The elevator ride to the top floor of the Sinclair Tower took exactly forty-five seconds. Aria counted every single one of them.
One. Two. Three...
With each floor they ascended, the air pressure popped in her ears, reminding her that she was entering the lion's den. Or rather, the Wolf's Den.
She checked her reflection in the polished metal doors one last time.
The woman staring back was a stranger. Jet-black bob hair instead of her natural wavy brown. Blood-red lips—*Chanel No. 4*, the color of confidence. A sharp black blazer over a crimson silk camisole.
She looked like a weapon. Not a victim.
*Ding.*
The doors slid open.
The 88th floor was silent. It was a fortress of glass and steel, cold and sterile. The only sound was the hum of servers and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A young male assistant stood at the reception desk. He looked terrified, typing furiously.
"M-Miss Vera?" he squeaked, adjusting his glasses when he saw her.
"That's me," Aria said, her voice smooth, laced with the thick, practiced Parisian accent she had perfected over five years. She didn't smile.
"Mr. Sinclair is... expecting you. But he is in a... mood today. Please be careful."
"I eat 'moods' for breakfast," Aria replied coolly, brushing past him.
She walked towards the massive double doors at the end of the corridor. Her stilettos clicked rhythmically on the marble floor—*click, click, click*—like a countdown.
She didn't knock. She pushed the heavy oak doors open.
The office was exactly as she remembered. Minimalist. Grey. Oppressive. The air conditioning was set to a freezing temperature, fitting for the Ice King who ruled this empire.
Damien stood by the window, his back to her. He was staring out at the storm, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wore a charcoal grey suit that strained against his broad shoulders. He looked bigger than five years ago. More dangerous.
He didn't turn around.
"You're late," he said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into Aria's bones.
Aria checked the diamond watch on her wrist. "It is 9:00 AM exactly, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps your watch is fast. Or perhaps you are just impatient."
Damien stiffened. No one spoke to him like that. Not anymore.
He turned around slowly.
For a second, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Aria felt the air leave her lungs. He was breathtakingly handsome, in a cruel, devastating way. His jaw was covered in a day's worth of stubble, giving him a rugged, untamed look. But his eyes... those grey eyes were haunted. They scanned her body like a barcode reader, searching for something.
Searching for *her*.
Aria held his gaze, channeling every ounce of hatred and acting skill she possessed. She didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
"Vera," Damien tested the name, stepping closer.
The scent of him hit her like a physical blow. **Pine. Rain. Musk.** It was the smell of home. It was the smell of heartbreak. Her inner wolf woke up and whined, scratching at the walls of her mind, desperate to submit to her mate.
*Shut up,* Aria commanded her beast. *He is not our mate. He is our employer.*
"Mr. Sinclair," she nodded, walking past him to the guest chair. She sat down, crossing her legs elegantly. "Shall we discuss the ring? Or are you going to keep staring at me like I owe you money?"
Damien's eyes narrowed. He walked over to her, moving with the silent, predatory grace of a hunter. He stopped right in front of her chair, invading her personal space. He leaned down, placing both hands on the armrests, trapping her.
He inhaled deeply.
Aria's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. *The suppressants. Please work.*
Damien frowned. He smelled... nothing.
Just the heavy, cloying scent of *Midnight Rose* perfume. Expensive. Artificial. It completely masked whatever natural scent she had.
"You wear too much perfume," he muttered, disappointment flashing in his eyes.
"And you drink too much whiskey for a Tuesday morning," Aria shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Are we going to trade insults, or are you going to pay me ten million dollars?"
Damien stared at her for a long moment, his golden flecks dimming back to a cold grey. This woman... she had Aria's face, but she had none of Aria's softness. Aria was a mouse. This woman was a viper.
He straightened up and walked behind his desk, sinking into his leather chair.
"Show me the designs," he commanded, his voice cold again.
Aria opened her leather portfolio. She slid three sketches across the black marble desk.
"Option One," she pointed to a delicate diamond band. "Classic. Boring. Safe. Suitable for a woman who does what she's told."
Damien glanced at it and scoffed. "Next."
"Option Two," she pointed to a massive, gaudy emerald ring. "Flashy. Expensive. Screams 'look at me, I married a billionaire.' Good for press photos."
"Trash," Damien dismissed it without even looking.
"And Option Three," Aria slid the final sketch forward.
