Nayla woke up drowning in shame.
Not because of the sunlight slapping her face, nor the chill of her body from forgetting to pull up the blanket. But because the memories of last night stripped her bare completely.
Her head throbbed with a relentless pulse. The bitter aftertaste of alcohol still clung to her tongue. A dull ache twisted in her stomach, empty since yesterday. But none of that hurt as much as knowing Damian had seen her weakness, laid bare and trembling in the night.
There was too much she wanted to take back. But it was already too late. Everything had spilled. Her sobs, her bitter stories, and the pain she'd tucked neatly behind her crafted smile.
"You're awake," Damian said flatly.
Nayla didn't respond. She inhaled, then sat up slowly with fingers combing through her tangled hair. Her shoulders felt heavy, her limbs ached, and her legs were barely holding her weight.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand, battery hanging by a thread. The screen glowed, Saturday. A small reminder blinked at her, marking the job she had that evening.
Fashion wasn't just a job for Nayla. It was her language, her escape, and her armor. As a stylist, she read bodies and personalities, pairing fabrics and colors like poetry. Her clientele ranged from A-list celebrities to models to politicians wanting to appear more human. Behind the scenes, she wasn't just dressing people, but she was crafting illusions, constructing the best versions of others, and also of herself. Especially, when the world was too loud to face without a carefully chosen layer of silk or leather.
"It's really Saturday?" Nayla murmured, more to herself than anyone.
"Does alcohol not only get you drunk but erase your memory, too?" Damian replied dryly.
Nayla cast him a glance, then rolled her eyes. With weak hands, she began to gather her things. She hadn't brought much, just a black clutch lying on the sofa.
"You've got an event tonight?" Damian asked without ceremony.
She glanced back, unsurprised. Of course he knew. Damian always seemed to know everything.
"7 p.m.?" he guessed again.
Nayla smirked. "You already know the answer."
He watched her for a long moment. His gaze was unreadable, but something in it lingered as if unwilling to let her go just yet. Like he was weighing words he couldn't quite say.
She was slipping on her silver heels in the corner. Her movements were confident and precise, even if Damian could see the faint sway in her body. She wasn't fine. Not completely.
"I could help you disappear, if you want. The world will spin just fine without you."
"But I don't want to disappear." Nayla met his eyes. "I'm not who you think I am, Damian."
There was a beat of silence. Heavy and dense.
Damian's eyes narrowed, thoughts moving fast behind them. Then softly, he said, "I'll drive you."
"You? Drive me?" Nayla nearly laughed. "This isn't some nightclub. This is fashion week. Media. Cameras. And I know you hate mingling with that kind of crowd."
Since graduating, Damian had built his own empire. Not just in Milan, but also an exclusive nightclub in the heart of Bali. He breathed in that dark, glittering world, a drug made of neon lights and pulsing music. He wasn't just an owner. He was a legend behind the red doors and the music that never stopped.
"I don't need to mingle," Damian said simply. "I'll just wait for you until you're done. And don't worry, I have no intention of appearing on camera."
Of course he didn't. A man like Damian didn't concern himself with things he didn't care about. What he cared about was keeping Nayla safe. Keeping her his.
"I don't need anyone to drive me."
"But I need to drive you," he replied firmly.
Nayla let out a long breath. "And if I say no?"
"Then I'll still show up. The only difference is, I'll come in through the front door." His voice was like a velvet-wrapped threat disguised as concern.
She closed her eyes. Arguing with Damian was pointless. Especially when her energy was already hanging by a thread.
She was eventually ushered to sit at the long dining table, clutching her spoon in silence. Not because she was obedient, but because her body was begging for something before it gave out.
The clink of porcelain echoed through the stillness. Across from her, Damian read the newspaper, scanning every word like he was trying to decipher a language he hadn't quite mastered, Indonesian.
Nayla thought the silence between them would last forever. But then, without lowering the paper, Damian asked the last thing she expected.
"Do you still love him?"
Her hand froze in midair. The spoon hovered in front of her slightly parted lips. Then her mouth shut, and the spoon clinked softly back onto the plate.
She didn't respond. Couldn't. Her tongue was numb, and her mind too tangled to form an answer.
Damian folded the paper, looking at her with a gaze too complex to read. "I just need to know. Before I take you into a world where they'll judge you from the tip of your hair to the heels on your feet. Before you smile for the camera and hide all your wounds behind red lipstick."
She stayed silent. But her eyes spoke volumes. And for Damian, that was enough.
Moments later, he stood abruptly. The chair screeched from the force. His expression was unreadable, already drifting toward indifference.
Before disappearing into the kitchen, he muttered, "Your dress is hanging in the dressing room. Shoes are downstairs. Jewelry's in the blue velvet box."
Nayla sat still, trying to process a moment that felt impossible to grasp.
Damian's voice called again, slightly louder, as he walked away. "And yes, I picked out what you should wear. I know what kind of event this is. So relax, and eat."
She scoffed under her breath. How could Damian dictate what a stylist should wear? But then again, Damian always seemed one step ahead.
By the time sunlight had surrendered to artificial light, Nayla stepped out of the car. Damian remained behind the wheel, unmoving, while she headed straight into the building nestled in the heart of Denpasar.
Camera flashes flickered relentlessly. The clack of heels echoed with whispered expectations. This was a battlefield wrapped in luxury. And Nayla Moretti stood tall at the center of it, composed in her sharp black ensemble and sleek hair pinned back with precision.
She knew exactly where to go, who to greet, and how to direct every gaze that tried to dissect her. But beneath the surface, her heartbeat stuttered. Damian never showed himself. But even in this crowd, Nayla could feel his shadow. Watching. Protecting. Maybe even testing.
"Nayla?"
The voice froze her mid-step. Soft, yet firm. Too familiar to ignore.
Nathan.
He stood just a few paces away. He looked infuriatingly perfect in his navy suit. His face was clean-shaven and his smile almost persuasive. As if nothing had changed. As if all the nights of arguments and tears were just unreleased scenes from a forgotten script.
As a guest, Nayla wasn't seated in the front row. Still, the spotlight found her. Especially when Nathan made his way toward her, pulling attention like it had been staged.
"Can I sit here?" he asked, leaning close enough that his cologne brushed the edges of her senses. His handsome face wore his best smile. The kind designed for public consumption.
Nayla returned a flat smile. "It's a free seat, isn't it?"
The flashbulbs popped again as Nathan reached for her hand and kissed it. Every movement rehearsed. Every gesture calculated. Murmurs rose around them, thinking it sweet. Thinking it love.
"I'm glad you came," Nathan whispered, slipping his voice into the rising chatter.
"I didn't come for you," Nayla replied calmly, lips still curved into a smile for the camera. "I came for work."
Applause erupted as the show began. There was just enough time for them to sit side by side, a picture-perfect couple.
But as soon as the lights dimmed and attention drifted elsewhere, Nayla turned to him. Her eyes were cold. Rigid. Sharp.
"We need to talk."
Nathan raised his brows, still holding that faint smile, as if unaware of the storm brewing behind her calm words.
"I'm filing for divorce," Nayla said, unwavering.