The billionaire's secret vow

The cold night air hit Aria like a slap as she rushed out of the grand, glittering ballroom. Her heels clicked against the marble steps as she descended, chest rising and falling with a silent fury. She stood just outside the gilded entrance, wrapped in shadows, the hum of the music fading behind her. Her hands trembled as she clutched her purse tighter, blinking rapidly to push back the sting in her eyes.

What was that?

What had she just witnessed?

Damian. Selene. And a f**king kiss.

The image scorched her mind again—Selene’s perfectly painted lips pressing against Damian’s like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

Inside, the mood in the ballroom shifted.

Damian pulled back roughly from Selene, wiping his mouth as if her touch disgusted him. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Selene smiled, unfazed. “Oh, come on, Damian. Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me. We both know this... whatever this marriage is, it’s not real.”

His jaw clenched. “My marriage is none of your f**ing business. You cheated on me, Selene. There’s no ‘us’ to miss. Don’t ever pull a stunt like this ever again, or you will regret it.”

“Still so cold,” she whispered with a seductive edge, brushing a hand down his chest.

He pushed her hand away with finality, eyes already scanning the crowd, panic brewing in his chest.

Where was Aria?

He stormed toward the exit.

Aria stood by the valet podium, looking out at the city lights with her back stiff. She heard the heavy sound of footsteps and didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

“Look, that wasn’t—” Damian started, voice low, laced with something close to guilt.

Aria turned slowly, her expression a cool mask. “If you’re done with what you were doing, I’d like to go home now.”

Damian’s brows furrowed at her tone. Cold. Distant. That wasn’t the woman who’d just ran out of the ballroom.

He exhaled sharply and pulled out his phone. “Call my driver,” he told the valet.

The car ride back to the estate was silent. Not the comfortable kind—this silence was heavy, suffocating, filled with things neither of them wanted to say. Aria stared out the window, her reflection in the glass more expressive than her actual face. Damian kept glancing at her, frustrated and unsure why her silence unsettled him this much.

The moment they got back, Aria walked past him without a word, going straight up the stairs.

Jaxon was lounging on one of the living room chairs, boots propped up on the coffee table. He looked up from his phone and raised a brow as Aria disappeared around the corner.

“She looks like she’s ready to murder someone,” he muttered.

Damian loosened his tie, frustrated. “What are you doing here? Put your leg down.”

“Lemme guess—Selene?” Jaxon drawled with a smug grin.

Damian shot him a look.

“Oh, I knew that vampire wasn’t done stirring the pot,” Jaxon continued. “So what happened? She pour her poison in your ear or your mouth this time?”

“She kissed me,” Damian muttered.

Jaxon whistled. “Damn. What did Aria do? Slap her? Punch you?”

“No,” Damian said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “She just... walked away.”

“Damn,” Jaxon said again, but this time it was laced with something else. “That’s worse. The walk-away means she’s actually mad. Like, nuclear-level mad..”

Damian stared at the floor, jaw tight.

Jaxon leaned forward. “You like her, don’t you?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Jaxon smirked. “Admit it. She is getting under your skin.”

“Go to hell,” Damian muttered, then stood and walked upstairs.

“Already live there,” Jaxon called after him. “Rent’s due on Monday!”

Damian ignored him, footsteps heavy as he reached Aria’s room. He opened the door slowly, but the lights were already off. In the soft glow of the moon, he saw her figure curled on the bed, one arm wrapped around a pillow. Her face was turned away from the door, but her posture said everything—tense, closed off, exhausted.

He stood there a moment longer than he intended to, the anger in his chest replaced by something quieter, something that felt dangerously close to regret. But he didn’t go in.

He closed the door.

Sunday mornings in the estate were quiet.

Aria didn’t leave for the shop today. She stayed behind, drawn to the garden as if it could offer her some sort of peace. The flowers, at least, didn’t lie. They bloomed without betrayal. They didn’t let ex-lovers kiss them at galas.

She knelt beside a bed of pink peonies, her hands brushing the delicate petals. The warmth of the sun was on her back, but her thoughts were cold and scattered.

Damian watched her from the hallway, hidden by the curtains of the upstairs balcony. He didn’t mean to spy, but something about her posture kept him rooted. Then he heard her voice.

“I mean seriously,” she muttered, stabbing the dirt a little too hard with a spade. “Who lets their ex kiss them in front of their wife?”

Spade jab.

“No respect,” she huffed. “Absolutely none.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

She wasn’t done.

“And of all people... Selene. That helium-voiced harpy.”

He bit back a chuckle.

She stood, brushing soil from her gloves, eyes narrowed toward the rose bush as if imagining Selene’s face on it.

“But then again,” her voice dropped, “what did I expect? This marriage was never real. He’s never going to look at me the way he looked at her.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He hadn’t realized he’d moved until his hand gripped the balcony rail. Part of him wanted to march downstairs and say something—anything—to erase what she'd just said. But another part, the one still guarded, still scarred by betrayal, recoiled at the softness blooming in his chest.

He turned away and slammed the door behind him.

The sound echoed down the hallway.

And in the garden, Aria looked up.