(A Crown He Never Asked For)
The first thing Aria Larkspur realized was that peace never lasted in her life. The second? If things felt too calm, it was usually because something was about to explode.
Right now, watching Rowan Hale stand awkwardly in the center of a suite flooded with luxury brands and hovering stylists, she could practically hear the ticking of an invisible bomb. He looked… out of place. Not because he didn't belong in the luxury, but because he hadn't yet realized that he did.
Aria leaned back against the sofa, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, her black-gloved fingers tapping against the leather.
She scanned him—clean clothes, a healthier complexion, shoulders finally shedding that defensive, broken hunch.
*Progress,* she mused. *Slow, fragile, but undeniably real. Look at you—from half-dead alley ghost to reluctant runway model. The character development is working overtime.*
"Pick what you like," she said, her voice airy, as if she weren't about to drop the cost of a luxury sedan on his wardrobe. "Or don't. I'll buy it all anyway."
Rowan blinked. Then blinked again, his eyes widening. "…I… don't know."
Aria sighed, throwing her head back in a display of practiced dramatic exhaustion. "Tragic. Wealth without taste. What a waste of potential."
One of the stylists stifled a laugh, turning it into a cough. Rowan's hands went up, flustered, as if he were trying to physically push the situation away. "N-no… it's too much."
"Too much?" Aria repeated, arching a brow. "You say that like I'm spending your money.
Relax—you standing there looking like a confused mannequin is already costing me a small fortune in patience. Stand straight."
He snapped to attention instantly, his posture so rigid he looked like a soldier awaiting a court-martial. Aria stared at him for a long, painful second before snorting. "I said normal, not 'about to defend the nation.' Breathe, Rowan."
A faint flush crept up his neck, but he relaxed his shoulders just enough.
"Start," she commanded.
What followed was controlled chaos. Outfits were presented and discarded with a flick of her finger.
"This."
"No."
"Burn that."
The staff collectively pretended they hadn't heard the last instruction. Rowan changed again and again without a word of complaint.
No irritation, no resistance—just quiet, desperate compliance, as if he feared the entire moment might evaporate if he dared to protest.
*He's not enjoying this,* Aria realized, her eyes narrowing. *He's enduring it.*
The thought annoyed her. "Stop."
The room froze. Rowan stepped halfway out of the fitting area, looking like a deer caught in high beams.
Aria tilted her head, studying him. "Do you like any of it?"
A long silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet. "…I don't know how to choose."
It wasn't a refusal; it was an admission of total unfamiliarity. Aria exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. "Unbelievable."
She stood up, and the room grew instantly colder. When Aria Larkspur moved, people braced themselves for impact. She walked toward him, stopping just a step away. Up close, the history was etched into him—the faint scars, the lingering hesitation, the way he braced for an impact that wasn't coming.
And yet, he didn't step back. *Good,* she thought. *At least that instinct is finally dying.*
"Fine," she said. "I'll choose. You just exist." She paused, her voice softening, almost absentmindedly. "That should be manageable, right?"
Rowan nodded immediately. "…Yes."
Aria smirked. "Great. Minimum effort achieved."
Once the mountain of purchases was settled, Aria did something that made the room's air go thin. She clapped once, a sharp, crisp sound. "Everyone. Gather."
Servants, assistants, and stylists scrambled, filling the space within seconds. Rowan stiffened beside her. *Ah,* Aria thought. *Here comes the fun part.*
She stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the crowd—cool, sharp, and entirely sovereign. "Memorize this," she said. She didn't raise her voice; she didn't have to. Silence fell like a guillotine. "From today onward, Rowan Hale is the acting manager of this estate."
The shock was palpable. Rowan's head snapped toward her, his eyes wide. *Yes,* her inner voice purred. *Be shocked. That's the appropriate reaction.*
Cedric Vaughn, the estate's former manager, broke the silence. He was broad, aging, and wore his arrogance like a cheap suit. "Miss Aria… this decision seems inappropriate. He's inexperienced. And young."
Aria turned her head slowly, wearing a smile that was purely predatory. "Inappropriate? Do explain."
Cedric swallowed, but doubled down. "I've served this household for years. Replacing me with—"
"With someone I chose?" she cut in. She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the marble like a countdown. "You're confusing loyalty with entitlement, Cedric. It's very embarrassing."
The man's face stiffened, but Aria leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. "Should I list the accounts you've been skimming from, or would you prefer to resign with your dignity intact?"
The color drained from his face instantly. *Fear. Beautiful.*
Aria straightened, her expression returning to casual indifference. "I thought so." She looked at the crowd. "Anyone else confused?"
No one dared to breathe.
"Good." She turned to the lead stylist. "Now, you know what to call him."
The man hurried toward Rowan, bowing slightly. "Manager Hale, does this outfit suit your preference?"
Rowan froze. Aria watched him, her eyes as sharp as a diamond. *Take it,* she willed him. *Or I'll shove it down your throat myself.*
A second passed. Then: "…Yes."
Quiet. But steady. Aria's lips curved just a fraction.
When the crowd dispersed and the silence returned, Rowan stood near her, looking like he was still trying to process his own heartbeat. "…Why?" he finally asked.
Aria picked up her phone, scrolling lazily. "Because I felt like it."
He frowned, and she smirked at the expression. "Don't overthink it. You needed a shield, and I had one lying around. Besides," she added, her voice turning bluntly savage, "I don't like people touching what's mine."
Rowan stilled. Something in his chest tightened—a strange, unfamiliar heat. "…I'll do it properly," he promised.
Aria raised a brow. "You'd better. I don't promote incompetence. Embarrass me, and I'll demote you back to folding laundry."
A flicker of genuine panic crossed his face, and she snorted. "Relax. I'm kidding."
*…Mostly.*
As evening settled, she watched him from across the terrace. He moved differently now. He was still cautious, still quiet, but there was a new architecture to his presence. Not confidence—not yet—but the beginning of it.
*Alright,* she thought, crossing her arms. *Let's see what you become.*
One thing was certain: Aria Larkspur didn't raise weak people. And Rowan Hale? He was finally finished being small.