Chapter 299: Out of Service

Aria stared down into the porcelain bowl.

Resting at the very bottom, submerged in the pristine water, was her left AirPod. It looked like a tiny, tragically expensive pearl that had met a watery grave.

"I hate it here," Aria whispered to herself.

She ripped off a massive wad of two-ply toilet paper, wrapping it around her hand like a makeshift biohazard glove. Pinching her eyes shut, she plunged her hand into the cold water, snatched the little white pod, and immediately dropped it into the small metal trash bin next to the toilet.

She let out a long sigh, inspecting the tear down the back of her black glittery gown.

Calling Zoe was out of the question. If Aria called her now, Zoe might panic, break character, or blow the cover entirely.

Calling Damien was also a definite no. She had mentally committed to giving him the silent treatment for his behavior. She couldn’t come crawling back to him five minutes later asking for a wardrobe replacement. She had pride.

Aria opened her phone. She decided she’d call Richard.

The phone didn’t even complete the first ring before the line clicked open.

"Mrs. Sinclair," Richard’s deep baritone answered instantly.

"Richard, I have an emergency," Aria whispered into the receiver, keeping her voice low so her echoing words wouldn’t carry across the marble bathroom. "I am currently trapped in the third stall of the women’s restroom near the main auction hall. I suffered a wardrobe malfunction. My dress exploded."

There was a half-second pause on the line. "Exploded, Ma’am?"

"Yes. Irreparably," Aria confirmed, clutching the torn fabric over her hip. "I cannot leave this stall with my ass hanging out. I need a new dress. Immediately."

"Understood," Richard replied. "Stay put, Ma’am. I will procure a replacement."

"Thank you," Aria breathed a sigh of relief.

Click.

Aria lowered the toilet seat lid and sat down, carefully arranging the torn black glitter fabric around her legs so she wouldn’t freeze against the cold porcelain.

For the next ten minutes, Aria sat in silence, scrolling mindlessly through TikTok. She listened as the bathroom door opened and closed several times. Women walked in, gossiping loudly over the running faucets about who bought what painting, and how terrified everyone was to bid on the Vale shares now that Damien Sinclair had basically marked his territory on them.

Aria smiled to herself every time she heard it.

The bathroom fell quiet again.

Aria was just about to check the time when the door creaked open once more.

Heavy footsteps clicked against the marble tiles.

But these didn’t sound like stilettos. They sounded like men’s dress shoes.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" a man’s voice echoed nervously off the tiled walls.

Aria froze. Her thumbs hovered rigidly over her phone screen.

She recognized that voice instantly. It was Lucas.

"Relax, darling," a woman’s voice replied. It was older, slightly raspy, and dripped with indulgent condescension. "I put the ’Out of Service’ sign on the door outside. No one is going to come in."

Aria’s jaw unhinged. The blood drained from her face.

’Oh my god,’ Aria panicked internally, pressing her back flush against the wall of the stall and pulling her feet up so they wouldn’t be visible under the gap. ’It’s Lucas and his sugar mommy.’

"I don’t know, Elaine," Lucas stammered, the sound of a zipper being unfastened echoing in the quiet room. "What if someone walks in and tells my uncle? I can’t afford to piss him off right now."

"Forget about your uncle," Elaine purred. The sound of fabric rustling followed. "You’ve been such a good, obedient boy tonight, Lucas. Don’t you want your reward?"

Aria slapped both of her hands over her mouth to muffle the gag that ripped through her throat.

"Yes," Lucas breathed, his voice dropping into a desperate, husky register that made Aria want to peel her own skin off. "I want it. Punish me, Mommy."

Aria’s eyes widened.

’Mommy?!’ Aria shrieked in her thoughts. ’MOMMY?!’

Aria ripped her hands away from her mouth and aggressively clamped them over her ears. She pressed her palms against her head so hard it actually hurt, squeezing her eyes shut as she began to rock slightly back and forth on the toilet lid.

She hummed loudly inside her own head to drown out the noises echoing from the handicap stall two doors down. It was the longest, most traumatic four minutes of Aria’s entire life. She was definitely going to need intensive EMDR therapy to scrub the sound of Lucas Sinclair whimpering from her cerebral cortex.

Finally, mercifully, the sounds stopped.

