The interior of the sleek, midnight-black Maserati smelled faintly of expensive leather and Damien's sandalwood cologne.
Aria sat in the passenger seat, twirling a small, crushed white rose between her fingers that she had plucked from the botanical gardens. With her other hand, she was scrolling through the photos on her phone, a soft, amused smile playing on her lips.
She paused on the last photo Richard had taken.
It was a cinematic masterpiece. The sunlight, the fountain, the romantic dip. But right at the bottom of the frame, Damien's hand was clamped firmly onto her ass, and Aria's face was captured mid-squeal, her eyes wide with shock.
A furious, bright red blush rose to Aria's cheeks.
She lowered the phone, a curious thought invading her brain. She glanced sideways at her husband. His jaw was set, his golden eyes focused on the mid-afternoon Manhattan traffic, his large hands resting comfortably on the steering wheel.
