Aria Vale
There are nights that stain your soul—nights that change you in irreversible ways. I didn't sleep after the flash of his hands on mine, his voice in my ear, the heat between us still simmering beneath my skin like an open flame.
And I hated it.
I hated that I remembered the exact timbre of his voice when he whispered my name.
I hated that I wanted to hear it again.
The skyline was still dark when I stood barefoot in my apartment, a glass of whiskey clenched in one hand, my phone in the other. I had read Jasper's last message three times already.
Jasper: You're slipping. Either end it, or I will.
He always knew how to hit where it hurt. Jasper had been my anchor when everything collapsed. He helped me build this plan, piece by cold, calculated piece. But now… now I was the unstable element.
I typed, deleted, typed again.
Aria: I'm in control.
Lie.
I tossed the phone on the couch and downed the rest of the whiskey.
I wasn't sure who I was anymore. The woman who walked into Damian Wolfe's tower with a spine of steel? Or the one who let herself feel something when he touched her? Was I using him, or was he dismantling me with that slow, measured stare?
A knock rattled the apartment door—three sharp beats. Not his knock.
Jasper.
I opened the door and he pushed in without waiting for an invitation, trench coat damp with rain, eyes burning with accusation. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"Good morning to you too," I said, walking back toward the kitchen.
"Don't bulls**t me, Aria." He followed me. "You've been off ever since the gala. You were supposed to extract the location files, not flirt with the damn wolf."
I turned slowly, pressing my palms against the cool marble counter. "I got what we needed."
"You got distracted," he snapped. "You're not sleeping. You're stalling. You're catching feelings for the man who destroyed your father's legacy."
I laughed, cold and bitter. "You think this is love? This is war, Jasper."
He stepped closer. "Then act like it. Because if you're not going to finish this, I will. And I won't be delicate about it."
I stiffened. "He's more dangerous than we thought. His father—Jonathan Wolfe—was behind the sabotage, but Damian wasn't just a pawn. He was trying to stop it."
Jasper's eyes narrowed. "Don't rewrite history to justify your weakness."
I stepped toward him, steel in my spine. "I'm not weak. I'm calculating. If he's fractured from within, we use that. We burn him from both ends."
"You're playing with fire."
"No," I said darkly. "I am the fire."
—
Later that night, I found myself standing on the edge of an old industrial rooftop in the Lower District. A place my father used to bring me when he wanted to feel powerful—where he'd whisper about building an empire that could never be touched.
Now it belonged to ghosts.
I wasn't alone. The moment I stepped into the moonlight, I felt him—his presence like gravity.
Damian stood across the rooftop, coat whipping in the wind, hands in his pockets. "Didn't think you'd actually come."
"You followed me," I said flatly.
"I always do," he replied, walking closer. "You come here when you're grieving."
"I'm not grieving," I said.
"Aren't you?"
I hated how he could read me—how his words always slipped past my armor like smoke. His gaze didn't challenge me this time. It studied me. As if he was looking for something he couldn't name.
"You want the truth?" he asked quietly.
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure I wanted it.
"My father used me. I tried to stop what he did to your family, but by the time I found out, the damage was done. I tried to clean it up without turning against my own blood." His voice turned jagged. "I failed."
I stared at him. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because you already know," he said. "And because I think part of you wants a reason not to hate me."
The air between us turned electric—wound tight with all the things we never said. He stepped into my space, inches from me, his scent clean and dark and disarming.
"I can't hate you," I admitted, barely above a whisper. "But I should."
His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. "You're not who I expected, Aria Vale."
"And you're not who I wanted you to be."
His lips were close now—too close.
I wanted to move. To slap him. To kiss him.
But I didn't.
And neither did he.
Instead, he whispered, "You don't have to destroy me to win. You just have to choose."
And with that, he stepped away—leaving me in the dark, the fire burning hotter than ever.
---
I kissed him.
Not on the rooftop.
Not when I should have.
But hours later—back in my apartment, when I opened the door and he was already there, leaning against the wall like he belonged to my world.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't part of the strategy.
It was hunger. It was fury. It was need, tangled in silk and steel.
And I kissed him like he was the last taste of control I had left.
Now, I sat at the edge of my bed, the sheets tangled around my thighs, my heart still hammering like a traitor. Damian was in my kitchen, making coffee like he hadn't just shattered every rule I'd ever lived by.
The kiss had turned into something more—something dark and delicious and reckless. A loss of power. A claiming.
And I let it happen.
Worse—I wanted it to happen again.
I pulled on a satin robe and followed the faint sounds of movement, only to find him bare-chested, tattoos half-glimpsed beneath the soft morning light, pouring black coffee into two glass mugs like this was a damn honeymoon.
"You made yourself at home," I said coolly, crossing my arms.
He didn't flinch. "You kissed me."
"You were in my apartment uninvited."
"You didn't complain." His eyes flicked to mine, and I hated how much heat was in that glance. "Twice."
I walked past him, ignoring the coffee, trying to keep the tremble out of my spine. "We're still enemies, Wolfe."
"Doesn't mean we can't enjoy the war." He leaned back against the counter, watching me. "Unless you regret it."
I stopped. Turned.
Regret?