Married For Vengeance, Pregnant With His Secret

"Congratulations, Mrs Voss."

Aria barely registered the clipboard thrust toward her the final round of signatures for the wedding vendors. Her handshake felt like ice; her lips, still painted a bridal red, were beginning to crack. She scrawled her name Aria Naomi Lawrence-Voss and wondered how many times she'd have to write it before it stopped tasting like ash.

Outside the cathedral, storm clouds had gathered, turning the Manhattan skyline to hammered steel. Paparazzi huddled under umbrellas, vying for a last shot of New York's newest power couple. Damien's security team ushered them toward a bullet-proof Bentley while flashbulbs popped like miniature lightning.

Damien didn't take her hand.

He simply opened the car door, waited for her to slide into the butter-soft leather seat, and closed it with a click too gentle to be kind. Every move he made was precise no wasted words, no wasted gestures, nothing that didn't serve a purpose. Aria wondered if he even knew how to act without calculating the outcome first.

As they pulled away, the city lights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. Aria realized she hadn't breathed in at least thirty seconds. She forced oxygen into her lungs, but it tasted stale, like basement air.

"Take us to the house," Damien told the driver.

"The penthouse is closer," Aria ventured.

His gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. "We need discretion tonight. Reporters camp outside the tower."

Of course. Tonight was not about comfort; it was about optics. Their brand-new marriage couldn't afford a scandal before breakfast.

She folded her hands in her lap, staring at her diamond wedding band a glinting cage. All she could think about was Elena and the hollow crack in their family that would never mend. She pictured her sister leaning against an inky-black headboard, mascara streaked, pulse gone silent while tabloids spun lies about addiction and depression. Lies that started in Damien's orbit.

Was she sitting beside a murderer?

Or just a man who turned away when someone else committed the sin?

The Bentley curved onto a private drive lined with Norway maples. Voss Manor appeared through the windshield three stories of glass and steel jutting from manicured grounds like an upgraded castle. Aria's heart seized. Elena never visited this place, but she'd once texted a photo of its gates at midnight, bragging about a lavish party Damien hosted. Two weeks later, she was dead.

Now Aria crossed that threshold as a wife.

A pawn. Or maybe a queen, if she played her cards well.

Marianne, the head housekeeper, escorted Aria to the main dining room twenty foot ceilings, a chandelier that looked hand-carved from moonlight, silver flatware heavy as small weapons. Two place settings. No guests. No welcome toast.

Damien settled at the head of the table, flipped open a laptop, and began scanning e-mails as though she were invisible.

Aria buttered a slice of brioche she couldn't taste. The tick of an antique clock filled the silence. Her wedding gown felt itchy now, every lace appliqué a tiny accusation.

She tried small talk: "Your chef is talented."

"French-trained," Damien replied without glancing up.

"How long has he worked for you?"

"Since the Singapore acquisition. Five years."

She waited for him to return the question And how long did your family chef work for you? anything to turn this into a conversation. Nothing.

At last he closed the laptop. "Tomorrow morning you'll receive my schedule. Public appearances, investor dinners, charity galas your presence will be required. Our agreement stipulates you'll maintain a polished image."

Aria's throat tightened. "Of course. I'm well aware of image."

"Good." He pushed back his chair. "Feel free to retire. Your suite is on the east wing."

He strode out, leaving her staring at a half-eaten plate of coq au vin that tasted suddenly of rust.

Aria's assigned rooms were opulent: pale-blue damask walls, brocade curtains, a four-poster bed draped in gauzy white. Everything smelled of lilies. She shut the door behind her and collapsed onto a velvet settee. The ache in her feet migrated to her ribs, to her skull an exhaustion deeper than body or bone.

She peeled off her gown and hung it in a mahogany wardrobe, then reached for her silk nightdress. Her shoulder brushed a hidden panel in the wardrobe's side wall click. A slim drawer slid open.

