Page 24 of The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

“No.”

“Then I’ll be sure to drop by.”

This time, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile—it was the warning of one.

“Helena,” he said, his gray eyes lingering on Aria, “escort my fiancée to her suite.”

The word hung heavy in the high-ceilinged room.

Fiancée. For another seven or so hours. Then wife.

Damien disappeared down the hallway with Lucien trailing behind him.

Helena waited until their footsteps faded before letting out a soft sigh. “You surprise him,” she murmured.

“I doubt anything surprises Damien.”

“Mr. Blackthorne,” Helena gently corrected. “At least in front of the staff.”

Aria looked down the dark corridor. “Does everyone in this building obey him without question?”

“Everyone here understands him.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“No,” Helena said, gesturing toward the floating staircase. “But it is the answer that will help you survive living here.”

The word survive echoed in Aria’s mind as she went upstairs.

Her private suite occupied the eastern wing of the penthouse. Double doors opened into a private sitting room styled in cream, soft blush, and muted gold. Beyond it lay a master bedroom larger than her former apartment, a white marble bathroom, and a private balcony floating over the skyline.

The suite was breathtaking. It was also deeply unsettling.

It didn’t just belong in Damien’s home—it looked custom-tailored for her.

A paperback copy of the exact novel she had been reading at the hospital rested on the nightstand. The specific brand of jasmine candle she only bought when it went on sale sat beside the soaking tub. A plush, pale-blue robe hung behind the bathroom door.

Aria touched the fabric of the robe. The tag displayed her exact size.

“When was this room prepared?” she asked.

Helena stood by the entryway. “Mr. Blackthorne ordered everything to be fully prepared.”

“Tonight?”

Helena hesitated. That brief pause hit Aria like a drop in an elevator.

Aria walked over to the walk-in closet and pulled open the double doors.

A custom wardrobe waited under warm recessed lighting. Dresses, trousers, silk blouses, tailored coats, and rows of shoes organized by color and heel height. Every piece was brand-new. Every item reflected her personal style—reimagined in fabrics she could never have afforded.

She pulled a tailored black dress from the rack. Her size.

She checked a coat. Her size.

She opened a velvet-lined drawer. Lingerie was neatly folded inside—silk, lace, satin. The packaging beneath one set bore her precise measurements.

Aria slammed the drawer shut.