Aria flees Damian’s cold accusation, her heartbeat breaking itself inside her chest. The guards escort her through the hallway, but she stops walking halfway, numb and hollow, staring blankly at the marble floor where she once collapsed in his arms. Inside the meeting room, Damian stands frozen—every head of the Syndicate staring at him as if they’ve never seen him bleed before. He dismisses them all, voice dead, eyes darker than the city outside.
Alone, Damian realizes what he’s done.
He realizes it the way a dying man realizes the wound is deeper than he thought.
He storms out, but Aria is already gone.
She hides in the unused guest wing of the penthouse levels, hugging her knees to her chest, shaking with silent sobs. Her collar throbs with her pulse, warm and suffocating. For the first time, she wonders if staying with Damian is worse than dying as a Navarro. She whispers to herself that she won’t cry for him—not again—but her body betrays her with every trembling breath.
Meanwhile, Damian tears apart his office—shattering whiskey glasses, ripping papers from the wall, overturning the table—because the alternative is facing the truth:
He didn’t accuse her out of evidence.
He accused her because he was afraid.
And fear makes him monster again.
Jaxon arrives. Damian snaps at him, demanding proof, demanding names, demanding answers. Jaxon finally says the words Damian doesn’t want to hear:
“The leak isn’t Aria.
It’s someone you actually trust.”
Damian feels the floor tilt. Rage floods him—rage at himself, at the Syndicate, at the ghosts of Navarro’s cages, at the girl whose mere existence is unmaking him.
He storms out to find her.
Aria hears heavy footsteps approaching and scrambles to her feet. Damian appears in the doorway, chest heaving, hands trembling, throat raw from shouting she never heard. She expects more accusations. More cruelty. More venom.
Instead, Damian stands there frozen.
He whispers her name like an apology that won’t leave his mouth.
Aria turns her back on him.
And for Damian Wolfe—the man who bowed to no one—it feels like a knife pushed straight through his ribs.
He steps inside slowly, afraid she’ll flinch. Aria wipes her tears, but her voice breaks anyway as she asks, “Why do you always choose the version of me that hurts you the most?”
Damian’s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists. He steps closer, then stops, like an invisible line holds him back.
He rasps, “Because wanting you terrifies me more than losing anyone else ever has.”
Aria’s breath stutters—but she doesn’t turn.
Damian forces the words out, each one carved from bone:
“You didn’t betray me. I know that now.”
Silence presses between them.
Aria finally whispers, “Then why did you choose to hurt me?”
Damian shuts his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Because I don’t know how to do anything else.”
When Aria finally turns to face him, her eyes are red, shattered, exhausted. Damian takes a step forward, instinctively reaching out—but stops inches from her cheek. His hand hovers, shaking.
Aria speaks first.
“Do not touch me unless you mean it.”
Damian’s breath catches. His composure fractures. His hand drops to his side, fingers twitching like they ache from restraint.
He whispers her name again—but she walks past him, brushing his arm lightly with her shoulder. Damian almost drops to his knees from the sensation alone.
She leaves the room.
He lets her go.
Because touching her now means admitting everything he buried.
And Damian Wolfe has never confessed to anything except murder.