The door to the private studio clicked shut, and Aria finally exhaled. The breath left her lungs in a shaky rush, her legs turning to jelly. She leaned against the heavy oak door, sliding down until she hit the cold floor.
He knows.
No, he suspects. There is a difference.
Her hands were trembling. Not from fear—she had burned fear out of her system years ago—but from the sheer adrenaline of being that close to him. To Damien. The man who had broken her heart into so many pieces she had to glue them back together with gold and spite.
She pulled out her phone. It was a secure line, encrypted by a four-year-old.
"Leo," she whispered into the voice note, typing rapidly. "Code Red. He has my pen. Possible DNA trace."
Three seconds later, a reply popped up.
Leo: On it. Accessing LabCorp servers now. Don't worry, Mom. Unless you drooled on it, the sample size is microscopic. I can corrupt the data packet before it reaches his inbox.
Aria let out a laugh that sounded half like a sob. God, she loved her son.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. She couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not in the enemy's castle.
She looked around the studio Damien had prepared. It was impressive. A drafting table made of glass, a high-end 3D printer, trays of velvet for gems, and a view of Manhattan that cost more than most people's lives.
But there was a catch.
One entire wall was glass. It looked like a mirror on this side, but Aria knew exactly what it was. A two-way mirror.
Damien was watching her.
...
On the other side of the glass...
Damien Sinclair stood with his arms crossed, staring at the woman in the next room.
Through the one-way glass, he watched Vera pace around the room. She touched the drafting table. She adjusted the light. She took off her blazer, revealing bare, pale arms.
Damien's eyes tracked the movement of her shoulders.
"There is no scar," Marcus said quietly, standing beside him.
Damien didn't blink. "Make-up. Laser surgery. It has been five years, Marcus. People change their skin."
"Or... it is just not her, Sir."
Damien turned his head slowly, his grey eyes piercing through his assistant. "Did you send the pen?"
"Yes, Sir. It is en route to the private lab. Rush order. We will have results in four hours."
"Good."
Damien turned back to the glass. Vera was now sitting at the desk, sketching furiously. She chewed on the end of her pencil—a habit Aria used to have when she was stressed.
It has to be you, Damien thought, his chest aching with a familiar, hollow pain. Because if it is not you, then I really have lost my mind.
Suddenly, the intercom on Marcus's desk buzzed.
"Mr. Sinclair? Miss Elena is here."
Damien's jaw tightened. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Send her in."
A moment later, the doors opened. Elena walked in as if she owned the building. She was blonde, petite, and wore a white dress that made her look like an angel. But Damien knew better. Angels didn't have poison in their veins.
"Damien, darling!" Elena cooed, walking over to him. She tried to kiss his cheek, but he turned away, so her lips landed on air.
She didn't look fazed. She was used to his coldness. It was part of the arrangement.
"I heard you hired a new designer for my ring," Elena said, her voice sugary sweet. "I wanted to meet her."
She walked towards the glass wall. She looked at Vera.
"Oh," Elena paused. Her blue eyes narrowed into slits. "She looks... familiar."
Damien watched Elena carefully. "Does she?"
"Yes," Elena tapped her chin. "She looks like that little maid you used to have. The one who... ran away."
"Aria was my wife, Elena. Not a maid," Damien corrected her, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Elena giggled. "Technicalities. Anyway, this one looks... cheap. Are you sure she can handle the Sinclair diamond?"
"She is the best in Europe," Damien lied. "And she is designing the ring I want. Not the one you want."
Elena turned to him, her smile faltering. "We are getting married in three months, Damien. The Grand Alpha of the East Coast needs a Luna. You promised your grandfather."
"I promised to marry a suitable partner," Damien stepped closer to her, his Alpha aura flaring, making the air heavy and hard to breathe. "I did not promise to be nice about it. Now, get out. I have work."
Elena paled. She took a step back, clutching her designer bag.
"Fine," she hissed. "But I will be checking on the ring. And on her."
She stormed out, slamming the door.
Damien rubbed his temples. He hated the politics. He hated the Council. He hated everything about his life since the night Aria left.
He looked back at the glass. Vera had stopped sketching. She was staring at the mirror, almost as if she could see him.
She raised her hand.
And flipped him off.