This one was different. It was a band of black platinum, twisted like thorny vines. In the center sat a rare blood-red ruby, held in place by the thorns as if the metal was bleeding. It was beautiful, tragic, and dangerous.
Damien's hand froze as he reached for the paper.
He looked at the drawing, then up at her.
"What is this?" he asked softly.
"I call it 'The Cage'," Aria said, leaning forward, her eyes locking with his. "Marriage is a cage, isn't it, Mr. Sinclair? Beautiful on the outside, sharp on the inside. You bleed to get in, and you bleed to get out."
The room went deathly silent. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Damien picked up the sketch. His thumb traced the thorns drawn on the paper.
"You have a very... cynical view of love, Miss Vera," he said, his voice unreadable.
"I don't believe in love," Aria lied smoothly. "I believe in contracts. And consequences."
Damien looked at her. Really looked at her. For a moment, he saw a flash of pain in her eyes, quickly covered by ice. It reminded him of the night Aria left. The night he signed the divorce papers to protect her from the war coming to his doorstep.
A sharp pain pierced his chest.
"Make this one," Damien said hoarsely, tapping the sketch of the thorns. "But change the ruby."
"To what?"
"A blue diamond," Damien whispered, his gaze drifting to the window. "Like the ocean. She... she liked the ocean."
Aria's fingers curled into fists under the table. *Liar. You never took me to the ocean. You locked me in that villa for three years.*
"A blue diamond," she noted down, her voice professional, though her hand trembled slightly. "That will increase the cost by three million."
"Money is irrelevant," Damien waved his hand dismissively. "I want it done in two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Aria laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Mr. Sinclair, art takes time. A month. Minimum."
"Two weeks," Damien's eyes flashed gold again. The air in the room suddenly became heavy, the gravity increasing tenfold. "Or the deal is off."
It was an Alpha Command. It was designed to force submission. A normal human would have fainted. A weak wolf would have been on their knees.
Aria felt the weight crushing her shoulders. Her inner wolf whined, terrified.
But Vera... Vera just smiled.
She stood up, fighting the pressure, forcing her knees to lock. She picked up her portfolio.
"Three weeks," she countered, her voice steady, though sweat was forming at the base of her spine. "And you double the down payment."
Damien blinked. The pressure vanished. He looked at her with genuine surprise. She resisted him? How?
"You are a bold woman, Vera," he murmured, a hint of respect—or was it suspicion?—creeping into his tone.
"I am a mother," Aria said before she could stop herself. "I don't have time for games."
"A mother?" Damien's head snapped up. "You have children?"
Aria froze. *Stupid. Stupid.*
"Yes," she recovered quickly. "Two cats. Very demanding."
Damien studied her face for a long, agonizing minute. Then, the corner of his lip quirked up. It wasn't a smile. It was a smirk.
"Three weeks," he agreed. "But on one condition."
"Which is?"
"You work here," Damien tapped the desk. "I want to oversee the process. I have set up a studio for you in the adjoining room."
"What?" Aria nearly dropped her pen. "That was not in the agreement. I work from my hotel."
"I changed the agreement," Damien stood up, walking around the desk to tower over her again. "I don't trust outsiders with a stone of this value. You work here, where I can see you. Or you can walk out that door and forfeit the contract."
He was testing her. He wanted to keep her close. To figure her out.
Aria looked at the door. She could leave. She could take the kids and run back to Paris.
But then she thought of the "Russian hackers" Leo mentioned. She thought of the safe house the Sinclair Group offered. And she thought of the ten million dollars that would secure her children's future forever.
She looked up at the monster she had once loved.
"Fine," she hissed. "But stay out of my way while I work. I hate being watched."
"We'll see," Damien whispered, opening the door for her.
As Aria walked out, her heart pounding like a drum, she didn't see Damien pick up the pen she had left on the table.
He brought it to his nose.
He sniffed it.
Plastic. Ink. And... underneath the perfume... a microscopic trace of *Vanilla*.
Damien's eyes flew open. They burned with a terrifying intensity.
He picked up his phone and dialed Marcus.
"Cancel my trip to London," he ordered, his voice trembling with dark excitement. "And get me a DNA test kit. Now."
"Sir?"
"She thinks she can hide," Damien stared at the closed door, his lips pulling back to reveal his teeth. "Let the game begin, little mouse."