The silence that followed Damien's declaration was absolute. It wasn't the peaceful silence of a library; it was the suffocating vacuum that precedes a nuclear blast.
Elena Vance didn't breathe. She didn't blink. She stood frozen in the center of the sprawling kitchen, her cream-colored power suit suddenly looking like a costume, her posture rigid as a statue. The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped to freezing.
She is my wife.
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Aria watched the color drain from Elena's face. It started at her neck, vanishing upward until she looked like a wax figure. For a split second, Aria felt a flicker of empathy—no woman deserved to be blindsided like that, not even one as venomous as Elena. But then she remembered the way Elena had looked at her tactical boots, the way she had sneered *"the help,"* and the empathy evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard satisfaction.
Elena's lips trembled. She let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but it was jagged, broken.
"That's not funny, Damien," she whispered. Her voice was thin, stripped of its usual aristocratic polish. "The joke is in poor taste."
"It isn't a joke," Damien said.
He didn't move away from Aria. If anything, he shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against her arm. The heat radiating from his body was a physical weight, a silent claim of territory. His voice was low, vibrating with that Alpha resonance that made the crystal glasses in the cabinets hum.
"Aria and I were married five years ago. We never divorced."
"You... you signed the papers," Elena stammered, her eyes darting between them like a trapped animal. "You told the Council she was gone. You told *my father* you were a free agent. The merger... the alliance..."
"I told the Council she was no longer in New York," Damien corrected, his tone surgical, devoid of apology. "And I signed the papers. That is true. But I never filed them."
Aria's head snapped up. She looked at Damien's profile, sharp and unforgiving as a cliff edge.
*He never filed them?*
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. For five years, while she was scraping by in Paris, eating stale baguettes and sewing in freezing attics; while she was hiding in the shadows of the underground, terrified that a simple credit card check would alert him... she had legally been *Mrs. Damien Sinclair* the entire time?
The realization didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel owned. It made her feel like a chess piece he had kept in his pocket, just in case he needed to play it later.
Elena stumbled back a step, her high heel catching on the edge of the rug. Her composure finally cracked. The mask of the elegant socialite fell away, revealing the snarling jealousy of a wolf denied her kill.
"You lied to us," Elena hissed, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, unnatural light. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the blue irises—the sign of a wolf on the edge of shifting. "The Council sanctioned our engagement. My family invested millions into the Sinclair Group based on a marriage contract. If she is your wife, then our contract is void. You are in breach, Damien. You are committing political suicide."
"Then sue me," Damien said simply.
He didn't posture. He didn't shout. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking at Elena as if she were a minor accounting error on a quarterly report. It was the ultimate arrogance.
Elena turned her venom toward Aria. "And you."
She pointed a manicured finger, shaking with rage. "You think you've won? You think you can just waltz back in here in your dirty clothes, smelling like poverty and rebellion, and steal him back?"
Aria slowly picked up the coffee mug she had set down earlier. She took a deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact over the rim. The dark roast was bitter, grounding her.
"I didn't steal anything, Elena," Aria said, her voice cool and steady, contrasting the fire in the other woman's eyes. "I was here first. And frankly? If you want him so badly, you can have him. But right now, he is the only thing standing between my daughter and a grave. So take your drama, take your engagement ring, and get out of my kitchen."
Elena gasped. "How dare you—"
"Get out," Damien commanded.
He didn't yell, but the Command was laced with Alpha authority. It hit the room like a physical shockwave. Aria felt the hair on her arms stand up; Elena flinched physically, her knees buckling slightly as her wolf instincts forced her to lower her head in submission to a superior rank.
Elena fought it. Her human mind rebelled, her face twisting in humiliation. She looked at Damien one last time, her eyes filled with tears of rage and a promise of vengeance.
"My father will hear about this," Elena spat, backing toward the elevator. "The Council will not let this stand. You are protecting a stray, Damien. And when they come for her, they will take everything you have. They will burn this tower to the ground."
She spun on her heel and stormed into the elevator car. She punched the button so hard her knuckle turned white. The doors slid closed, cutting off her furious glare, leaving behind the heavy, cloying scent of expensive perfume and ozone.
The silence returned. But this time, it was heavier.
Aria didn't look at Damien immediately. She set the mug down on the marble counter with a sharp *click*. Her hands were shaking, just a little. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her exhausted and raw.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said quietly.
"She was going to throw you out," Damien said. He turned to face her, the Alpha mask softening just a fraction. "Security would have removed you. I couldn't allow that."
"So you painted a target on my back instead?"
Aria spun to face him, her eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea what you just did? You just announced to the Council that I am the obstacle to their political alliance! Elena won't just cry about this in her pillow, Damien. She will come for me. She will come for the children!"
"Let her come," Damien said darkly. "Let them all come."
