The message was sent.
No fanfare. No dramatic music. Just the quiet stillness of a choice made, the kind that shifted the weight in Aria’s chest enough to breathe again.
She didn’t expect an immediate reply.
Damian wasn’t the kind of man who operated on impulse—he calculated, waited, read between every line. But still, when her phone buzzed less than an hour later, her heart skipped.
Tomorrow. 8 p.m. The Belvedere. I’ll wait.
There was no pressure in the words. No demand. Just a place, a time, and the kind of patience that unsettled her more than any urgency would have.
She stared at the message for a long time. The Belvedere was one of the oldest rooftop restaurants in the city, the kind of place that overlooked the skyline like it owned it. A place she never thought she’d have reason to step foot in.
A place that now felt like a crossroads.
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