DAMIAN'S POV
The city lights blur past, but I barely see them. My hands grip the wheel. Elle sits beside me, calm and frustrating, and every nerve in me refuses to settle.
The penthouse looms ahead, yet my mind keeps returning to her apartment; the stillness, the way Elle froze when I arrived. No sight of the boyfriend. Elle's fingers kept brushing the doorframe like she was trying to anchor herself. Camila's eyes flicked to the hallway, then snap back to me. Her lips press thin, and a staccato laugh pops out like a hiccup. Too forced.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Camila stuttered. "Uh… he... he had to… leave. Emergency."
Her words trip over themselves. Elle stiffens, pressing her palms to her hips, jaw tight.
"Emergency, huh?" I let it hang. Their quick glances, shifting feet, enough to tell me something's wrong.
I move toward the dining area with them, letting my knee brush hers under the table. She flinches, then smirks.
"You don't look that bad in red," I murmur, letting my gaze linger a second longer than polite.
"That bad?' she says, rolling her eyes, a flash of indignation in the tilt of her chin. 'I look great in red."
"Exactly," I counter, leaning in, with my hands clasped. "You look spectacularly great."
Her hand slid lightly over mine and just then...
my phone vibrates, bringing me back to the present.
Gilbert. Damn it. I've been drowning in work, clawing my way out of that scandal, barely keeping appointments straight. Tomorrow. I'll see him tomorrow.
I glance at Elle. She catches the tension in my jaw, the tight line of my shoulders.
"You okay?"
"Fine." I tighten my grip on the wheel, letting a smirk play at my lips despite the tension in my ribs. "Just… focused."
Silence stretches. "You good?" I ask. She nods, staring out the window.
I squeeze her hand. "Sorry I was distracted. Tonight's just us. No work. I promise."
She throws me a sideways glance. "That's what I'm hoping for."
The car pulls up to the penthouse, I grab my phone and text to confirm every detail exactly as I instructed: soft amber lights, a table for two, the bottle of wine she likes, music humming in the background. Perfect. But my mind keeps ticking.
"No work, then proceeds to working, " she says, tilting her head. "Fun."
"No, I was making sure everything's set."
Her fingers twitch against the edge of her purse, a hesitation I catch. I lean closer under the pretense of grabbing something from the pigeonhole, letting my hand brush hers, longer this time. She leans in, teasing.
"Careful, Damian," she murmurs. "If you keep touching me like that, I might start thinking this is a date instead of… a fun distraction."
"Won't be such a bad thing, now."
*****
The door swings shut behind us. The soft click sounds louder than it should. The penthouse smells of wine and candles, exactly how I instructed. Elle's eyes sweep the room, lingering for a second on the warm amber light and the table set for two.
I move closer, my hand brushing hers as I guide her toward her seat.
"Welcome to somewhere you can actually relax."
She smiles as she sits, crossing her legs in that slow, deliberate, distracting way. "Somewhere I can relax? You mean somewhere I can be interrogated in comfort?"
I laugh and lean against the wall, pretending I'm not dying to push her just a little. "No interrogations tonight. Promise."
Her eyes glint, playful. "Really? Just dinner?"
I pour us both a glass of wine, letting it swirl under the light. "Just dinner… unless you start being mysterious again."
She bites her lip, pretending innocence. "I'm no mystery."
I circle the table slowly, my gaze roaming over her; the long line of her neck, the soft curve of her shoulders. "No?" my voice drops. "Because right now, there's something behind your eyes you aren't ready to say. I'll wait."
She laughs lightly and tucks her hair behind her ear.
When I lift my glass, there's a tremor in my hand. I press both hands together for a moment, grounding myself, then I reach for the bottle and pour more wine into her glass. Then more. And more. I watch the way her lips wrap around the rim of the glass, the faint flush rising on her chest, the way her pulse jumps at her throat.
"You're going to make me tipsy," she laughs.
"Good," I say, leaning close enough that our thighs touch under the table. "I want you relaxed."
She meets my gaze with a dare. "Loose enough to ask me questions?"
I smirk. "No questions. As long as you're not hiding anything from me. You know anything that affects you now affects me, and my company."
