Damon's silhouette vanished through the massive church doors, and the silence he left behind was instantly shattered. The whispers erupted into a roar of condemnation.
A woman in the front row, dripping in diamonds and malice, stood up. She picked up her champagne flute, met Aria's eyes with a look of pure loathing, and with a flick of her wrist, flung the contents at her.
The cold, bubbly liquid splashed across Aria's face and chest, stinging her eyes. It dripped down her chin, soaking into the delicate lace of her gown, leaving a dark, ugly stain over her heart.
The act broke the dam. The crowd surged forward, not physically touching her, but their words were blows. Murderer. Gold-digger. How dare you show your face.
Aria blinked the champagne from her lashes. She didn't wipe it away. She stood tall, her spine a rod of steel, refusing to give them the satisfaction of her tears. She would not break in front of them.
She gathered the heavy, damp skirt of her gown and turned. One step at a time, she descended from the altar. The crowd parted for her, a sea of hatred creating a narrow path. Feet darted out, trying to trip her, but she moved with a slow, deliberate grace, her eyes fixed on the light of the open doorway.
Her stepmother, Lydia Lowell, stood there, blocking her path. Her perfectly made-up face was a mask of cold fury. "Don't you ever think of setting foot in the Lowell house again," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You are a disgrace to this family. You are no longer my daughter."
Aria met her gaze, a cold fire burning in her own eyes. She said nothing. She simply shouldered past her, the contact a small, sharp act of defiance, and stepped out of the church.
She walked from the dim sanctuary onto the steps of the Fifth Avenue cathedral and into a maelstrom.
The New York autumn had unleashed a cold, driving rain. And a pack of reporters, a frenzy of sharks smelling blood. Microphones were shoved in her face, cameras flashed, blinding her.
"Mrs. Sinclair, do you dream of your dead sister at night?" a voice shouted.
The relentless lights disoriented her. She took a step back, and the heel of her satin pump caught in a crack between the stone steps. She twisted her ankle, trying to pull free, and the heel snapped with a sickening crack.
Her balance gone, she pitched forward, a cry catching in her throat as she saw the grimy, rain-slicked pavement rushing up to meet her.
Before she could hit the ground, a hand shot out, gripping her arm in a vise. It wasn't gentle. It was brutally efficient.
Damon's assistant, Mark, his face a blank, emotionless slate, hauled her upright. He moved with the precision of a soldier, positioning his body between her and the most aggressive reporters.
"Back up," he commanded, his voice flat but carrying an authority that made the press hesitate. "This is a private matter of the Sinclair Corporation."
He snapped open a large black umbrella, holding it over her head. It did little to stop the rain whipping in from the sides. With a firm, impersonal grip on her arm, he half-dragged her down the remaining steps toward a black SUV idling at the curb.
Aria bent down and pulled off the broken shoe, the pavement shockingly cold against her bare foot. She didn't care. She scrambled into the back of the vehicle, the door slamming shut behind her, cutting off the noise and the flashing lights.
The sudden silence was deafening. The car smelled of expensive leather and Damon's cold, signature cologne. It was suffocating.
Mark got into the passenger seat without a word. "To the Hampton estate, driver."
The engine purred to life, and the car pulled smoothly into traffic. Aria huddled in the corner of the vast backseat, her body wracked with shivers. Her dress was soaked, her hair plastered to her skull, and a deep, bone-aching cold had set in.
Aria stared out the window, watching the glittering lights of Fifth Avenue blur and distort through the rain-streaked glass. The city she once loved now felt like a foreign, hostile land.
Her gaze fell to her left hand. The ring. She tried to pull it off, her fingers clumsy and numb. But it wouldn't budge. Her knuckle was already swollen and purple, the diamond biting into her flesh. A permanent shackle.
Aria gave up, letting her hand fall into her lap. She rested her head against the cold window, the vibration of the car a dull thrum against her skull. The shock was wearing off, replaced by a chilling, desolate clarity.
The two-hour drive passed in absolute silence. The city gave way to suburbs, then to the sprawling, manicured landscapes of the Hamptons.
Finally, the SUV slowed, turning onto a long, private road. Ahead, a pair of immense, black wrought-iron gates loomed in the twilight. The Sinclair family crest, a snarling wolf's head, was worked into the metal.
The gates swung open without a sound, a silent, gaping maw. The car rolled through, and the gates closed behind them with a heavy, final clang. It was the sound of a cage door locking.
