Chapter 3
1335 Words
Chapter Three
The gala had left Aria dizzy, the echoes of music still thrumming in her veins long after the last guests drifted away. She lay awake in her room, the silk dress discarded in a heap on the floor, her makeup smudged by the weight of too many stares.
But only one stare haunted her.
Nicolas’s.
The way his eyes had burned across the room, tethering her even as Marc Duval whispered poison in her ear. She hated how she felt beneath that gaze—exposed, claimed, as though she belonged to him and not herself.
Aria sat up, restless. Paris at night was a balm, but the penthouse walls pressed too close. She grabbed a coat and slipped out, ignoring the warnings buzzing in the back of her mind. Anything was better than suffocating under Nicolas’s shadow.
The café was nearly empty when she found it—an old haunt near Saint-Germain, the kind of place students and artists used to linger in for hours. She ordered an espresso and pulled out her sketchbook, trying to lose herself in the lines.
But she wasn’t alone for long.
“Trouble sleeping?”
The voice drew her head up sharply. Marc Duval stood there, his smile cutting in the dim light. He was dressed down tonight—no tuxedo, no mask of polite glamour—but his eyes still gleamed with calculation.
She stiffened. “Were you following me?”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly, sliding into the chair across from her without asking. “Paris is small. For the right people, even smaller.”
Aria frowned, but he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Chevalier keeps you caged, doesn’t he? A glass palace with no windows open. I imagine you’re suffocating.” Her pulse quickened. His words struck too close, too precise. “You don’t know me.”
“Oh, but I know him.” Marc’s smile sharpened. “And if he’s set his eyes on you…” He let the implication hang, dark and dangerous. Aria swallowed hard. She should leave. She should walk out and never look back. But instead, she asked, “What do you want from me?”
Marc’s gaze flicked to her sketchbook, then back to her. “Only honesty. You already feel it, don’t you? That he’s not the man your mother thinks he is. That he’s building something rotten beneath the marble floors.” Her mind flashed to the file In Nicolas’s study, the names, the numbers, her mother’s name inked among them.
“You’ve seen things,” Marc said softly, watching her closely. “Haven’t you?”
She didn’t answer. But her silence was enough. Marc leaned back, satisfied. “Good. Then you know I’m not wrong. Nicolas Chevalier is not untouchable. And men like him should not be allowed to win.”
The words slithered Into her mind, tempting. She hated Nicolas, hated the power he wielded over her. Yet hearing Marc speak it aloud, turning her private thoughts into weapons, felt dangerous.
“I don’t need your help,” she said flatly, closing her sketchbook.
He only smirked. “Perhaps not yet.”
When Aria returned to the penthouse, dawn was just breaking. She slipped off her coat quietly, hoping the silence would shield her. But as she stepped into the living room, she froze.
Nicolas was waiting.
He sat in one of the armchairs by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled, a glass of whiskey in his hand though it was barely six in the morning. The gray light of dawn painted him in shadows, his expression unreadable.
“Late night?” His voice was calm, too calm.
Aria’s heart hammered. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His eyes flicked to the sketchbook in her hand, then back to her. “So you went wandering Paris alone.”
“It’s not a crime.”
“No.” His gaze hardened. “But it’s careless.”
She bristled. “You don’t get to tell me where I can and can’t go.”
Silence. Then, slowly, he set down the glass and rose to his feet. Every step he took toward her thickened the air, until she could hardly breathe. He stopped close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of whiskey and cedar clinging to his skin.
“I don’t care where you go,” he said quietly. “But I care who finds you there.” Her pulse jumped. He knew. Somehow, impossibly, he knew about Marc.
“Were you following me?” she demanded. His lips curved faintly. “I don’t need to follow you, Aria.”
The words were a threat and a promise all at once. Her stomach twisted with fury and something darker she didn’t want to name.
“Stay out of my life,” she hissed.
His eyes caught hers, storm-dark, unyielding. “You walked into mine the moment you opened that file.”
The truth of it cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She turned away before her hands could betray their shaking. Without another word, she stormed to her room, slamming the door behind her. But even there, with walls between them, she could still feel him.
Days passed, the tension in the penthouse coiling tighter. Vivienne floated through events and fittings, blissfully unaware, while Aria and Nicolas circled each other like predators in the same cage.
And then Marc reappeared.
It was at another glittering gathering, this one a gallery opening in Le Marais. Aria had gone only to escape the suffocating air of the penthouse, slipping away from her mother’s side to wander the halls lined with canvases.
“Striking, isn’t it?” Marc’s voice at her shoulder made her jump. He nodded toward a painting—violent strokes of red across a black canvas. “Chaos barely contained. Reminds me of someone.”
She exhaled, irritated. “Do you always lurk in shadows?”
“Only when the company is worth it.” His grin was infuriating. “Tell me, does Nicolas know you’re here without him?”. Her eyes narrowed. “Why would he care?”
“Because he likes control. And you, my dear, are the one thing he doesn’t control.” Marc leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Which makes you very, very dangerous to him.” Her heart thudded. Dangerous. The word echoed inside her, both terrifying and exhilarating.
Marc slipped something into her hand before she could react—a slim folder, heavier than it looked. “Proof,” he whispered. “That I’m right. That Nicolas is everything you fear and more.”
She stared at the folder, panic sparking. “I don’t want this.”
“Keep it anyway,” Marc said, his smile sharp. “When you’re ready to see the truth, it will be there.” And just like that, he melted into the crowd, leaving her clutching the folder like contraband.
Aria’s chest tightened. She wanted to throw it away, to rid herself of the weight—but she didn’t. She tucked it into her bag, trembling.
And across the room, she felt it.
Nicolas.
He stood near the entrance, his gaze locked on her, his jaw taut, his entire body humming with restrained fury. He had seen. She didn’t know how much, but he had seen enough.
Their eyes collided across the gallery, and the world seemed to fall silent around them. Her breath caught, her pulse racing, the folder burning against her ribs like a secret too dangerous to keep.
Nicolas didn’t move. He didn’t have to. His stare said everything.
You’re mine.
You’re betraying me.
You don’t know what you’ve just done.
Aria’s throat tightened, panic and defiance clashing inside her. She turned sharply, pushing through the crowd, desperate to escape the weight of his gaze.
But even as she fled, she knew it was too late. The game had shifted. And Nicolas Chevalier would not let her go unpunished.
- Writer
