Chapter three:public performance
1180 Words
Aria’s POV
The cameras were waiting before we even stepped out of the elevator.
Ms. Reyes had warned me. “They’ll be on the lobby level. Smile, keep your chin up, and don’t speak unless spoken to.” Easy enough. Except nothing about this felt easy anymore.
Damien stood beside me, one hand resting lightly on the small of my back. Not affectionate. Tactical. The contact was calculated for the cameras, a visual cue that said married couple without crossing the contract’s line.
The doors slid open, and the flashes started.
“Mr. Blackwood! Mrs. Blackwood! Over here!”
“Any comment on the merger rumors?”
“How long have you been engaged?”
I kept my smile in place. The practiced one. The one that didn’t reach my eyes. I’d gotten good at it in one night. That scared me more than the cameras did.
We walked through the lobby like we owned the air. Which, technically, Damien did. The building bore his name on the exterior in brushed steel letters ten feet tall.
Once outside, the car door opened for me. Damien followed, sliding in on the opposite side. The partition went up automatically. Privacy. Or isolation. I wasn’t sure which.
“You were convincing,” he said, breaking the silence first.
“So were you,” I replied. “You’ve had practice.”
He glanced at me, then back to the window. “We have an event tonight. The Blackwood Foundation Gala. Black tie. You’ll be seated next to me.”
“Of course I will,” I said. “Can’t have the wife looking uninterested.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
The car pulled up to Blackwood Tower twenty minutes later. In my suite, a dress hung in the closet, along with a pair of heels and a jewelry box with pieces that probably cost more than my car would have. I didn’t ask who picked it out. I didn’t want to know.
At seven, Ms. Reyes knocked. “You have fifteen minutes.”
The dress was midnight blue, fitted at the bodice and flowing at the waist. It felt like armor. I put it on, checked my reflection, and barely recognized myself. The woman staring back looked composed. Expensive. Safe.
The gala was on the 45th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a string quartet, tables set with crystal and silver. The kind of place where people spoke in low voices and measured every word.
Damien was already at the entrance, speaking with a group of investors. When he saw me, his expression didn’t change. But something in his posture shifted. Approval, maybe. Or just acknowledgment that I hadn’t ruined the plan yet.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, offering his arm.
I took it.
The night passed in a blur of handshakes, small talk, and carefully worded lies. I smiled. I nodded. I answered questions about how we met with the same rehearsed story we’d used at the press conference.
“Charity gala,” I said for the seventh time. “We connected over our shared interest in pediatric healthcare.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Liam’s condition was the only reason I was here.
Halfway through dinner, a woman approached our table. Late forties, sharp eyes, designer everything.
“Damien,” she said, her voice smooth. “I didn’t know you’d remarried.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Eleanor. This is my wife, Aria.”
Eleanor’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How lovely. You’re new to the circuit, aren’t you?”
“Very new,” I said.
She turned back to Damien. “You’ve always had a type. Quiet. Manageable.”
I felt my cheeks heat. Before I could respond, Damien spoke.
“Eleanor, if you’re here to discuss the Q4 portfolio, my assistant can schedule a meeting.”
She laughed, low and amused. “Always business.”
She left, and the atmosphere shifted. Damien didn’t look at me.
“Don’t engage with her,” he said quietly.
“Was that a warning?”
“It’s advice,” he said. “She thrives on conflict.”
I nodded, but the comment stuck. Quiet. Manageable. That’s what he thought I was.
After dinner, there was dancing. I expected him to lead me onto the floor for the cameras. He didn’t.
“The contract doesn’t require it,” he said when I raised an eyebrow.
“So we’re skipping the performance now?”
“We’re skipping the parts that aren’t necessary,” he said.
I watched him from the edge of the floor. He was speaking with a senator now, his posture relaxed, his voice low and controlled. He moved through this world like he’d built it. Which, in a way, he had.
My phone vibrated. Liam.
“Hey,” I answered, stepping away from the noise.
“Sis,” he said, his voice clearer than it had been in weeks. “They said I can start physical therapy next week.”
“That’s great, Liam.”
“Thanks to you,” he said. “I know you did something. You always do.”
I swallowed hard. “Just focus on getting better, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When I hung up, Damien was watching me. Not openly. Just enough that I knew he’d seen.
“Family?” he asked.
“My brother,” I said.
He nodded once. That was all.
The gala ended at eleven. We left the same way we came in—together, but separate. The cameras caught us stepping into the car, hands not touching, expressions neutral. Perfect for the headlines.
Back in the penthouse, the brass line felt wider than ever.
“You handled yourself well,” Damien said as we stopped on opposite sides.
“Thanks,” I said. “So did you.”
He hesitated, then said, “Eleanor was out of line.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I chose you.”
I stopped. “You chose me?”
He didn’t answer. He turned and walked to his wing, leaving me standing there with the question hanging in the air.
I went to my suite and sat on the edge of the bed. The dress felt heavy now. The jewelry felt heavier.
I called the hospital again before bed. Liam was asleep. Nurse Patel told me his vitals were stable, his spirits were up.
“Keep it up,” she said. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
I hung up and stared at the ceiling. The chandelier was still there. A hundred crystals. A hundred reminders of what I’d given up.
I didn’t sleep much. I kept hearing Eleanor’s words in my head. Quiet. Manageable.
I wasn’t quiet. Not really. And I wasn’t manageable.
But for the next year, I had to be.
For Liam, I could be anything.
Even if it meant losing myself in the process.
- Writer