"Stop playing the invincible king!" Aria shouted, her frustration boiling over. "This isn't a game! We are trapped in this tower with a sick child and a four-year-old hacker. We are vulnerable. And you just poked the hornet's nest because you couldn't think of a better excuse than 'she's my wife'?"
Damien stepped forward, invading her personal space. He loomed over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his grey eyes. The air between them crackled with static electricity—the friction of two powerful bloodlines colliding.
"It wasn't an excuse, Aria. It is the truth."
"It's a piece of paper!"
"It is a shield!" Damien roared back, his composure finally snapping. "Do you think I don't know the danger? As my wife, you have diplomatic immunity under Pack Law! The Council cannot touch a Patriarch's mate without a formal tribunal. If you were just a guest, just a 'baby mama,' they could snatch you off the street and I couldn't legally stop them. By claiming you, I placed you under the ancient protections. I placed you under *my* protection."
Aria froze. She searched his face, looking for the lie, looking for the manipulation. She found only a desperate, burning intensity that terrified her more than his anger.
"Protection," she repeated bitterly. "That's always your word, isn't it? You protect me by controlling me. You protect me by lying to me. Five years ago, you divorced me to 'protect' me from a threat you never explained. Now you claim we are married to 'protect' me. Did it ever occur to you to just ask me what I want? Did it ever occur to you that I might want to fight my own battles?"
"I don't have the luxury of asking," Damien said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her face. His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to touch her cheek, to trace the line of her jaw, but was afraid she would burn him. Or perhaps, he was afraid he would never be able to let go.
"I have enemies, Aria. More than you know. And now that they know you are here... now that they know about the children... I will burn this city to ash before I let them touch a single hair on your heads."
Aria felt a traitorous pull in her chest. The scent of him—rain, pine, and that deep, masculine musk—was wrapping around her senses, triggering memories she had spent five years burying in Paris. Memories of his warmth, his strength, the way he used to look at her before the world fell apart.
She swatted his hand away.
"Don't," she warned, stepping back. "Don't try to charm me. We are partners in this crisis. Nothing more. Once Mia is cured, I am gone. And I am taking the divorce papers with me."
Damien's jaw tightened. He pulled his hand back, the cold mask sliding back into place.
"We have three weeks," he said coldly. "Let's focus on surviving them."
He walked past her toward the kitchen island, adjusting his diamond cufflinks. "Leo and Mia will need food. The kitchen is fully stocked. I've granted you Level 4 access to the smart system. You can order whatever you need. But you do not leave this floor."
"Leo won't eat your food," Aria said, crossing her arms defensively. "He thinks you poisoned it."
"He is paranoid," Damien noted, pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee.
"He gets that from you," Aria shot back.
"He gets his genius from me," Aria added. "He gets the paranoia from being hunted for half his life."
Damien paused, the cup halfway to his lips. A shadow crossed his face. He looked toward the hallway leading to the East Wing, where his children were hiding.
"Is he..." Damien hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty for the billionaire CEO. "Is he truly good with the computers? Or is that just a mother's pride?"
Aria almost laughed. "He bypassed your firewall in under three minutes, Damien. He looped your security cameras so we could walk into your vault undetected. He is not 'good.' He is a prodigy. And he hates you."
Damien took a sip of coffee, staring into the black liquid as if it held the answers to his failures. "Hate is better than indifference. Hate implies emotion. Hate can be worked with."
"You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to."
Suddenly, a loud *crash* echoed from the East Wing hallway. It sounded like metal hitting a wall.
Aria's heart stopped. She and Damien moved at the exact same instant, abandoning the argument and sprinting toward the sound.
They burst into the guest suite.
The scene that greeted them was not an attack, but it was chaos.
Leo was standing on a velvet armchair, holding a heavy bronze lamp like a baseball bat. His small face was twisted in fury. Dr. Aris was cowering in the corner near the window, clutching his expensive medical scanner to his chest.
"Get away from her!" Leo screamed, his small voice cracking with fear and rage. His glasses were crooked, and his chest was heaving.
"Leo!" Aria rushed forward, grabbing the lamp before he could swing it at the doctor's head. "Leo, stop! It's Dr. Aris! He's helping!"
"He was hurting her!" Leo shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the doctor. "He stuck a needle in her arm while she was sleeping!"
"It was a nutrient IV!" Dr. Aris yelped, adjusting his disheveled lab coat. "The girl is dehydrated, Ms. Thorne! Her metabolism is running at four times the normal human rate fighting the serum. She needs fluids, or her kidneys will fail!"
Aria looked at the bed. Mia was still asleep, looking peaceful despite the commotion. Her silver hair was fanned out on the pillow, and a fresh IV line was taped to her small hand. Her breathing was steady—the first steady breathing she'd had in days.
