Chapter 15 Where was your first kiss?
They spent the next four hours in that conservatory, running through scenarios, practicing answers, and learning how to deflect questions without seeming defensive. Patricia was relentless, asking increasingly invasive questions, pushing until Ariella wanted to scream.
“How did he propose?”
“Where was your first kiss?”
“What do your friends think of the relationship?”
“Some people might say you’re too young for marriage. What would you say to them?”
“There’s quite a class difference between you. How do you navigate that?”
By the time Patricia called for a break, Ariella’s head was pounding and her throat was tight with unshed tears.
“You did well,” Patricia said, which felt like a lie. “We’ll practice more before the announcement. But you’re learning.”
“I feel like I’m learning how to erase myself.”
“You’re learning how to protect yourself.” Patricia’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “The real you still exists, Miss Hayes. You’re just not showing her to the cameras. That’s not erasure. That’s survival.”
“It feels like the same thing.”
Patricia nodded slowly. “Sometimes it is. I’m sorry.”
Richard stood, looking exhausted. “Thank you, Patricia. Same time next week?”
“I’ll be here.”
She left, taking the tablet and her impossible expectations with her.
The three of them sat in silence Ariella, Aiden, and Richard. The weight of what they’d just done pressed down on all of them.
“I need to rest,” Richard said finally. “But you two should talk. Actually talk. Not for the media, not for the contract. … talk.”
He left before either of them could respond.
Ariella and Aiden sat alone in the conservatory, surrounded by expensive plants and late morning light, with no idea what to say to each other.
Finally, Aiden spoke: “I designed the renovation for your bakery.”
Ariella looked at him. “Marcus wouldn’t confirm it, but I guessed.”
“I wanted to give you something that was mine. Not my father’s money, not his manipulation. Just… something I made for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re giving up three months of your life for us. The least I could do was try to give you something back.”
Ariella felt something crack in her chest. “I haven’t seen the designs yet.”
“Do you want to?”
“Now?”
“Why not?” Aiden stood, offering his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Ariella hesitated. Then took his hand.
It was the first time they’d touched.
His hand was warm. Slightly calloused, like he worked with them. Nothing as she’d expected.
He led her through the mansion, up to the third floor, to a room she hadn’t seen before. His room, she realized. Or rather, his studio.
It was different from the rest of the house, cluttered, lived-in, real. The Drafting table was covered with sketches. Bookshelves crammed with architecture books. Models made of cardboard and balsa wood. String lights instead of the cold modern lighting everywhere else.
This was where Aiden actually lived.
He pulled out a large set of blueprints and spread them on the drafting table.
“This is your bakery,” he said. “I worked from photos and the building specs Marcus got. I tried to honor the original character while modernizing the infrastructure.”
Ariella stared at the designs.
They were beautiful.
He’d kept everything that mattered, the exposed brick, the vintage fixtures, her grandmother’s recipe card display. But he’d added light, space, flow. New ovens that would actually heat evenly. A proper ventilation system. A seating area that felt cozy instead of cramped.
In the corner, he’d drawn a small notation: In memory of E.H. and C.M.F.
Ethan Hayes and Catherine Marie Frost.
Her brother and his mother were memorialized in pencil and paper.
“Oh,” Ariella whispered.
“Is it okay? I can change anything you don’t like. I just thought…” Aiden’s voice was uncertain. “I thought maybe they’d want to be part of something that lasts.”
Ariella couldn’t speak. Tears were running down her face and she couldn’t stop them.
“I’m sorry,” Aiden said quickly. “That was too much. I shouldn’t have…”
“It’s perfect.” Her voice broke. “It’s perfect, Aiden. Thank you.”
He handed her a tissue from a box on his desk. They stood there in his studio, in this room that was actually his, and for the first time since this nightmare started, Ariella felt like she could breathe.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Me neither.”
“But I’m going to try.”
“Yeah.” Aiden nodded. “Me too.”
They looked at each other. Really looked, without the weight of his father’s expectations or the press or the contract between them.
Just two people drowning, holding onto each other.
“This is going to be terrible, isn’t it?” Ariella said.
“Probably catastrophically terrible.”
“But we’re doing it anyway.”
“Because we’re idiots.”
“Or because we’re desperate.”
Ariella laughed despite herself.
And for just that moment, in Aiden’s cluttered studio with blueprints of her bakery spread between them, it felt almost possible.
Almost.