"Handling my husband is my specialty," Aria had boasted to Zoe a few hours ago.
Now, pacing the length of ICU Room 1 in a white ribbed crop top, fluffy pink lounge shorts, and matching fuzzy Croc sandals, Aria realized she was all talk.
She chewed aggressively on her thumbnail, her Crocs squeaking softly against the linoleum.
She had the perfect PR strategy. It was flawless. The internet thought she was a broken, battered victim, and she was going to lean into that narrative so hard. Letting the cast and crew of The Empress's Shadow visit her tomorrow to play out their fake sympathies was a necessary evil.
The problem was the six-foot-three, overprotective, hyper-lethal hurdle standing between her and that plan.
Damien had basically declared martial law on this hospital wing. How on earth was she going to convince him to let the very people who had made her life a living hell waltz right into her recovery room?
