___________
The next day, Mira woke up very late. Her limbs felt heavy, like her body had decided the world could wait. She took her bath, brushed her teeth, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her expression was blank. She rolled her eyes, splashed cold water on her face, and turned away.
After dressing in a matching skirt and shirt—casual, beautiful, with soft cream and pastel tones that hugged her curves just enough—she went downstairs and ate in silence.
Later, she strolled to the poolside, craving some sunlight. There, she saw him.
Damien.
He was lounging on a recliner under the shade, shirt half unbuttoned. Two buttons undone, just enough to reveal smooth, lightly tanned skin. The black fabric clung to him effortlessly, as if tailored by shadows. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, still damp from a shower, and glistened under the morning light. Even when relaxed, there was a sharpness to him—like a blade cooling off, not dulling.
Mira walked to the pool and sat at the edge, dipping her fingers in the water. She looked at the sun instead of him.
"You seem to be in a good mood today," she said quietly, not turning her head.
"It seems you're not plotting revenge today," Damien replied without looking at her, still reading a book lazily.
"I'm taking a break," Mira muttered, finally glancing at him.
"Hmm. Good. Maybe if you sit still long enough, the doctors can finally do their job," Damien said as he tossed a grape into his mouth.
"You really do know how to kill a moment. No wonder you're insane," Mira muttered.
"Mind your manners, little pet. That mouth should be used to praise people, not insult them," Damien said, finally lifting his eyes to look at her.
Mira gave him a lazy thumbs-up. "I'm praising you. Being crazy suits you. Honestly."
Damien took a slow sip of his drink and smirked. "Thanks for the compliment then. And by the way, seeing you covered in blood and fighting for your life? Beautiful. You should endanger yourself more often. It really brings out your glow."
His smile was devastating—sharp, boyish, but it didn't touch his eyes. That smile could stop hearts. Unfortunately, his heart was the one thing never involved.
"A handsome face with a devil's heart," Mira muttered, still watching the ripples in the pool. "They were right—handsome men are always devils in disguise."
"Speaking of devils," Damien said, returning to his book. "Let's take a break. Go on a cruise."
Mira raised an eyebrow and turned to him. "What are you planning?"
"I'm not planning anything," Damien said casually. "Unlike someone, I'm a gentleman. Gentlemen don't plot. This is a vacation suggestion. Consider it a holiday for all your little plans—and all those documents you've been leaking to the police and rival companies."
Mira froze for a second. Then she smiled faintly and ran a hand through her hair. "So, you knew."
"You weren't exactly subtle," he replied. "And let's be honest—you're the only one after my life. Well, top of the list, anyway. If it makes you happy, go ahead. Destroy more."
She looked at him with a mix of disbelief and disgust. "You're talking like a boyfriend entertaining his naughty girlfriend. Gross. And I'm not going."
"Did I ask?" Damien replied, eyes never leaving the book. "I'm letting you do what you want, so you don't get moody. That's generosity. Aren't I kind?"
"If you're kind, then the devil himself is innocent," Mira snapped, standing up and brushing off her skirt.
She paused before walking away, turning back to him.
"You should really see a doctor. You act like you've got split personalities."
Damien glanced up as she walked away, his voice a soft murmur.
"Split personality? No… I just wear different masks for different people."
---
That afternoon, Mira packed her things in silence. Her gown flowed like smoke—deep burgundy silk with a slit that whispered along her legs as she moved. The off-shoulder neckline rested gently against her collarbones, revealing smooth skin and a delicate silver chain that sparkled faintly against her throat.
Damien was already waiting in the car, dressed in a black turtleneck under a dark brown coat with subtle gold lining—simple, expensive, and cold like him. His legs were crossed, phone in one hand, a leather folder of documents in the other. When Mira slid into the seat beside him, he didn't speak. He simply flicked his hand forward, signaling the driver to go.
Mira put on her earpods, the soft voice of Rian spilling into her ears as she leaned back, the window's reflection casting flickers of light across her face. Damien didn't glance at her. His eyes were locked on a file—contracts, notes, secrets—probably things that could kill a man.
The car pulled up to the private terminal where security officers stood in crisp formation. The head of the airport staff approached with a slight bow, escorting them into the waiting jet. Everything was wordless, efficient—luxury that didn't need to show off.
Inside the private plane, Mira walked straight to the bedroom cabin and lay on the edge of the wide bed, heels kicked off, her hair spilling over the pillow like ink. She picked up a magazine from the side table, flipping through it absentmindedly.