"You’re a very good boy, Lucas," Elaine praised smoothly. "I’ll see that your new movie gets the funding bump tomorrow."

"Thank you, Elaine," Lucas panted. "You’re the best."

The bathroom door opened and closed.

Aria remained frozen for another sixty seconds before she slowly removed her hands from her ears.

The bathroom was dead silent.

Aria let out a long, shuddering exhale, dropping her face into her hands. "Please take me, God."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Richard, thank god," Aria breathed a sigh of relief.

She stood up, awkwardly clutching the torn gown tightly against her hip with one hand so her ass wouldn’t be exposed. With her free hand, she reached out and flicked the lock open.

She pulled the stall door inward.

"Did you get the—"

Aria’s voice died in her throat.

It was Damien.

He had ditched the tuxedo jacket. He was wearing just his crisp white dress shirt and tailored black slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, exposing the thick, corded muscle and faint silver scars on his skin. Over his left arm, he carried a black garment bag.

Aria froze. Her heart executed an erratic stutter-step against her ribs.

The tension in the air instantly thickened.

Damien stared down at her. His expression was a blank mask of cold indifference.

But his golden eyes betrayed him.

They were dark. They were burning. They tracked from the wide-eyed expression on her beautiful face down to the way her hands were desperately clutching the torn, ruined fabric of the glittery gown against her hip. The dress was slipping, exposing the smooth, milky-white skin of her upper thigh and the curve of her waist.

Beneath his stoic exterior, Damien’s chest was tight with a desperate, agonizing restraint. He wanted nothing more than to drop the garment bag, step into that cramped stall, back her against the tiled wall, and bury his face in her neck. He wanted to pull her apart and put her back together until she forgot she was even mad at him.

Aria swallowed hard, the words of gratitude turning to ash on her tongue. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken.

Without uttering a single word, Damien slowly raised his arm and extended the black garment bag toward her.

Aria hesitated for a second.

Then, she snatched the bag from his grip.

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t offer a smile. She took a step backward, gripped the edge of the door, and slammed it shut right in his face.

The lock clicked loudly into place.

Aria slumped back against the door of the stall, her chest heaving as if she had just sprinted a mile. She closed her eyes, clutching the garment bag to her chest, listening to the steady thud of her own heart.

She waited. She listened for the sound of his shoes walking away.

But there was no sound.

Aria took a shaky breath, turning her attention to the bag. She unzipped it, letting the black plastic fall away.

Aria gasped softly.

Inside the bag was a dress. It was a vintage, archival Prada piece. It was a breathtaking masterpiece in her favorite color: a deep, rich, blood-red silk. It featured a high, elegant neckline that transitioned into a daringly low, open back, with a skirt that fell sleek and straight to the floor.

It was flawless.

’How did he get this?!’ Aria marveled internally, carefully pulling the fragile silk off the hanger. ’It’s been fifteen minutes!"

She quickly shimmied out of the ruined gown, leaving it in a sparkling, depressing puddle on the floor. She stepped into the red silk, carefully pulling it up her body.

It fit her like a glove. The tailoring was so precise it felt like it had been poured over her curves.

Aria smoothed the silk down her hips. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves, and unlocked the stall door.

She pushed it open, stepping out.

She looked to her left. She looked to her right.

He was gone.

The bathroom was empty.

Aria let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A sharp pang of disappointment pricked at her chest.

"Asshole," Aria muttered to the empty room.

She walked over to the vanity mirrors to inspect the dress in the harsh lighting. She turned to the side, admiring the way the red silk draped effortlessly over her figure, highlighting her waist and flowing elegantly to the floor.

As she twisted slightly to check the low plunge of the open back, she felt a slight, scratching sensation between her shoulder blades.

Aria frowned. She reached her hand back, her fingers brushing against the silk until she found the source of the irritation.

It wasn’t a clothing tag.

Tucked discreetly into the delicate inner lining of the dress, pinned with a tiny golden safety pin, was a small, folded piece of cream-colored cardstock.

Aria carefully unpinned it and pulled it around to the front.

It was a note.

She unfolded the cardstock. The handwriting inside was sharp, elegant, and unmistakably Damien’s.

Aria’s breath hitched as she read the single line of ink.