The sun filtered through sheer curtains, painting Damian’s bedroom in gold. Aria moved like a cat, balancing a tray with scrambled eggs, oats, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Her robe fluttered as she padded to his door, knocked lightly.

“Mr. Cross?”

“Who is it?” Damian’s voice came muffled from under the covers.

“Come in,” he grumbled, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Aria pushed the door open, stepping inside with a mischievous grin. His dark eyes shot up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

She set the tray on the bedside table. “Good morning, my potential husband,” she said sweetly. “Hope you slept well, hubby?”

Damian’s...