Dying for His Love

The ivory invitation felt like poison between my fingers.

*The Blackwood Foundation cordially invites you to the Annual Winter Gala...*

For three years, I had attended every single Blackwood family event. Every charity luncheon, every board dinner, every tedious social gathering where I smiled prettily and said nothing of substance. I had been the perfect accessory—beautiful, silent, and utterly forgettable.

I set the invitation on my new desk in the blue guest room and reached for my phone.

"Mrs. Blackwood's office," came the crisp voice of my assistant, Sarah.

"Sarah, please decline all pending social invitations from the Blackwood Foundation and associated organizations. Send my regrets with no explanation."

A pause. "All of them, ma'am? Including the Winter Gala next week?"

"Especially the Winter Gala."

I could practically hear her confusion through the phone. For years, these events had been the cornerstone of my social calendar. "Should I provide a reason?"

"No reason necessary. Simply decline."

After ending the call, I opened my laptop and logged into the Winterbourne family financial portal. The numbers that appeared on screen would have made most people dizzy—generations of carefully cultivated wealth, strategic investments, and blue-chip holdings that formed the backbone of one of America's oldest fortunes.

Damien had always assumed my family's money was tied up in trusts and traditions, inaccessible to me personally. He was wrong.

I began with the smaller holdings first. The tech startups in Silicon Valley—sold. The real estate portfolio in Manhattan—liquidated. The art collection that had been featured in Architectural Digest—transferred to private auction houses.

Each transaction was a small act of liberation. Every million dollars that moved into accounts bearing only my name was another step away from the woman who had waited three years for her husband to love her.

By evening, I had moved forty-seven million dollars.

I was reviewing the next set of transfers when I heard his footsteps in the hallway outside my room. Heavy, deliberate steps that paused outside my door.

The knock came soft at first, then more insistent.

"Aria." His voice carried a note I'd never heard before—uncertainty. "We need to talk."

I didn't answer. Let him wonder. Let him feel what it was like to be ignored.

"I know you're in there. Maria told me you moved rooms."

I continued typing, transferring another five million from the Winterbourne Foundation's discretionary fund into my personal investment account.

The doorknob turned. Of course he'd try to enter uninvited—typical Damien, assuming his presence was always welcome.

The door was locked.

"Aria, what the hell is going on?" His voice was sharper now, edged with the frustration of a man unaccustomed to closed doors. "First the boardroom ambush, now you're hiding from me in the guest wing?"

I saved my work and walked to the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. I could picture him on the other side—jaw clenched, dark eyes flashing with that dangerous intensity that had once made my heart race.

Now it just made me tired.

"I'm not hiding," I said through the wood, my voice perfectly calm. "I'm working."

"Working on what? And why did you move out of our bedroom?"

*Our* bedroom. As if it had ever truly been ours. As if he hadn't spent three years treating it like a hotel room where an unwanted stranger happened to sleep.

"I needed space to think," I replied.

"About what? Aria, talk to me. What's changed?"

Everything, I thought. Everything had changed the moment I heard him casually discussing my heart like a commodity to be harvested.

"Nothing's changed, Damien. I'm simply... adjusting my priorities."

A long silence. Then: "Let me in. Please."

The please almost broke something in me. Almost. But I remembered Elise's triumphant smile at the gala, remembered the way he'd introduced me as his wife "in name," remembered Dr. Harrison's voice discussing my tissue compatibility.

"I'm busy," I said. "Perhaps we can speak another time."

"Busy with what?"

"Business matters."

Another pause. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on that commanding tone he used in boardrooms. "Aria, open this door. Now."

I almost smiled. Did he really think he could order me around like one of his employees?

"Goodnight, Damien."

I heard him try the handle again, more forcefully this time. Then a thud as his fist hit the wood.

"Goddammit, Aria!"

I returned to my laptop, pulling up the contact information for Sterling Group. Julian Sterling had been trying to poach Blackwood projects for years, always one step behind Damien's superior resources and connections.

Time to even the playing field.

My phone buzzed with a call from an international number. I recognized the country code—Qatar.

"Dr. Winterbourne?" The voice was cultured, British-accented. "This is James Whitmore, representing His Highness the Emir of Qatar. We have a proposition that might interest you."

I leaned back in my chair, a genuine smile crossing my face for the first time in days. "I'm listening."

"His Highness wishes to commission a revolutionary cultural center—a fusion of traditional Islamic architecture with cutting-edge sustainable technology. The budget is two hundred million dollars, and we need someone with your unique expertise."

Two hundred million. More than enough to fund my new life, whatever form it might take.

"The timeline?"

"Aggressive. Eighteen months from concept to completion. But we're prepared to offer you complete creative control and a fee structure that reflects the project's importance."

I thought of Damien on the other side of the door, probably still standing there in disbelief that his wife had locked him out. I thought of the boardroom this afternoon, the shock on his face when I'd revealed who I really was.

"Send me the preliminary specifications," I said. "I'll have a proposal to you within seventy-two hours."

"Excellent. Dr. Winterbourne, His Highness specifically requested you because of your work on the Antarctic research facility. He believes you're the only architect capable of creating something truly transcendent."

Transcendent. When was the last time someone had used that word to describe anything I'd done? When was the last time anyone had seen my potential instead of just my decorative value?

"I look forward to working with you, Mr. Whitmore."

After the call ended, I sat in the quiet of my new room, surrounded by my books and sketches, and felt something I hadn't experienced in three years.

Hope.

But there was one more call to make tonight. One more bridge to burn.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for. Julian Sterling answered on the second ring.

"Dr. Winterbourne," he said, and I could hear the surprise in his voice. "This is unexpected."

"Mr. Sterling, I have something you might want to buy."