A flash drive lay inside, embedded in velvet.

Heart hammering, she lifted it. The casing was engraved with a small sunflower.

"Sunflower," Aria whispered Elena's favorite. The coincidence chilled her.

She slipped the drive into her robe pocket. Showered in scalding water. Tried to wash off the day. But the drive's weight felt radioactive against her thigh.

What have you left me, Lena?

A house this size slept quietly, its corridors humming with state of the-art security and climate-controlled air. At twelve-thirty a.m., Aria crept barefoot toward Damien's private study. The code Marianne had whispered 1 8 0 4 worked. The door clicked open.

Moonlight spilled across shelves of leather-bound volumes and abstract sculptures worth more than her childhood home. Damien's desk sat under a skylight, paper stacks meticulously aligned. The safe loomed in a corner digital keypad blinking.

Aria's plan wasn't to steal. Just to know. To gather proof she could barter later.

She plugged the sunflower drive into the sleek computer. A folder popped up, encrypted.

Password required.

"Sunflower," she typed. Denied. She tried birthdays, Elena's middle name…nothing.

Footsteps.

She yanked the drive but it snagged; she tugged harder too late. Damien entered, damp hair, T-shirt untucked, gaze blazing.

"Can't sleep?" Calm, deadly.

She swallowed. "Your office is impressive."

He strode closer. "So impressive you broke in?"

"The code was given to me."

"You came for the safe."

"No," she snapped. "I—"

Her words died as his gaze dipped to the drive in her hand. He plucked it free, stared at the sunflower engraving, pupils dilating.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was in my wardrobe drawer."

He ran a thumb over the carving. "Elena's."

Aria's spine tingled. "You recognize it?"

"I gave it to her at a charity gala. She used it to back up presentation files. Why was it in your room?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Their eyes locked. The tension between them felt like a tightrope over fire.

Damien pocketed the drive. "Curiosity is dangerous, Mrs Voss."

"Truth is more dangerous," she countered.

He exhaled a sound half frustration, half respect. "Go to bed, Aria."

She didn't move. "What was on that drive?"

"I'll find out."

"And share it with me?"

A long pause. "When it's safe."

She stepped closer, the silk of her nightdress whispering. "Safe for whom, Damien? You…or me?"

Before he could answer, the hallway security alarm chimed—one soft ping.

Damien stiffened. "Window sensor, east wing."

That was her corridor.

He signaled, lights dimmed to emergency blue, and motioned her behind him. "Stay close."

They moved silently down the hallway. At her suite door, the panel was ajar. Inside, the room looked untouched—except for one thing.

A bouquet of wilted sunflowers on the bedspread. Petals brown, stems weeping.

Damien scanned, pistol drawn. "No intruder."

Aria's pulse throbbed. "They were here. They knew I'd find the drive."

A card nestled among the flowers. She picked it up.

If you dig up the dead,

be ready to join them.

—K

Her vision swam.

Damien took the note, jaw flexing. "Kieran."

"Why sunflowers?" she whispered.

"Because he likes theatrics." He holstered the gun. "I'll increase guards."

"And the drive?"

"I'll decrypt it tonight. You have my word."

Aria nodded, though trust felt like a cliff. Still, for the sake of Elena and her unborn child she needed any ally she could get.

Damien brushed her arm lightly. "Try to rest."

She almost laughed. "Rest?"

"It's a long war," he murmured. "We'll need strength."

Hours later, Aria lay wide-eyed in her suite sunflowers removed, windows sealed. Rain tapped the glass like fingernails.

Her phone vibrated.

A single text from an unknown number:

He lied.

Check the safe at 3 a.m. Alone.

Her gaze darted to the digital clock: 2:57 a.m.

Outside her door, guards paced. Damien was somewhere in his office, excavating secrets. And a voice in her head whispered:

Who do you trust when every promise feels poisoned?

She rose, heart pounding.

Three minutes to decide.