Sunday morning at the Cross mansion was unusually busy.

Staff moved around quietly, polishing, arranging, restoring order like nothing had ever gone wrong.

Upstairs, Aria was dead asleep.

Knock.

Knock.

She groaned, rolled over, then dragged herself to the door and opened it halfway, hair a mess, eyes barely open.

“…What.”

“Freshen up,” Damian said calmly. “Let’s go jogging.”

She stared at him like he’d suggested ritual sacrifice.

“I’ll pass.”

“No, no, no,” he cut in. “Aria, insist. Or is this how you play the perfect wife role?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Damian, please. I’m exhausted. I need rest.”

He studied her for a second, then shrugged. “Okay. Suit yourself.”

He...