herself.
When she reached him, he held out his arm.
"Right on time," he said, voice low and close to her ear.
"Your driver would have dragged me here if I wasn't," she muttered.
Damien smiled. Just slightly.
"Don't tempt me, wife.".
They walked into the gala side by side, every eye on them. The room was full of elite faces—CEOs, ministers, fashion moguls, and influencers—but no one dared speak when Damien passed. He had that effect on people. Like silence wasn't just something he expected. It was something he created.
Aria kept her chin high, heart pounding.
She could do this.
She'd done worse.
But the moment they reached the center of the ballroom, Damien leaned down and whispered, "Smile."
She did.
And the cameras clicked like bullets.
For the next hour, Aria played her part. She stood beside Damien as he shook hands, made ice-cold small talk with powerful strangers, and drank a glass of champagne that she was almost certain wasn't just champagne.
He was perfect. Too perfect. Like a statue carved out of winter.
And yet, every so often, his eyes would flick to her. Watchful. Curious. Almost… protective?
Or maybe possessive.
She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
"I need air," she murmured, the moment they were alone for half a second.
Damien nodded once. "The garden terrace. Left hallway. No one will follow you."
She didn't ask how he knew. Or why his voice sounded almost gentle just then.
She just went.
The garden terrace was quiet. Lit by soft lanterns, with a view of the city stretching into the clouds. Aria let herself breathe for the first time all night.
But as she leaned over the stone railing, something sharp flared in her chest.
She looked down at the ring.
The black stone was glowing.
Not brightly—but enough.
"Okay, no," she whispered, yanking it off her finger.
The moment she did, her vision tilted.
The city lights disappeared. The terrace vanished.
And suddenly—
She was standing in a different place entirely.
Snow.
There was snow everywhere.
White mountains. Black trees. A blood-red moon overhead.
She was barefoot in the snow, and yet she wasn't cold. Her dress was gone. She wore something ancient—dark silk, gold accents, armor across her shoulders.
And in front of her—
A battlefield.
Bodies. Ash. Fire.
And one man.
Standing at the center of it all.
His face hidden in shadows.
But she knew those eyes.
Silver. Piercing. Heartbreaking.
Damien.
Only… it wasn't him.
Not exactly.
It was the same man. But not from this time.
Not from this world.
She gasped—and the vision shattered.
She was back on the terrace. Wind in her hair. Dress clinging to her skin. The ring was still on the stone railing, now cold and dark again.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
"What… the hell… was that?"
"You saw it, didn't you?" a voice said behind her.
She turned.
And found Damien watching her.
He hadn't followed her outside.
He had been waiting.