Episode 1: The Price
The ballroom of the Cross estate glittered like a lie.
Aria Vale stood at the top of the staircase in a dress that cost more than her mother's house, and watched two hundred strangers smile at her. Every one of them knew what she was. Not a bride. A payment.
"Smile," her mother whispered, adjusting the veil with trembling fingers. "Please, Aria. Just smile."
Her mother hadn't looked her in the eyes all day.
Aria smiled.
At the foot of the stairs stood Damien Cross, tall and perfect in black, his expression unreadable. She had met him exactly four times. Twice to sign papers, once to choose a ring, and once when he had looked at her across a lawyer's table and said nothing at all.
But today, when she reached the last step, something flickered across his face. For half a second he looked at her as if he had seen a ghost.
Then it was gone.
"Mrs. Cross," he said, offering his arm.
The name landed like a stone in her chest.
The vows were short. His voice never wavered. Hers did.
When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Damien leaned in and pressed his lips to her cheek, cold and quick, a signature at the bottom of a page. The room applauded. Cameras flashed.
Aria felt nothing. She had decided, weeks ago, that she would feel nothing. It was the only way to survive this.
The penthouse was on the fortieth floor, all glass and silence.
"Your room is the second on the left," Damien said, loosening his tie. He didn't even take off his coat. "Mine is at the end of the hall. You will not need to enter it."
Aria set down her heels. Her feet ached. "Understood."
"The terms of the contract are in effect from tonight." He walked to the window and stood with his back to her, looking over the city. "You will attend the events I require. You will say what is necessary. In return, your mother's debts are cleared, and your family is protected."
"Protected," she repeated. "From what?"
His shoulders stiffened. It was barely a movement, but she saw it.
"From ruin," he said.
Aria waited. Nothing more came.
She almost laughed. It was ridiculous, how badly she'd wanted something more. A word. A softness. Some proof that the man she'd married was more than a locked door.
"Is there anything else?" she asked.
Damien turned. In the dim light, his eyes were dark and tired, and for a moment she thought he might say something real.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Do not mistake this for something it isn't, Aria. I will never love you. I won't pretend to, not even in private. It's better that you know that now."
The words should have hurt. She told herself they didn't.
"Good," she said, lifting her chin. "Then we understand each other, Mr. Cross. I have no intention of loving you either."
Something moved behind his eyes. It looked almost like pain.
"Good," he echoed. Then he walked past her and down the hall, and a door closed at the end of it.
Aria sat on the edge of her enormous, empty bed and finally let her hands shake.
She didn't cry. She was twenty-two years old, newly married, and entirely alone, and she refused to give this house the satisfaction.
Instead she stared at the ring on her finger. It was heavy and beautiful and cold.
Three years, she told herself. The contract is three years. You can survive three years.
She changed out of the gown, washed the pins from her hair, and lay down in the dark.
Sleep came slowly.
At some point in the night, she half woke to a sound. A soft click of a door. Footsteps, careful and quiet, stopping beside her bed.
She kept her eyes closed. Her heart pounded.
Someone stood there for a long time, so long she nearly stopped breathing. Then a voice, low and rough and barely there, said something she was sure she had imagined.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't tell you."
The footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.
Aria lay frozen in the dark, her pulse roaring in her ears.
It had been Damien's voice.
The man who would never love her had just stood over her bed in the middle of the night and begged her forgiveness.
And she had no idea why.
