Damian's POV
I dreamed of her again.
Not Aria. Arabella. The way she'd looked on our wedding night—hopeful and terrified and so desperately in love with me that it spilled out of her with every hesitant smile. She'd worn a simple white dress. Nothing like the designer creations Camille and her set favored. Just... white. Simple. Pure.
In the dream, she was standing at our penthouse window, looking out at the London skyline. When I called her name, she turned, and her face wasn't hopeful anymore. It was the face she'd worn on our last night together. Broken. Hollow. Her eyes said everything her voice hadn't.
You did this.
I woke up at 3:17 a.m. with my heart slamming against my ribs and her name dying on my lips.
The penthouse was silent. The rain was lashing against the floor-to-ceil
