Chapter 109

Nolan Reed sat in his van, fingers rapidly refreshing his Pulse feed. After liking Aria Bennett’s latest post with his burner account, he quickly switched to her fan group chat.

"OMG this still is everything!"

"Aria’s profile could end me!"

His thumbs flew across the screen as he spammed the chat alongside dozens of other fans.

The glow of his phone illuminated his sulky expression. He’d known Aria first, yet here he was, reduced to fawning over her like any other admirer.

Across the parking lot, Damian Cross casually slung Aria’s bag over his shoulder, one hand tucked in his pocket.

"Made your decision yet?" His voice was low, the acoustics of the empty garage making it sound even more magnetic.

Aria arched a brow. "About?"

"The Special Response Division." Damian stepped closer, his breath grazing her ear. "I came personally. Convincing enough?"

A flush crept up her neck, but she feigned composure, retreating half a step. "Using your authority for personal gain, Mr. Cross?"

"Guilty." He smirked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers barely skimming her cheek. "Full benefits, no desk duty, seven-figure starting salary."

Her eyes lit up. "That generous?"

"Special treatment." His chuckle was velvety. "After all..." He deliberately drew out the pause. "I prefer keeping you close."

Aria choked on air. "Damian Cross, your pristine image is crumbling."

"Want to see the real me?" Suddenly, he pressed his car keys into her palm. "Test drive?"

Her pulse stuttered, but she twirled the keyring with forced nonchalance. "Such as?"

"Such as..." He yanked open the driver’s door with a flourish. "Your personal chauffeur."

She burst out laughing and slid into the seat. "Better drive smoothly, Damian."

"At your service." As he leaned in to buckle her seatbelt, his lips nearly brushed her earlobe. "Your Majesty."

Watching the taillights disappear, Damian rubbed his chin. His phone buzzed—an encrypted file from the Special Response Division had just arrived: the official approval for Aria’s recruitment.

Meanwhile, Cole Turner slammed his fist on his military office desk. "What? Someone’s already poaching Aria?!"

His assistant quivered. "Y-yes, sir. Rumor says the Director himself—"

"Damian?!" Cole’s face darkened. "That old fox!"

Aria had barely parked at Moira Blackwell’s villa when the woman rushed out, eyes red-rimmed.

"Master Aria! Victor vomited blood this morning, but he insists he feels better..."

Aria nodded. "Normal reaction. The ghost marriage contract’s backlash is breaking."

Inside, Victor Blackwell lay weakly on the sofa, surrounded by aged documents. The topmost sheet—a bloodstained marriage certificate—bore a fingerprint that squirmed unnaturally.

"It’s starting." Aria flicked a talisman between her fingers, igniting it with a whisper.

As flames licked the certificate, the villa’s temperature plummeted. Moira gasped as the bloody fingerprint oozed dark liquid.

"Don’t panic." Aria’s fingers moved in a precise pattern. "The curse is transferring."

The names on the parchment writhed as she chanted. When the final character morphed, a distant mansion echoed with a bloodcurdling scream.

"Done." Aria dusted her hands. "Now Dorian Blackwell gets to enjoy the consequences."

Moira thrust forward a check. "Thank you! The agreed amount—"

"Hold that thought." Aria’s smile turned sly. "After tomorrow’s headlines, you might want to add a zero."

The next morning, Audrey Lane dragged Aria into the studio’s green room the moment she arrived.

"Guess who’s here?" Audrey wiggled her eyebrows. "Prepare for shock!"

Before Aria could react, the door swung open. A tall figure stood silhouetted against the light, his familiar voice laced with amusement:

"Morning, partner."