The mansion was unusually quiet for a Monday morning.

Damian descended the stairs in a sharp navy suit, phone in hand, already on edge. His driver stood by the door. Everything was routine.

Then—

“Good morning, Sir.”

He froze.

Slowly… painfully slowly… he turned.

Aria stood by the entryway, tablet tucked under her arm, dressed in a crisp white blouse and fitted black skirt. Professional. Polished. Annoyingly calm.

And smiling.

“What are you doing here?” Damian asked.

“Going to work,” she replied brightly. “Like you.”

He frowned. “Your car isn’t ready.”

She blinked. “Car?”

“Yes. Yours. Your driver will take you.”

Aria tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because,” Damian said tightly,...