Chapter 7: Going Public! Back Off—I'm Married!

Aria's POV

Eleven p.m. I'm sitting in Vivian's cramped Brooklyn apartment, still holding the warm copy of my marriage certificate. Sheet music and Lincoln Center posters cover every inch of her walls, but right now all my attention is on the laptop she's clutching.

Her face is pale when she bursts through the door.

"Those fucking psychos are posting death threats now!" She spins the screen toward me, voice shaking. "They're saying you should 'disappear' from the music world!"

Twitter is a complete shitshow. The #CancelAria tag is flooded with vicious comments and photoshopped attacks. Someone even posted the exact location of my Lincoln Center rehearsal room. I stare at the words, feeling ice crawl up my spine.

This isn't just internet drama anymore.

This is organized destruction.

Stella's fans have dug up everything—my LinkedIn, Instagram, even my decade-old Juilliard graduation photo. They've slapped "gold-digger" and "homewrecker" labels on every single one and spread them everywhere. I see people in the comments posting my rehearsal schedule at Lincoln Center. Others are discussing how to "accidentally" corner me at the entrance.

"Aria." Vivian grabs my arm. "You can't just keep taking this."

She's right.

I pull out my phone and log into my Instagram account—the one I haven't touched in forever. The verification badge is still there: "Principal Cellist, Manhattan Symphony Orchestra." I take a deep breath and open the camera.

"Take a photo of me."

Vivian freezes for a second, then immediately gets it. She raises her phone, adjusting the angle with a professional photographer's eye. "Tilt your chin up. Let them see you're not some scared little girl anymore."

I change out of Orion's hoodie and put on the black turtleneck cashmere dress I wore at Lincoln Center today. The marriage certificate and reality show contract are spread in my hands—Orion Voss's signature and the Apex Media logo crystal clear. I lift my chin. My eyes shift from lost to sharp.

Click. The photo captures it.

I stare at myself in the picture. That woman's gaze is frighteningly calm. This isn't an act. This is a declaration of war. I'm going to make sure everyone knows—I'm not Julian's accessory, not Stella's stepping stone. I'm Aria Voss, Orion's legal wife, Lincoln Center's principal cellist.

All those people waiting to see me beg on my knees? Get ready to eat your words.

My phone buzzes.

Stella and Julian just posted professionally edited photos on Instagram at the exact same time. I click on them. There's that sunset silhouette on a Hamptons beach, composed like a fashion editorial.

Stella's caption reads: "Finally found my North Star. Ready to show the world what real love looks like. @JulianAshworth"

Julian reposted with a comment: "She's the only compass I need. Let the journey begin. @StellaSterling" The photo shows him on one knee, sliding a diamond ring onto Stella's finger.

Twitter explodes. The #StellanForever tag shoots to number one on trending. Fans are going insane—"true love locked in," "homewrecker gets what she deserves." Meanwhile, #CancelAria is still burning hot. Marketing accounts are making "Aria's homewrecking timeline" infographics, maliciously editing old photos of me and Julian.

"See that?" Vivian's voice is bitter. "They're putting on a show."

"I know." My voice is calm. "So it's my turn."

12:05 a.m. I hit "post."

The caption is simple: "I don't compete where I don't compare. Stop tagging me in your circus—I'm already married. And yes, we're doing the show too. See you in the Alps. @OrionVoss"

The photos: our marriage certificate, the reality show contract, and me in that black dress standing by floor-to-ceiling windows with Manhattan's glittering skyline behind me.

Ten thousand shares in three minutes.

I close my phone and lean back into the couch, exhaling slowly. The phone's still buzzing—probably countless messages flooding in—but I don't want to look. I just want to enjoy this moment of peace. I'm finally not the person being defined anymore. I've taken back the narrative.

"Aria." Vivian's voice is soft. "You really married that Orion Voss? The guy who owns half of Silicon Valley and just bought the Oscar streaming rights?"

"Yeah." I can't help but smile—my first real smile in days. "The same Orion who used to climb through dorm windows with me in Switzerland. Never thought my high school troublemaker friend would turn into a tech mogul."

Vivian's eyes go wide, then her head snaps up. "Wait, the same Orion who used to climb through the dorm windows with you? The one you always called your 'partner in crime'?!"

I think about how he slipped that black diamond ring onto my finger.

"Yeah," I say. "That Orion."

---

Orion's POV

I'm sitting in the panoramic glass conservatory of my Tribeca apartment. The smart system has already dimmed the glass. I'm holding my drink, staring at Aria's Instagram post on my phone screen. I can't hide the smile pulling at my lips.

I sent the same message to every family group chat, high school friends chat, even the board of directors group: "Told you I'd get married when I found the right one. Meet my wife. @AriaVoss" Attached: a screenshot of Aria's Instagram post.

The high school group chat explodes: "Bro, is this a joke?" "Orion Voss, the commitment-phobe, MARRIED?!"

One board member coldly replies: "Congratulations. Now focus on the IPO."

I stare at Aria's eyes in that photo—calm, sharp, breathtakingly beautiful. This is the Aria I know. Not the enduring shadow beside Julian, but the woman who stands center stage and commands the room with her cello.

Eight years. I finally have her by my side.

This time, no one's taking her away from me.

I set down my phone and look out at the Hudson River. Manhattan's night skyline glitters like a sea of stars. And I've finally found mine.