Chapter 12: The Dinner Party Deception
1095 Words
The dress was a weapon.
Black silk. Deep plunge. A slit that hinted rather than revealed. It shimmered beneath the lights like moonlight on still water—dangerous in its stillness, devastating when disturbed.
It wasn’t just fashion. It was strategy.
Because tonight wasn’t a party.
It was war.
Aria studied herself in the floor-length mirror in the guest suite of Blackwood Tower. Her hair swept into a low chignon. Diamond studs like frost on her earlobes. The ring—his ring—flashing coldly on her left hand.
She barely recognized the woman staring back.
Mrs. Dominic Blackwood.
Fake. Temporary. Beautiful.
A lie in heels.
The bedroom door opened without warning.
Dominic’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror—sharp suit, darker eyes. Regal. Untouchable. A walking contradiction: the man who had taken her breath once… and now made it catch for entirely different reasons.
His gaze traveled the length of her. “That dress wasn’t made for modesty.”
“It wasn’t made for shame either.”
A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
“I wanted tonight to be easy,” she added, turning to face him. “But nothing about you ever is.”
“Good,” he said. “Easy doesn’t survive in my world.”
She slipped past him and didn’t miss the way his gaze followed her stride like it was an instinct he hadn’t consented to.
The gala pulsed with money and pride. Chandeliers like crystal galaxies spun light across the ballroom. Waiters moved like dancers. Music wrapped the air in velvet.
The Blackwood Foundation’s Winter Benefit: the crown jewel of New York’s high society calendar.
The second Aria and Dominic descended the marble stairs, the crowd shifted—parting like silk, then closing in around them with whispered curiosity.
“There she is.”
“She’s younger than I thought.”
“She must have something on him.”
“Look at that dress. Desperate much?”
“I give it six months.”
The whispers slid against her skin like ice. Dominic said nothing, but his hand pressed against the small of her back, grounding her without warmth.
She’d prepared for this.
But she hadn’t prepared for Gemma.
The crowd parted again—not for respect, but fear.
Gemma Reese stepped into the room like she’d written the invitation list and fired the photographer who got her bad angles. She wore red. Not cherry. Not burgundy.
Blood.
It clung to her body like a dare. Her diamonds were strategically cruel. Her smile—lethal.
Aria felt her before she saw her.
But when she turned… Gemma was already there.
“Well,” Gemma breathed, looking her over, “they say tragedy comes in threes. And here we are.”
Aria blinked. “And what are you tonight? The tragedy, the villain, or just the ghost that won’t die?”
Gemma’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m the memory he hasn’t rewritten yet.”
“Funny,” Aria said, tilting her head. “You look like the past. And I don’t chase history.”
Gemma leaned in close, her breath icy against Aria’s cheek. “You can wear the ring, sweetheart. But it’s my name he moaned when he was too drunk to remember yours.”
Aria stiffened, fury threatening to ripple through her perfectly set hair.
But then—Dominic appeared.
His hand slid around Aria’s waist in full view of the press. Possessive. Deliberate.
“Gemma,” he said coldly. “Did you get lost on the way to irrelevance?”
Gasps fluttered like falling lace around them.
Gemma’s eyes narrowed. But her smile never cracked.
“I never get lost,” she said, retreating like a queen who’d chosen to withdraw—for now.
Two hours later, Aria stood at the edge of the ballroom, wine untouched, compliments growing stale. She was beautiful, mysterious, and elegant. All things Dominic’s wife should be.
And all things she no longer felt like.
Dominic had disappeared into a conversation with a hedge fund magnate. Aria could still see his profile—sharp, composed, unreadable.
She hated how easily he played the game.
And she hated how much she wanted to matter in a room where everyone believed she was replaceable.
She stepped outside.
The balcony was quiet. Manhattan glittered below like a diamond graveyard. Cold air kissed her bare shoulders, sobering and sharp.
“Running?” came Dominic’s voice behind her.
“I don’t run,” she said without turning. “I just breathe better away from noise.”
He came to stand beside her, close but not touching.
“She got to you.”
“Do you mean Gemma, or everyone else?”
His jaw tightened. “She doesn’t define you.”
“No,” Aria said softly. “But she defined you once. And she knows how to make me feel like I’ll always be second to her shadow.”
Dominic turned, his voice lower. “I don’t see her shadow.”
“Then why did you let her touch you?”
“Why did you let her hurt you?”
That silenced her.
“You want to play pretend, Aria?” he said, stepping closer. “Then let’s stop pretending this doesn’t burn.”
He took her hand—slowly, purposefully—and placed it over his chest. His heartbeat was rapid. Unstable. Too real.
“Do you feel that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“That’s you, Aria.”
She blinked.
“Not Gemma. Not the press. Not the contract. You.”
She pulled her hand back like it had caught fire. “You don’t get to say things like that. Not when I don’t know if they’re real.”
He leaned in. “Then kiss me and find out.”
And she did.
She didn’t think. Didn’t plan.
Her hands found his collar and his mouth found hers like the answer to a question they’d both been too afraid to ask.
It was heat and hunger. Precision and pain. A kiss that said:
I hate you for hurting me.
I missed you even when I didn’t know it.
I remember everything.
When they broke apart, Dominic pressed his forehead to hers.
“She’s watching,” he whispered.
Aria didn’t look back. “Let her burn.”
Across the ballroom, Gemma froze with a champagne flute in hand—lipstick-perfect, jaw clenched.
She turned to the nearest reporter and said sweetly,
“Would you like a quote? I’m carrying Dominic Blackwood’s child.”
- Writer
