Chapter 3 Trapped Between The Montclair Brothers

Aria’s Pov.

Hours later, the soft chime of the seatbelt sign pulled me out of my thoughts.

For a second I just blinked at the cabin, disoriented, like I’d forgotten where I was.

Then it came rushing back.

Paris.

The jet began its descent, so smooth I barely felt the movement.

No loud announcements, no crowded aisles, no passengers scrambling to grab bags from overhead compartments.

Just quiet efficiency.

It felt strange.

I wasn’t used to private jets.

Honestly, I wasn’t even used to regular airplanes. I barely traveled at all.

The engines softened as the jet slowed, and the cabin lights brightened gently.

We had landed.

When the door opened, a rush of cool air filled the cabin.

It smelled crisp. Clean. Unfamiliar.

I stepped out onto the private airstrip and paused for a moment, looking around.

A wide stretch of spotless concrete stretched out in every direction, bordered by trimmed grass and sleek black security vehicles.

I immediately spotted a black SUV waiting nearby, its windows darkly tinted.

A man in a tailored suit approached me with calm professionalism.

“Miss Hart,” he said politely, dipping his head slightly. "I’m Marcel. I’ll be taking you to the estate.”

Of course.

My mom wasn’t even here.

I rolled my eyes quietly and followed him to the car.

The SUV’s leather seats were soft beneath my fingers as I settled into the back. The door shut with a quiet click, and the car glided forward almost silently.

As we drove through Paris, I pressed my forehead lightly against the window.

The city unfolded slowly around me.

Old stone buildings lined the streets, elegant and timeless. Balconies wrapped in delicate iron railings. Cafés were just opening, chairs carefully arranged outside while waiters wiped down small round tables.

The whole place felt calm.

Graceful.

Like it had nothing to prove.

It was beautiful.

And somehow that only made me feel more out of place.

Paris looked completely sure of itself.

Meanwhile, my entire life had just been turned upside down.

Nothing here felt like Brooklyn.

Nothing felt like home.

Eventually the SUV slowed as it turned onto a long private driveway.

Tall iron gates stood open, their gold detailing catching the sunlight as we passed through.

Beyond them stretched perfectly manicured gardens, fountains carved from pale stone, and a mansion so massive that my breath caught before I could stop it.

This wasn’t a house.

It was an estate.

The car rolled to a stop at the base of wide marble steps.

I stepped out, pulling my suitcase behind me. The wheels clicked softly against the cobblestone driveway, echoing through the open courtyard.

Before I could take more than a few steps, a woman in a crisp black-and-white uniform approached me.

“May I take your luggage, miss?” she asked kindly.

I tightened my grip on the handle.

“I can carry it.”

Maybe it was petty.

Maybe it was stubborn.

But I wasn’t about to show up here acting like some spoiled rich girl.

“It’s alright.”

The voice came from above.

I looked up.

My mom stood at the top of the steps.

Cecilia looked exactly the way I remembered her.

Elegant. Perfectly composed. Completely untouchable.

A tailored coat hugged her figure, her posture straight, her expression calm and controlled.

For a second, an old memory flickered through my mind.

Me as a little kid sitting on a stool in our Brooklyn kitchen while sunlight poured through the window. My mom stood behind me, brushing my hair gently while humming a soft lullaby.

That memory felt fragile now.

Like it belonged to someone else’s life.

“Let her take it,” my mom said gently. “You must be exhausted.”

Reluctantly, I released the suitcase.

The maid wheeled it away easily, and suddenly my hands felt strangely empty.

Cecilia descended the steps slowly.

“Welcome to Paris, Aria,” she said softly.

I scoffed before I could stop myself.

“Sure.”

The word slipped out sharper than I meant it to.

For a brief second, something flickered across her face.

Guilt, maybe.

But it disappeared almost instantly.

“We’ll talk later,” she said quietly. “For now, you should rest.”

No hug.

No apology.

No explanation.

Not like I expected one anyway.

She turned and pushed open the large front doors.

I followed.

The inside of the mansion was even more overwhelming.

Polished marble floors stretched across the entry hall. A sweeping staircase curved upward beneath a massive chandelier that glittered like frozen stars.

Staff members stood quietly along the walls.

Maids.

A butler.

Maybe even a house manager.

They all greeted me politely, but their watchful eyes made me feel like some fragile exhibit on display.

And then I felt it.

Someone staring.

I looked up.

Two guys stood near the staircase.

The older one leaned casually against the railing.

His dark hair fell slightly into his sharp blue eyes that studied me with open disinterest. A small silver bar pierced his eyebrow, catching the light.

His arm was covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist, dark ink visible beneath the sleeve of his fitted shirt.

Something about him felt dangerous.

Like he enjoyed watching people squirm.

“Well,” he said dryly, looking me up and down.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said slowly, like he was studying a problem he hadn’t decided whether to solve or destroy.

I stiffened instantly.

“And you don’t look like someone whose opinion I asked for.”

I retorted without thinking.

His lips curved slightly In amusement.

Before he could say anything else, the boy beside him shifted.

He looked like the same person drawn by a different artist.

The same blue eyes.

But warmer.

His blonde hair fell loosely over his forehead, messy in a way that looked effortless.

He was tall too, built just as strong, but where the first one felt sharp and dangerous, he felt relaxed.

Easy.

“Lucien,” he murmured, shooting his brother a warning look.

Then he turned to me and smiled.

Dimples appeared in his cheeks.

“I’m Adrien,” he said. “Welcome.”

I nodded slightly.

The warmth in his voice caught me off guard.

And I immediately hated that it did.

My mom cleared her throat, interrupting the moment.

“Aria, this is Valentin.”

I turned.

A tall man stood a few steps behind her.

Valentin Montclair.

He had the calm presence of someone used to being listened to without raising his voice.

Everything about him seemed controlled.

“I trust the flight was comfortable,” Valentin said.

“Yeah, right,” Lucien muttered with a scoff as he pushed off the railing and headed up the stairs.

“Lucien!” my mom snapped. “You will not disrespect your father like that.”

But he was already gone.

Adrien rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before following after him.

Valentin watched them go with a quiet sigh.

A maid stepped toward me and gestured politely toward the staircase.

“Your room is ready,” Cecilia said, her voice softer now.

I grabbed my suitcase and followed the maid upstairs.

“What’s his problem?” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes.

But even as I said it, Lucien’s words stuck in my head longer than they should have.

Paris was beautiful.

The mansion was breathtaking.

But as I climbed the staircase, surrounded by strangers who were suddenly supposed to be my family, one thing became painfully clear.

This place wasn’t freedom.

It was a gilded cage.

And somehow… I had the feeling the Montclair brothers were the ones holding the key.