Page 58 of The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

“Not like this. Now people believe they can reach my balance sheet through you.”

“Can they?”

Damien turned toward her in the dark leather interior. “Only if I allow it.”

“The legal trust says otherwise.”

His hand reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her neck—not restricting her, but holding her gaze locked onto his. “You are becoming dangerous, Aria.”

“To you?”

“To anyone who mistakes your principles for vulnerability.” His thumb traced the rapid beat of her pulse along her jawline. “I did not marry a victim. I married a beautiful weapon.”

Her phone chimed in her coat pocket.

Aria pulled it out. A text from an unregistered number sat on the screen:

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO AIMED YOU FIVE YEARS AGO, TAKE THE PRIVATE ELEVATOR BELOW THE PENTHOUSE.

The message erased any immediate thought of demanding answers about his five-year obsession. She locked the screen, carefully revealing nothing on her face.

For the rest of the drive through the dark city, Aria watched Damien’s reflection in the glass, wondering whether the person sending the messages was trying to pull her to safety—or leading her into a trap his security could never reach.

Chapter Twelve: The Locked Floor

The penthouse elevator had no floor buttons.

Aria had noticed that on her very first night. Damien used his palm and voice; the automated security system decided where he was permitted to travel. But the locked lower floor bothered her because it represented the one secret Damien still believed he could withhold.

At one forty in the morning, while Damien was in the shower, Aria slipped his signet ring from the marble nightstand and walked silently to the private elevator bank.

She pressed her palm to the scanner panel.

“Aria Vale. Lower private level.”

“Access denied.”

She tried her legal surname.

“Aria Blackthorne. Lower private level.”

The panel flickered amber. “Secondary executive authorization required.”

Aria held Damien’s heavy ring against the glass sensor. The mechanism chimed softly, the doors sliding shut with an airtight hiss. The elevator descended a single floor.

When the doors opened, complete darkness waited.

Aria clicked on her phone’s flashlight. The narrow corridor ended at a heavy reinforced steel door marked only with an embossed black crown. She pressed the signet ring to the lock interface. The deadbolts retracted with a heavy, metallic clack.

As she crossed the threshold, motion sensors triggered low recessed lighting, illuminating wall-to-wall monitors.

Her entire life appeared across the room.

Banking statements. Medical charts. Academic transcripts. Rental histories. Audio files. Mapping logs tracking every apartment, route, and workplace she had occupied since college.

One central screen displayed a master timeline:

SUBJECT: ARIA EVELYN VALE