She shakes her head, mock-offended. "There's nothing to hide. I swear."
I raise a brow. "Is that a promise?"
"Yess!" She leans forward just a little, and the air changes around us.
I let it slide, even though part of me wants to drag my chair closer, run my hand down her spine, figure out exactly what she's keeping from me. Instead, I pour more wine. Each refill is a quiet test. She laughs, light, sharp and every time I lean in to brush her shoulder or tuck a strand of hair away, she lets me.
My phone vibrates harshly against the table. Gilbert. My jaw locks.
"Everything's fine," I whisper to myself, cutting the call. Not tonight.
Seconds later, Uncle Harrison calls. Enough. I turn the phone off entirely.
Elle lifts her brows. "Someone's in demand."
"Not tonight," I say, pouring one more glass for her and one for myself. I lean close, close enough to breathe in the scent of her hair, clean and intoxicating. Her pulse jumps as my fingertips skim across her hand. "Ever been in a relationship before?" I ask, watching the way her fingers toy with the stem of her glass.
She looks up, startled but amused. "Who hasn't?" Then her brows lift. "Wait... don't tell me you haven't?"
I take a slow sip, letting the warmth sit on my tongue. "Love is leverage. People forget that. They forget that feelings are the quickest way to lose your footing."
"Who hurt you?"
"No one." The lie tastes familiar. "I just learned early that attachment makes you predictable."
Elle shakes her head, almost sadly, almost stubbornly. "That's not weakness, Damian. Caring for someone, loving someone, takes strength. It means you're choosing them even when it scares you."
Her words settle too close to the places I keep buried. Wanting her is already dangerous… and I can feel that danger rising with every breath she takes.
She leans forward slightly, voice low, steady. "You don't have to tell me everything. But don't pretend you're made of stone."
Our conversation melts into teasing touches and lazy smiles. The wine keeps flowing. Her fingers graze the back of my hand; mine trail slowly along her palm, up her forearm. Every glance between us feels like a dare neither of us is ready to lose.
Dinner comes, but neither of us cares. Elle picks up her fork. The food's still steaming, scent warm in the air, but she barely looks at it. She lifts one bite halfway, pauses, then sets it back down like she forgot what she was doing. Her eyes keep drifting to me.
I pretend to focus on my plate, but I can feel her watching. The air between us tightens, slow and quiet. At this point, the plates sit half-finished between us, but she's not looking at the food anymore. She's looking at me. Her wine-warm eyes linger a second too long. Her breathing shifts, barely, but I catch it.
I lean back, trying to steady myself. Wanting her is easy. Trusting her isn't. Logic keeps tapping at my skull, reminding me of every unanswered question.
She tilts her head. "You're quiet."
"Just thinking," I say, watching the candlelight flicker against her collarbone. It glows there, soft and infuriatingly perfect.
She leans in a little. The air between us tightens. Her perfume rises; enticing, pulling me forward before I even decide to move. I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. There's too much I don't know. But her knee grazes mine under the table, just a whisper of contact, and everything in me stalls.
She looks up through her lashes. "Damian…"
My name in her mouth ruins the last bit of restraint I have.
I lift my hand to her chin, slow, giving her time to pull back. She doesn't. Her breath brushes my thumb, shaky, like she's fighting the same thing I am. For a beat, neither of us moves. I should pull back. But she looks at me like she already knows I won't. Just the quiet thud of wanting here.
Then I close the space. Our mouths meet gently at first, soft, testing. Then deeper as she leans into me, fingers curling in my shirt. The kiss tilts, pulls, turns hungry. Her lips warm, open, tasting faintly of wine. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and my grip tightens at her waist as I pull her closer.
She rises from her chair, and I follow, my hands sliding down her waist. We stumble backward, lips still locked, breaths tangled. She gasps when my hand finds the zip on her dress.
"Damian..." she whispers.
That's all I need. Logic falls away. Completely.
I guide her down the hallway, her fingers tugging at me, pulling me closer with every step. The candles flicker behind us. The untouched dinner cools on the table.
By the time her back touches the bedroom door, I'm already reaching for the handle, her mouth still on mine, her breath warm against my cheek.
The rest of the world stays outside.
I pull her closer.