His Bride, His Blood Price
Chapter 13 — The Woman They Would See
Aria's POV
She hadn't worn a gown in years.
Not since Isla's debutante ball — the one Aria had watched from the balcony, hidden in black, while her sister spun under chandeliers in ivory silk and practiced smiles.
Tonight, she wouldn't be invisible.
Tonight, she'd walk beside Lucien Moretti.
She didn't know why he wanted her there — not really. But she knew enough to understand what a gala like this meant.
A public display.
A message.
And she would not be the weak one at his side.
---
Later That Afternoon — Dressing Room, East Wing
Clara fussed over her with quiet reverence.
The estate's best tailor had delivered three gowns an hour ago — all in sleek boxes, custom-fitted with an unsettling level of accuracy. Lucien had clearly arranged it in advance.
"Which one do you like, dear?" Clara asked softly.
Aria stepped forward, fingers brushing over the fabrics.
One was too soft — like something Isla would've worn.
One too bright — too loud for the woman Aria had become.
But the third…
Midnight black. Velvet. With a slit that ran up one thigh and a low, open back that was both elegant and deadly. It shimmered faintly under the golden lights like it had been stitched with secrets.
"This one," she said.
Clara smiled. "I hoped you'd say that."
---
Two hours later, Aria stood in front of the mirror.
Her long hair had been swept into a twisted chignon, a few soft strands framing her face. Her makeup was flawless — not heavy, but sharp. Her cheekbones more defined, her lips a cool rose.
She didn't look like a victim.
She looked like a woman who could kill with a whisper.
Even she had to admit: she was stunning.
And she hadn't done it for Lucien.
She'd done it for every man in that room who would try to dismiss her.
She wanted them to look.
And then regret it.
---
Lucien's POV
He hated these events.
Overdressed men with hidden agendas, champagne that tasted like politics, and women who asked too many questions about his money.
He didn't want to bring her.
But he needed her there.
To make a statement. To challenge the way they saw him — as cold, unmovable, untouchable.
Because lately… she was touching something he hadn't felt in a long time.
And that terrified him.
Lucien waited at the base of the grand staircase in a black suit and tailored coat, cufflinks gleaming like threats.
When he heard her heels on marble, he turned.
And everything stopped.
---
She descended like smoke and fire.
The dress hugged her body in a way that made it clear she wasn't trying to be pretty — she was power, wrapped in velvet and silence.
Her eyes met his halfway down.
No shyness.
No blush.
Just quiet challenge.
She reached the bottom step, and he offered his hand. She hesitated… just enough to make him feel it.
Then took it.
Their fingers barely touched, but the heat was instant.
He leaned in slightly.
"You clean up well," he murmured.
She didn't smile.
"You picked the dress," she replied. "You knew what you were doing."
Lucien smirked. "I wasn't prepared for how well it would work."
He opened the car door for her himself.
Not a single guard moved.
And as she stepped inside, legs crossing, chin high, he realized—
She wasn't just the woman in his house anymore.
She was the one they were all about to see.
And none of them would forget her.