Damien stays.
Of course he stays. What choice does he have? Victoria's ultimatum hanging in the air, my threat of exposure looming over everything, and a ballroom full of witnesses watching the whole thing unfold like it's dinner theater.
He stays, and Victoria's face goes from fury to something colder. Something calculated.
"I see." She releases his arm like it's contaminated. "Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss tonight."
She turns. Walks toward the exit with her head high, back straight, every inch the society princess who's just been publicly humiliated.
I should feel victorious.
Instead, I feel sick.
The ballroom's still quiet. Everyone pretending they didn't just witness that scene. Conversations resume at half-volume, charged with the kind of gossip that'll fuel society pages for weeks.
Damien's standing there looking like he just watched his life implode. Which, fair. He probably did.
"We're leaving," I tell him quietly. "Now."
I don't wait for his response. Just walk toward the exit, knowing he'll follow because he has to. Because I own him for eighteen more nights and we both know it.
The car ride back to my office is silent. Tense. I can feel him wanting to say something, the words building up like pressure in a closed system.
"Don't," I say before he can speak. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"She's going to make this complicated."
"It's already complicated." I stare out the window at the city sliding past. "You made it complicated the second you agreed to my terms."
"You made it complicated when you showed up at my engagement party."
Fair point.
The car pulls up to my building. I get out without looking at him. "Night Three is tomorrow. Seven PM. I'll send you the address."
"Aria—"
"Ms. Sterling. And I'm done talking tonight."
I leave him standing on the sidewalk. Walk into my building. Take the elevator to the 68th floor. Unlock my office.
And only then, alone in the dark, do I let myself feel it.
The guilt. The shame. The knowledge that I just humiliated a woman who never did anything to me except have the bad judgment to get engaged to the wrong man.
Victoria Sterling isn't the enemy. She's just collateral damage.
Just like I was three years ago.
Maya shows up at my apartment the next morning at 6 AM with coffee and a worried expression.
"We have a problem," she says without preamble.
I'm still in my pajamas, haven't slept more than three hours, feel like death warmed over. "What kind of problem?"
"Victoria Sterling hired a private investigator." Maya pulls out her tablet. Shows me a report. "He's been digging into your background. Your time after Kane Tech collapsed. The jobs you worked. The... everything."
My stomach drops.
"How deep has he gotten?"
"Not far yet. But Aria, if he keeps digging..." She doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. We both know what he'll find.
The escort work. The bankruptcy. The small, desperate pieces of my past that I've tried to bury under expensive clothes and corporate power.
"Can we stop him?"
"Maybe. But it would look suspicious. Might make Victoria push harder." Maya sits across from me. "There's something else. He's following Damien too. Has been since the gala. Which means..."
"Which means he'll see us together. At whatever Night Three entails." I press my fingers against my temples. "Shit."
"You could cancel. Tell Damien the deal's off. Cut your losses."
I could. Should, probably. But the idea of stopping now, of letting Damien off the hook with eighteen nights still owed...
"No." I stand. "We continue as planned. Let Victoria's PI follow us. Let him take pictures. I don't care."
"You should care." Maya's voice is gentle. "If this gets out—the real story, the revenge plot, the twenty-one nights deal—it won't just hurt Damien. It'll hurt you too. Stellar Holdings. Everything you've built."
She's right. Of course she's right.
But I'm too far in to stop now.
"Send me everything we have on the PI," I tell her. "And increase security at my apartment. If he's digging into my past, he might try to get physical access."
Maya nods. Stands to leave. Pauses at the door. "Aria? Are you okay?"
Am I okay? I'm blackmailing my ex-lover into sexual submission, I haven't slept properly in weeks, I'm about to take him back to the hotel where we first slept together, and his angry fiancée has hired someone to destroy me.
"I'm fine," I lie.
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face. But she leaves anyway, because what else is there to say?
I'm fine. I have to be fine.
Because fine is all I have left.
I'm reviewing contracts in my office that afternoon when my assistant buzzes.
"Ms. Sterling? There's a... delivery for you."
"I didn't order anything."
"It's not a package. It's a person. He says he's from Cross Capital Management."
My heart stutters. "Send him in."
But it's not Damien who walks through my door. It's James Park, his CFO. The one who knows about us, about what Damien did three years ago.
"Ms. Sterling." He's nervous. Shifting his weight. "I apologize for coming unannounced."
"Mr. Park." I gesture to a chair. "What can I do for you?"
He sits. Doesn't meet my eyes. "I wanted to... I'm not even sure what I wanted. To plead Damien's case, maybe? To ask you to show mercy?"
"And why would I do that?"
"Because whatever he did to you—and I know it was terrible, I'm not minimizing it—he's been destroying himself over it for three years." James finally looks at me. "I've known Damien for eight years. He's brilliant, ruthless, all the things you'd expect. But after what happened with your father, with you... he's been different. Hollow."
"Good." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "He should feel hollow."
"Maybe. But here's the thing—I don't think he needs you to punish him. He's been punishing himself just fine on his own."
