The Billionaire’s Stolen Bride

Chapter 3: The Ex Who Knows Everything

Aria wasn't asleep, but she stayed perfectly still.

The master bedroom was dark, lit only by the soft glow from the hallway, where Leon's shadow moved. He hadn't spoken to her since they returned from the party. He always came in late and silent, as if he didn't want to wake her.

Or as if she didn't exist.

He didn't sleep in the bed. Every night, he chose the couch near the window, facing away from her.

Even now, as the clock ticked past midnight, his presence felt distant—a ghost sharing her space but not her life.

She turned toward the window.

He hadn't looked her in the eyes once since moving her into his room.

She wasn't sure which hurt more—the disgust or the indifference.

By morning, he was gone.

As always.

The sheets beside her were untouched, folded as if no one ever lived there.

Aria got ready in silence, putting on the silver dress laid out for her by the house staff. She no longer asked questions. She played her part—the dutiful wife, the perfect arm candy, the woman the world thought he loved.

Except no one loved her.

Not even her family.

Not even herself.

Today was another function—some fashion gala hosted at a luxury hotel. Aria knew what was expected of her: smile, speak politely, hold Leon's arm, and pretend to be the woman he married.

She met him in the lobby.

He looked stunning in a fitted charcoal suit and a black tie. No expression, as usual. But today, his gaze lingered for a second longer than normal when he saw her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Was it surprise?

Approval?

Or just calculation?

"Stay close tonight," Leon said without looking at her. "There'll be press."

She nodded, gripping the silver clutch in her hands.

They entered the gala like royalty.

People parted for them. Lights followed them. Photographers nearly tripped over each other to capture the golden couple.

But the real show began when she walked in.

Tall. Dressed in blood red. A smirk on her lips as if she owned the room.

Lysandra Faye.

The name alone twisted Aria's stomach.

She was Leon's ex-fiancée. The woman most tabloids still believed he would marry.

Lysandra's eyes found them instantly.

She strutted toward them, hips swaying, red lips curved in amusement. Her gaze flicked to Aria, then back to Leon—like Aria was a handbag he'd carelessly picked up from a bargain sale.

"Well, well," Lysandra drawled, stopping in front of them. "I must say, I was shocked when I got the wedding invitation. I never imagined you'd settle for someone so… quiet."

Aria smiled politely. "You're too kind."

"Oh no, darling," Lysandra said sweetly, her hand brushing Leon's arm with just a touch too much familiarity. "I'm not kind. I'm just observant."

Leon's face remained unreadable.

"Lysandra," he said coolly, "did you need something?"

Her smile faltered, just for a moment.

"You used to smile more," she said, tilting her head. "Or was that just with me?"

A flash of tension filled the air.

Aria tried to step away, but Leon's hand suddenly wrapped around hers—firmly. Possessively.

She froze.

It was the first time he had ever touched her in public by choice.

Lysandra's eyes dropped to their interlocked fingers.

"Interesting," she murmured. "You're better at pretending than I thought."

And then she walked away, hips swaying, laughter trailing behind her like perfume.

Leon didn't let go of her hand until they were seated.

Aria sat stiffly beside him, pulse racing. "Why did you—?"

"She's trying to provoke you," Leon said quietly, sipping his wine. "Don't let her."

"I wasn't going to," Aria said, eyes lowered. "But… she knows."

Leon looked at her then—really looked.

"She knows a lot of things," he said softly. "She was once engaged to me."

Aria hesitated. "Do you… still love her?"

There was a long silence.

"No," he finally said, placing the glass down. "But I haven't forgiven her either."

She nodded, but the words settled uncomfortably in her chest.

Not loving someone didn't mean you were over them.

Sometimes, it just meant the hate had taken over.

Later that night, back at the mansion, Aria slipped out of her heels and tiptoed toward the balcony of their bedroom. The wind was cool against her cheeks, the city lights glowing far below.

She heard the door creak behind her.

Leon.

He stepped into the room, his jacket off, tie loosened, eyes dark with something unreadable.

"Did you enjoy playing my wife today?" he asked suddenly, voice low.

Aria turned. "I wasn't playing. I *am* your wife. On paper, at least."

His jaw clenched. "Don't mistake appearances for reality."

"I know the difference," she said softly. "But you keep blurring the line."

He took a step toward her. "Do I?"

"You held my hand."

"It was for show."

"You held it long after she left."

A pause.

His eyes narrowed. "So what are you trying to say?"

"I don't know." Her voice shook. "Maybe I just want to understand what I am to you."

Leon stared at her. "You're a contract."

"And a person?" she whispered.

Silence.

He looked away.

And in that silence, the answer was loud enough to break her.

The next morning, the contract changed.

A new clause had been added.

Clause 6: Under no circumstance shall Aria Greystone engage in emotional confrontation or question Leon Valen's personal past.

She stared at the new document with numb fingers.

So that was it.

Her silence had to be bought.

Her emotions, restrained.

Her heart, buried.

She signed it.

Because she had nothing else.

But that night, when she returned to the bedroom, something had changed.

The lights were dimmed.

A piano played softly from the corner—one she had never seen him touch.

Leon sat before it, fingers gliding over the keys as if he weren't even thinking. A soft melody. Something broken and lonely.

He didn't notice her watching.

Or maybe he did.

But for the first time, he didn't hide from it.

When he stopped playing, Aria spoke from behind him.

"You play beautifully."

He turned slightly, eyes catching hers through the reflection in the piano's black gloss.

"My mother used to play," he said. "Before my father ruined her."

Her heart stopped.

He had never spoken of his family.

Not once.

He looked down at the keys. "She loved someone she shouldn't have. And paid for it every day until she died."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged. "Don't be. It taught me not to love."

Aria stepped forward, heart aching. "Maybe she didn't regret loving. Maybe she just regretted trusting the wrong person."

Leon looked at her—really looked—and for one second, she saw it.

Not anger.

Not indifference.

Just… pain.

He stood abruptly, brushing past her.

"Don't romanticize pain," he muttered. "It only destroys you."

And then he was gone.

That night, Aria lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the melody from the piano haunting her ears.

Maybe he had locked his heart behind a wall so high even he couldn't reach it.

But for one fleeting moment… she had seen a crack.

And she didn't know whether to feel hope.

Or fear.

To be continued...