9:00 A.M. Cross Mansion.

The dining room buzzed with activity.

Fabric swatches, invitation samples, floral catalogs, and venue brochures covered the long mahogany table, turning it into a battlefield disguised as wedding planning.

Damian sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, surprisingly invested in every detail.

"I don't like the ivory invitations," he said, flipping another sample aside. "They're too plain."

The wedding planner blinked.

"Mr. Cross... these were imported from Italy."

"I know," Damian replied calmly. "They're still plain."

Aria watched him over the rim of her coffee cup.

She had expected him to lose interest after approving the venue.

Instead, he had become......