I lean back in my chair. Study James Park. He seems sincere. Concerned for his friend.
"Did Damien send you here?"
"God, no. He'd kill me if he knew I came." James runs a hand through his hair. "I'm here because... I did some research on you too. After the gala. After seeing you with him."
My defenses go up. "Did you."
"You live alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. You work eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. You have no social life, no friends besides your assistant, no hobbies. You go to work and you go home and that's it." He pauses. "You're not living, Ms. Sterling. You're just existing. Just like Damien."
The words hit harder than they should.
"That's none of your business."
"You're right. It's not." He stands. "But I watched what guilt did to Damien these past three years. How it ate him alive. And now I'm watching revenge do the same thing to you. You're both destroying yourselves over what happened, and I just... I guess I wanted to say that out loud. For whatever it's worth."
He walks to the door. Pauses.
"He loved you, you know. Really loved you. What he did—his father forced him. Threatened his mother's life. I'm not saying that makes it okay, but... it's not as simple as you think."
"Nothing's ever simple," I say quietly.
"No." James gives me a sad smile. "It's not."
After he leaves, I sit in my office staring at nothing.
Is he right? Am I just existing?
I think about my apartment. The one-bedroom I've kept even though I could afford a penthouse now. The place I chose specifically because it's the same square footage as the apartment I had when I was broke, when I was nobody, when I was eating ramen and wondering if I'd survive the month.
I kept it because I didn't want to forget. Didn't want to get comfortable. Didn't want to become the kind of person who forgets where they came from.
But maybe I kept it because I'm punishing myself too. For trusting Damien. For loving him. For being stupid enough to think I was special.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
I know what you're doing to him. And I know why. But here's what you don't know: I have copies of everything. Every piece of evidence you have on Damien, I have copies. Try to destroy him, and I destroy you both. —V
Victoria.
Shit.
Another text, this one from my actual phone with Damien's contact info that I've never deleted:
Night Three. I'll be ready.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
Then I open my laptop and pull up the reservation I made yesterday. The one I've been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
The Venetian Hotel. Las Vegas. Presidential Suite.
The place where we first made love three years ago.
The place where I fell for him completely, stupidly, irreversibly.
I'm taking him back there. Back to the scene of the crime. Back to where it all started.
And I have no idea if I'm strong enough to survive it.
The flight to Vegas is tense.
Private jet—one of Stellar Holdings' perks—just me and Damien and thirty thousand feet of awkward silence.
He's wearing jeans and a button-down. Casual. I told him to dress down, not to bring luggage. We're only staying one night.
One night in the place where everything began.
"Why here?" he finally asks as we're somewhere over Colorado. "Of all the places you could've chosen for Night Three, why the Venetian?"
"You know why."
"To torture me with memories?"
"To remind us both what we lost." I don't look at him. Keep my eyes on the clouds outside the window. "You destroyed something beautiful, Damien. Something real. I want you to remember that. Really remember it."
"I remember it every day."
"Good." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Then tonight you'll remember it all over again."
We land at McCarran just after 5 PM. A car takes us straight to the Venetian. The hotel's exactly how I remember it—opulent, overwhelming, dripping with the kind of luxury that Vegas does better than anywhere else.
The Presidential Suite is on the 35th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. Massive living room. Dining area. Multiple bathrooms.
And one bedroom.
One bed.
Where we first slept together three years ago after that conference. Where he'd kissed me like I was precious. Where he'd whispered that he'd never felt this way about anyone.
Where I'd believed every word.
"Aria." Damien's voice behind me. Soft. Wrecked. "I can't do this."
"Can't do what?"
"Be here. In this room. With you. Pretending I don't remember—" He breaks off. "I remember everything. Every moment. Every word you said. Every time you laughed. The way you looked at me the morning after like I was something worth keeping."
I turn to face him. He's standing by the window, backlit by the Vegas sunset, looking exactly like he did three years ago.
Looking like the man I loved before I knew he was a lie.
"Do you remember what you said to me?" I ask. "That first night? When we were lying in that bed and you thought I was asleep?"
His face goes pale. "Aria—"
"You said 'I'm going to marry this girl.'" The memory's sharp as glass. "You said it so quietly I almost didn't hear. 'I'm going to marry this girl and spend the rest of my life making her happy.'"
A tear slides down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away.
"I meant it," he whispers. "God help me, I meant every word."
"And then you destroyed me anyway."
"And then I destroyed you anyway." He closes his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Aria. I'm so fucking sorry."
For a moment—just one brief, dangerous moment—I want to go to him. Want to close the distance between us and let him hold me and pretend the last three years never happened.
But they did happen. And I can't forgive that. Can't forgive him.
Can't forgive myself for still wanting to.
"Night Three starts now," I say instead. "And here's what's going to happen. We're going to have dinner. We're going to talk. And you're going to tell me the truth. All of it. Every detail of how you destroyed my life. No lies. No excuses. Just truth."
"And after that?"
I walk to the bedroom. Stand in the doorway.
"After that, we'll see."