Damien blinked. Then, a low, rusty sound bubbled up in his throat. A chuckle.
"Feisty," he whispered.
...
The Plaza Hotel, Room 1408.
"Leo! Stop eating the firewall! I mean... stop eating the chips!"
Mia was jumping on the bed, wearing a superhero cape made from a hotel towel.
Leo sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by three laptops and a maze of cables.
"Mia, silence. I am currently rewriting the genetic code of a pen cap," Leo muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Is Daddy going to catch us?" Mia asked, flopping onto her stomach and swinging her legs.
"He is trying," Leo said, his screen reflecting code in green and red. "The lab just uploaded the raw data. It is a 99.9% match to Aria Sinclair."
"Uh oh," Mia said. "That sounds bad."
"It is bad. If he sees this, he will come here with an army," Leo frowned. "I need to intercept the packet before it hits his email server."
He typed a command. ACCESS DENIED.
"Damn," Leo cursed. "He has a military-grade encryption on his personal server. I can't delete the file."
"Can you... change it?" Mia asked, poking the screen with a sticky finger.
Leo paused. He looked at his little sister. Sometimes, her simplicity was genius.
"I can't delete it... but I can swap the reference file," Leo's eyes lit up. "I can make the system compare Mom's DNA to... a baboon."
He grinned—a sharp, wolfish grin that looked exactly like Damien's.
"Executing swap protocol," Leo whispered. He hit ENTER.
...
Sinclair Tower, 5:00 PM.
Damien's computer pinged.
Subject: DNA ANALYSIS REPORT - PRIORITY ONE
His heart stopped.
He sat down heavily. His hand hovered over the mouse. This was it. The truth.
Marcus stood silently in the corner, holding his breath.
Damien clicked the file.
The document opened. He scrolled past the scientific jargon, looking for the summary at the bottom.
SAMPLE A (PEN CAP) vs SAMPLE B (ARIA SINCLAIR ARCHIVE)
RESULT:
NEGATIVE MATCH.
GENETIC DISCREPANCY DETECTED.
PROBABILITY OF RELATIONSHIP: 0.00%
Damien stared at the screen. The numbers blurred.
"Negative?" he whispered.
"It seems... conclusive, Sir," Marcus said gently.
Damien read the fine print. Subject appears to have markers consistent with Eastern European descent. No match to Sinclair bloodline or known associates.
Damien leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The hope that had been burning in his chest all day was suddenly extinguished, leaving him cold and empty.
"It is not her," Damien said, his voice void of emotion.
He looked at the glass wall. Vera was packing up her things to leave. She looked tired.
"It is not her," he repeated, trying to convince himself. "She is just a stranger."
He stood up and walked to the door.
"Marcus."
"Sir?"
"Tell security to relax the surveillance on her. She is just an employee."
"Yes, Sir."
Damien walked out of the office, heading to the elevator. He needed a drink. A strong one.
As the elevator doors closed, he didn't see the computer screen flicker.
For a split second, a small, pixelated icon of a smiling wolf appeared in the corner of the DNA report. It winked.
And then it was gone.
...
The Lobby.
Aria walked out of the elevator, her heels aching. It had been a long day of pretending.
She walked towards the exit, desperate for fresh air.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed her arm.
She spun around, ready to fight.
It was Damien. He looked disheveled. His tie was loose, and he smelled of whiskey and sadness.
"Mr. Sinclair?" she asked, keeping her guard up.
"You really aren't her," he murmured, looking at her with glassy eyes. He wasn't angry anymore. He looked defeated.
"I told you," Aria said softly. Seeing him like this... broken... it hurt more than his anger.
Damien let go of her arm. He took a step back.
"My apologies, Vera," he said, his voice formal and stiff. "I mistook you for... a ghost."
He turned and walked away into the rain, not waiting for his driver.
Aria watched him go. She stood under the awning of the Sinclair Tower, watching the father of her children walk alone into the dark city.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Leo: Did it work?
Aria looked at Damien's retreating back.
Me: Yes. It worked.
She should be happy. She was safe. Her secret was kept.
But as she walked towards her taxi, Aria wiped a single tear from her cheek.
"Rule Number Two," she whispered to the rain. "Never feel sorry for the enemy."