Crossfire Vows

At the Cross estate, the dining room was considered a place of restraint, white, wide, and cold by definition. Chandeliers hung like frozen suns above a long marble table, where three people sat in a triangle of tension.

Damien leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his eyes unreadable.

Vivian Cross, Damien's mother, cut into her filet with practiced control, each slice deliberate, each word sharper than her knife. On the other hand, Sebastian Cross watched the exchange with the calm of a man who'd made his fortune ending wars and negotiations before they started.

"You're out of time," Vivian stated, her gaze never lifting from her plate.

"Thirty. No wife. No heir. And now the vultures are whispering." Damien swirled his wine glass slowly, watching the crimson spiral like it might answer for him. Right now, he knew he was not an honorable son.

"Let them whisper," he said. "They're good at that." His voice was silk over concrete. "They're not just whispering," his father said. "They're watching. The board. The investors. They want a future, Damien. Not just numbers."

"I've built that future," Damien replied. "Every deal, every expansion that was me. Not a woman in white with a matching hashtag." "You may be the empire," his mother said. "But an empire without a legacy is just a story waiting to collapse."

Damien leaned forward. "So we're back to this, arranged marriages like it's the damn 1800s?" "You'll meet her tomorrow," his father said. "She's from a family we trust. Raised well. Grounded. Not one of those plastic women you usually parade around."

He rolled his eyes. "And what's her name?" His mother finally looked up, eyes sharp with pride. You want her investigated? Whatever you may find about her, she is the one we have chosen.

"Aria Drevan."

Silence. "What?" "You heard me,". Damien blinked once. The image returned like a punch—rain slashing down, a rock flying, glass shattering, and a pair of eyes that looked ready to kill.

His lips twitched. "Oh, we've met, and trust me, she is an angel."

Across the city, in a modest house lined with potted lilies and cracked windows, Aria stirred her soup without appetite. Around the table, her aunt and uncle were eating silently. The invitation envelope was still unopened between them. The silence was heavy, like something waited in it. Early, when she had gotten home, the name Damien Cross had been thrown in her face. That's the man we have selected. Get your best dress, you're going on a date. She knew him; they had a past. "I already met him," she said, setting her spoon down. What do you mean you already met him? Her aunt Estella Drevan asked.

"In the rain. He drove through a puddle, drenched me in sewer water, then smirked like it was funny. So I threw a rock at his Bentley."

Her uncle Edmund choked on his tea. While Estella stared at the table. "Well… not the story we were hoping to tell our children."

"And this is the man you think I should marry?" Aria questioned. "You're not marrying him," Edmund said cautiously. "You're meeting him. He might be handsome, but he is a lunatic. He will never accept my line of work. Or do you just want me to engage in courtship through humiliation? How romantic."

"People are talking, they'll dig," her uncle said, voice gentler now. "And if they dig too deep, someone might trace something. A marriage, even one that's mostly smoke, buys you silence." She stood, slowly. "So I'm camouflage now?" "No," her aunt said softly. "You're out of time. And this may be the last safe cover we can offer."

Aria didn't reply. She knew they were right. She needed cover. She walked to the window and stared out at the brewing storm. The following evening, Damien arrived first. The restaurant was quiet and exclusive—private booths, soft music, too much linen, and a bottle of whiskey already breathing at his table. He sat with the stillness of a man who had already decided the game's outcome.

But his fingers tapped once against the glass. Then the door opened.

Aria walked in like thunder on heels. Her dress was black, her hair twisted into a sleek knot, and her expression unreadable—but her eyes locked on him without hesitation. She didn't wait for a chair to be pulled out for her. She sat, legs crossed, and met his gaze with all the warmth of a blade.

"Well," Damien said, voice low. "We meet again, soon-to-be wife. And you clean up well. For someone who almost fractured my skull with landscaping material."

Aria smirked. "And you still have that face that screams 'throw another rock.' I'm impressed."

I am not interested in your smooth talk. "Okay then, let's drop the polite questions," Damien said finally, pouring her a drink.

"Why are you here?" "My aunt and uncle think I need 'structure,'" Aria said. "Which is their way of saying I'm not normal enough for the world."

"And what do you think?" "I think... I need a distraction," she said coolly.

He raised a brow. "From what?" She smiled without warmth. "You don't get to ask that." Fair enough. "And you?" she asked. "What brings the devil to dinner?"

Damien's smile faded slightly. "My parents think a wife will make me more palatable to investors." "And does it?" "Not yet." They sipped their drinks, each waiting for the other to flinch.

Then Damien raised his glass again. "To whatever the hell this is." Aria clinked hers lightly. "To pretending we're normal until someone believes it." As the waiter cleared their plates, Damien leaned in just slightly. That is a yes to whatever this marriage means. "Do I have an option?"

Dmien smiles and says, "Tomorrow, we meet with lawyers." "Marital contract?" "Full terms. No strings, no drama, come with your conditions", Aria nodded. "Just roses and silence."

"And a warning," Damien added with a grin.

"Oh?"

He tilted his head. "Make sure your flowers don't kill me before the cake."