Aria dropped the lamp and pulled Leo into a crushing hug. He was trembling, his small body rigid with the instinct to protect.
"It's okay," she soothed, stroking his hair. "It's okay, Leo. The doctor is right. Remember the mission? We need her to get strong. The needle is good."
Leo buried his face in her neck, sniffing. He smelled like dust and fear. "I don't trust them, Mom. I don't like this place. The walls... the walls are listening."
Damien stood in the doorway, watching them. He looked at his son—this fierce, terrifyingly intelligent miniature version of himself—defending his sister with a lamp against a full-grown wolf doctor.
Pride swelled in Damien's chest, sharp and painful. The boy had the heart of an Alpha. He had the instincts of a protector.
Damien stepped into the room.
Leo's head snapped up. He pulled away from Aria and glared at his father. The fear in his eyes was instantly replaced by icy calculation.
"You," Leo said.
"Me," Damien replied calmly. He didn't treat Leo like a child. He looked him in the eye, man to man. "Put the lamp down, Leo. You are damaging the antique finish. That is a Ming Dynasty replica."
"I hacked your fridge," Leo announced.
Damien blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Your smart fridge," Leo said, his chin high. "It's on the same network as the HVAC system. I wrote a script. If you try to lock us in this room again, the fridge will overheat its compressor and trigger the fire suppression system in the server room. You'll lose all your data."
Dr. Aris gasped. "He... he can't do that. Can he?"
Damien looked at Aria. She shrugged, a tiny, tired smile playing on her lips. *I told you.*
Damien looked back at his four-year-old son. Most fathers would be furious. Most Alphas would demand submission.
Damien smirked.
"Impressive," Damien said. "Crude, but effective. However, the server room has a halon gas system, not water sprinklers. My data is safe. But you would ruin about fifty thousand dollars' worth of Wagyu beef."
Leo scowled, clearly making a mental note to check the fire suppression specs later.
"Why did you tell that lady that Mom is your wife?" Leo demanded, changing the subject with the speed of a whip.
The room went quiet. Dr. Aris pretended to be very interested in the IV drip settings.
Damien walked closer, stopping just outside of Leo's striking range.
"Because she is," Damien said. "And because in this world, Leo, titles are armor. You use the tools you have to survive. You use code. I use laws."
"I don't want your armor," Leo spat. "I want to leave."
"You can't," Damien said. "Not yet."
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Leo flinched, expecting a weapon.
Damien pulled out a sleek, black device. It was a prototype Sinclair-Phone, unreleased to the public, worth more than a luxury car.
He held it out.
"A peace offering," Damien said. "It has an uncapped data plan and direct access to the tower's external sensors. If you are going to monitor my security, do it with proper hardware. Stop using that piece of junk tablet."
Leo looked at the phone. He looked at Damien. It was the ultimate lure for a tech addict.
"It's a trap," Leo said suspiciously. "You'll track my keystrokes."
"I will," Damien admitted freely. "And you will try to block me. Consider it a test."
Leo hesitated. His little fingers twitched. Finally, greed won out over pride. He snatched the phone from Damien's hand.
"I'll wipe the OS," Leo muttered, retreating to his cot. "Install Linux."
"Good luck," Damien said dryly.
Aria watched the exchange, stunned. It was the strangest father-son bonding moment she had ever witnessed—a negotiation of mutual distrust and technological warfare. But it was a start.
Damien turned to leave, but he stopped next to Aria. His voice dropped so only she could hear.
"Elena is gone, but she triggered a silent alarm when she left the building," he murmured. "My security team just flagged three black SUVs circling the block. They have diplomatic plates, but the transponders are fake."
Aria stiffened. "The trackers from Paris?"
"Maybe," Damien said. His eyes were hard, the grey turning to molten silver. "Or maybe something worse. Those were Russian plates, Aria. But the tech inside the cars? That's Council-grade."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Damien said grimly, "that my enemies and your enemies might be working together."
He glanced at the sleeping Mia, then back at Aria.
"Stay away from the windows."
He walked out, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Aria stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs. The walls of the penthouse felt less like a sanctuary and more like a fortress under siege.
She looked at Leo, who was already furiously typing on the new phone, his face bathed in the blue light of the screen. She looked at Mia, her small chest rising and falling under the influence of the serum.
She touched the pocket of her leggings, where she had hidden a small, twisted piece of metal she had found in the vent shafts earlier. A lockpick.
Three weeks,she told herself.
But as the first tremor of her own suppressed power—the white wolf blood—shivered through her veins, a strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't just fear. It was something older. Something hungry.
Her vision blurred for a second, and when she looked at her reflection in the darkened window, for just a heartbeat, her eyes weren't hazel.
They were white.
Aria blinked, and the color returned to normal. But the cold feeling in her gut remained. The tower might protect them from the SUVs outside. But who would protect the tower from what was waking up inside her?