12. Chapter 12
A ria
By Saturday evening, there was an undercurrent of excitement running beneath Aria's skin. It buzzed in her fingertips, curled around her toes, and fluttered at the base of her throat like a low hum she couldn't quite suppress.
Lule had paid for a salon appointment that afternoon.
"My contribution to Operation Cinderella.
" Aria had spent the day getting buffed, shaped, and mildly scalded.
Her brows were neater, her legs smooth, her hair freshly trimmed and soft.
She had even painted her nails a dusky rose that Lule approved with an exaggerated nod.
Now, the opal pendant lay waiting on the dresser beside the black vintage dress, and the svelte shoes sat carefully positioned at the foot of the bed. She kept glancing at them, half in disbelief.
She'd never been to a formal dinner before. Certainly not one where she was expected to make conversation with people who wore cufflinks and knew wine by the region.
And Crispin still hadn't called.
No texts. No emojis.
Just silence .
Yesterday, she'd seen new photos of him in the tabloids. He was at a gallery opening, arm-in-arm with Helga in her usual flawless designer attire, her hand curled into his arm like it belonged there.
She should've been numb by now, but instead, memories pressed in like mist against glass, soft-edged but impossible to ignore.
The first time they'd slept together hadn't been planned. Not exactly.
They'd been fencing for months-years, if she was honest. A push and pull, a dance of glances and retreats. He would spend hours with her and then vanish. Reappear. Disappear again.
On her birthday, two years into their strange rhythm, he'd surprised her with a discreet dinner at a seafood place that smelled of lemon and dark wine. She hadn't expected him to remember; she hadn't expected the Cartier box, either.
"I told you,” she had murmured, her voice low. "That's not what this is all about."
"We're friends," he had said simply. "And you need to let me buy you at least one thing a year. Just one, no arguing."
She had argued, of course. She suggested a book. A candle. A scarf .
He looked almost wounded. "Let me do this for you."
Eventually, she accepted. And after dinner, they walked back through the quiet streets, his coat slung over her shoulders, the moon lighting their path like a blessing.
When they reached her door, he didn't hesitate.
"Invite me in," he said, his voice rough. "We both know we want it."
She hesitated for a few long seconds before she opened the door.
He kicked it shut behind them and pressed her up against it with a force that left her breathless, his tongue finding hers, tasting her like he'd been starved.
His hands ran along her body-curious, unhurried, reverent. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her faded cotton bra tugged up. He paused to look at her in the soft light, then bent to take her pale brown nipple in his mouth, sucking until she cried out.
Then he pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.
"This isn't a commitment," he said, and it was like a bucket of cold water .
Her body tensed. She tried to step back, but he caught her wrists, holding them gently but firmly above her head.
"I want you so badly," he whispered, his forehead pressed against hers. "While we're together, I won't sleep with anyone else. But I will need to take other women out in public. It's...expected."
She could feel his erection pressing against her thigh, but she didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Please," he murmured urgently. "I will die if I don't have you."
And just like that, something inside her clicked.
Maybe she wanted to be wanted. Maybe she wanted to feel something that wasn't tiredness or silence or being alone.
She let him lift her and carry her to bed. She watched as he undressed, his body tall and lean like a runner, broad-shouldered, with merry brown curls and a body so perfect, it felt unreal. His abdomen was flat and cut, his skin pale against the shadows.
She looked away as a flush climbed her cheeks.
But she still saw him.
He was larger than she'd imagined. Beautiful. Wild .
Then he was on her, his fingers finding her soft folds, teasing and learning her body with slow, deliberate circles. She gasped as he pushed one finger in, then a second joined it.
The pressure was almost painful. Almost too much.
When he finally positioned himself and entered her, she gasped aloud. He froze.
"Shit," he whispered gruffly. "Are you a virgin?"
Her eyes stayed shut as a tear slipped sideways down her temple.
"No," she whispered. "But you're...bigger than I am used to. And it's been a long time."
His dimple flashed, his smile slow and devastating.
He moved gently then, slowly. In and out. There was an embarrassing squelching sound. She was sore, trembling, but on fire.
His fingers returned, finding her again, and then she was flying, clutching the sheets and crying out his name. He followed with a rough cry against her neck .
When he carefully pulled away, she gasped again.
Her body was aching and clutched at his flesh, making him gasp with tightly closed eyes.
Then he gently pulled out. There were streaks of blood on the condom he tied off without a word.
He didn't ask, and she didn't explain. He had dampened a hand towel and gently cleaned her between her legs before he joined her in bed.
Her long, dark hair-wavy and thick, falling almost to her hips-spilled across the pillow like silk.
Crispin was fascinated with it, running his hands through it when he thought she was asleep.
Later that first night, as she turned beneath him, he reached for it, wrapping the length of it around his hand like a ribbon.
"Never cut this," he whispered roughly as he took her carefully from behind, his breath warm against her neck, his grip possessive. The tension in his voice, the reverence, was what made her crumble.
His fingers returned, finding her sensitive nub again, and then she came apart, clutching the sheets and crying out his name. He followed with a harsh cry, losing himself in her body.
Everything changed after that first night.
He came when he wanted-never cruel, always attentive in bed, insatiable-but the dance was over. The chase had ended, and she hadn't known what to expect afterwards .
She remembered overhearing Dorian, Crispin's best friend, say she was a temporary fling. A café girl. A pretty distraction. A gold-digger.
Dorian, with his golden curls and pitch-dark eyes did it deliberately, so she would overhear.
And Crispin had said nothing.
She had snapped later, furious and humiliated. Thrown his gifts back at him. Insulted him and his snobbish friends. "You keep your bloody dirty money and don't come back!" she had shouted.
He'd stayed away for a week while she cried until there were no tears left.
Just when she thought it was over, he had appeared again like a thunderstorm, kissed her until she was breathless, and pulled her to bed before she could speak.
Afterwards, he'd wrapped an arm around her and murmured, "If I’m staying here, I need a key."
Now, lying on her back in the low light of her bedroom, Aria stared at the ceiling.
He hadn't called. Aria was beginning to realise that she was no more than an afterthought and a convenience.
But Ophelia had gifted her something rare and lovely. Lule had paid for her to feel beautiful. And there was a dress in the closet that made her feel like someone else-someone she might learn to be proud of. To love.
Tomorrow was the dinner .
And for once, she would walk in as herself, as a woman wearing opals and hope and maybe just a little courage.