The CEO's Rejected Wife And Secret Heir novel Chapter 165

Chapter 165: Chapter 165 – Damien’s Fear

Aria pov

I didn’t argue. I lay against him in the dark, his arm heavy and warm across me, the city humming forty floors below and Noah breathing safely down the hall, and I felt the weight of a decision already made settle into my bones.

Two days, two days and this would either be over, or it would be the worst thing either of us had ever lived through.

I pressed my face against Damien’s shoulder and chose, one more time, not to be afraid.

His phone lit up on the nightstand.

He reached for it, and I felt his entire body go rigid beside me, every muscle locking at once. I sat up, looked at the screen, and the air left my lungs in one slow exhale.

Another photo. The penthouse window, shot from somewhere high and close, the two of us visible in the golden light — lying together, my face turned into his shoulder, exactly as we’d been thirty seconds ago.

At the bottom, in plain text, two lines.

I see you making your little plans.

I’ll see you before you see me.

Damien was already dialing Reyes, his voice going sharp and controlled, but I sat there staring at that image and felt something harden in my chest, past fear, past anger, into something much colder and much more deliberate.

He’d been watching us plan.

He knew what was coming. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Which meant in two days, we weren’t walking into a trap.

We were walking into his.

Damien’s POV

They wouldn’t let me past the perimeter. I’d known they wouldn’t. Barnes had been explicit — civilian clearance ended at the second barricade, two blocks north of the restaurant, and even my money and my name and the fact that the woman inside was going to be my wife didn’t move a single badge. I’d agreed to this. I’d sat across from Barnes and nodded and said close, not inside and believed, in the clean daylight logic of the planning room, that I could hold to it.

Standing behind the barricade tape at 9:14 PM, watching the river restaurant’s lit windows from yards away, I understood that I had vastly overestimated myself.

"Sir." The uniform nearest me had a voice deliberately calibrated to project calm. "You need to stay behind the line."

"I understand," I said, which was the only safe answer, because what I actually wanted to say would have gotten me removed from the vicinity entirely.

My earpiece was live — Barnes had conceded that much, patching me into the operational channel so I could hear without being inside. Aria’s wire came through as a separate feed, slightly warmer in frequency, her voice reaching me across two blocks and static and the particular hell of standing still while every instinct I possessed screamed at me to move.

I could hear her. She was good, she was so impossibly good — her voice steady and controlled, making conversation with the agent playing her dinner companion, maintaining cover with the ease of someone who had spent years surviving things that should have broken her. I heard her order wine she wouldn’t drink. I heard her laugh at something, light and social, and I knew that laugh wasn’t real because I knew every version of her laugh now, and this was the armor one, the one she wore like a weapon.

The restaurant windows glowed warm and ordinary against the night.

Come on, I thought, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. Come out. Come into the net and let this be over.

Twelve minutes later, the operational channel went taut. Barnes’s voice clipped through the earpiece: "Subject sighted. East side entrance. Moving to confirm."

My hand closed around the barricade tape hard enough to whiten my knuckles.

"Confirmed, Marcus Blackwood. He’s inside."

And then Aria’s voice through the wire, still even, still perfect: "Someone just sat down at the bar, please don’t look."

I closed my eyes for exactly one second. I’d held my brother on the ground in a warehouse. I’d looked into his face and seen what years of rage and abandonment had made of the boy I’d grown up with.

I’d spoken to him — real words, honest ones, the kind I’d spent most of my life incapable of — and I’d believed, stupidly, that it had meant something. That the progress Dr. Hale reported that the visits meant something.

And then I’d let life get comfortable and stopped going, and now Marcus was twenty feet from my fiancée with a gun and a grudge I had helped to build, and there was not one single thing I could do about it from behind a barricade tape.

The guilt of that sat in my chest like something with weight to it. I had made a decision, years ago, that I didn’t believe in anything outside of what I could see and measure and control. The Blackwood’s household had no patience for faith, and I’d inherited that along with everything else I’d spent the last years trying to unlearn. I didn’t pray, in fact I had never prayed. The concept felt foreign in the way some entirely natural human thing can feel foreign when it’s been deliberately removed from your life.

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