Some time later, she heard the soft click of the cabin door.
Damien entered, holding a small cream-colored jar in one hand. He looked at her with unreadable calm.
She raised a brow. "What's that?"
He set it down beside her on the table. "It removes scars. Prevents infection. Apply it."
She stared at the jar for a moment, then leaned back and returned to flipping the magazine. She didn't say thank you. She didn't say anything.
But when she noticed Damien still watching her, eyes cool and unmoving, she let out a quiet sigh, closed the magazine, and stood up.
Without a word, Mira began to undress—slowly, deliberately, as if it were routine. The gown slid down her body like melted wine, pooling at her feet in silence.
Her back was turned to him, the smooth curve of her spine marked by faint, healing scars—jagged lines that had no business existing on a body that beautiful. Some were old, silvery and faded; others were still angry and red.
Damien stepped forward, unscrewing the jar. A subtle scent—clean, herbal, almost nostalgic—filled the air.
He dipped two fingers into the cream and touched her skin.
His hands were steady, movements precise and unhurried. He started at her shoulder blade, fingertips gliding over a scar like he was tracing the edge of a memory. The cream left a faint shine in its wake, catching the soft cabin light.
Mira didn't flinch. She stood perfectly still, arms loosely crossed in front of her chest, eyes distant.
Down her back, over the curve of her waist, Damien continued. The warmth of his hands mixed with the cool balm, and the contrast made her skin tighten in goosebumps, though she said nothing.
There was something unnervingly gentle in the way he worked—not affectionate, but almost reverent. Like he was tending to something rare, something that wasn't his to break again.
When he finished, he capped the jar and set it aside.
Mira pulled on a silk robe, not looking at him. "You enjoy playing the savior when you're the one who caused the damage."
Damien walked past her, back toward the door.
"I didn't save you," he said without turning. "You save yourself "
---
The moment felt like a painting—one of those tragic oil masterpieces you see behind glass, where two figures stand close but remain galaxies apart. No affection. No hate. Just a moment of human stillness. One applying balm to the wounds he once carved, the other letting him touch the damage without flinching.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't tender.
It was quiet devastation wrapped in civility.
To any outsider, it might've looked like the intimate care between lovers. But the truth was far colder. He was the one who gave her the scars. She was the one tearing down everything he'd built. And he simply… let her.
Her body stood in calm defiance of that fact.
Even stripped bare, Mira stood like a queen dethroned yet still commanding the court. Her curves were soft yet sharp, a contradiction he couldn't unsee—sculpted hips that arched into a narrow waist, legs long and shaped like they were crafted for velvet rooms and battlefield escapes alike. Her chest rose and fell slowly, unbothered, untouched by shame. The scars didn't dim her; they crowned her. A brutal blend of survival and elegance.
Damien closed the jar slowly. The lid clicked into place with the same finality as a knife being sheathed.
Then he just… studied her.
His eyes didn't hold lust. Nor guilt. Just that calm, unnerving interest—like he was examining a puzzle piece that finally fit into the mess of his life.
"Keep looking," Mira said without glancing at him, her tone light, "and you'll get addicted."
She reached for the gown and pulled it back over her frame, the silk catching on her still-moist skin before sliding into place like a curtain drawn on a performance.
Damien's gaze lingered a second longer before his face twisted into a scowl.
"Eat more. You look like a broom," he muttered flatly, turning toward the door.
Mira's hand froze halfway through adjusting her sleeve.
Her jaw ticked. "Bastard," she hissed under her breath. "How dare he insult my curves?"
She ran a frustrated hand through her hair and glared at the cabin door. "No wonder he's single."
Sliding into the lounge chair, Mira let out a slow exhale. The robe clung to her figure like silk armor now, her mind sharpening again.
She had to be more discreet.
This man was no fool. Because of her, he'd lost over a billion in assets, and the government—like a shark catching the scent of blood—had begun attacking from all angles. His reputation, his companies, his political shields yet he stood strong as if all this attack are from naughty children and cause no damage.
Even if he won't get affected he still hated any signs of trying to outsmart him
And yet… he said nothing.
He watched.
He offered cruise vacations like a bored aristocrat trying to ease a child's tantrum.
He's planning something.
Mira's eyes narrowed. The cruise ship wouldn't be simple. Not with Damien. Not with a man who watched chaos bloom in his garden and offered the one watering it a seat by the fountain.
"Let's see what cards you're hiding, Damien," she murmured, reaching for her phone.
The sea may be calm now.
But something tells me… it's only waiting for blood.
---