The next two days were unbearable.
Arabella barely saw Damon. He left early, came home late, and when he did show up, it was with cold eyes and a jaw clenched tight enough to snap.
She tried pretending she didn't care. But deep down, it bothered her.
That kiss… it had meant something. Even if he didn't admit it.
Even if she wasn't sure what it meant to her.
On the third night, she'd had enough.
She found him in the home gym—shirtless, drenched in sweat, punching the life out of a hanging bag like it owed him money.
His muscles flexed with every jab, tattoos sliding over hard arms, hair damp and jaw sharp.
Arabella stood at the doorway, arms folded. "Are you planning to fight the whole building or just your demons?"
He didn't stop punching. "Go back upstairs."
"No."
He hit the bag harder.
"I'm not your toy, Damon," she snapped. "You don't get to kiss me, pull me close, then pretend I don't exist."
He finally stopped, chest heaving, eyes wild. "You want me to pretend it meant something?"
"It did mean something!" she shouted.
Silence.
A charged, dangerous silence.
Damon walked up to her slowly, until they were inches apart.
"You think I don't want you?" he rasped. "Every time you walk past me in one of my shirts, I lose my mind. You sleep one floor away and I hear you turn in bed. I want you, Ara. I've wanted you since the day you slammed your coffee into my chest."
Her breath hitched. "Then why—"
"Because wanting you means needing you. And I don't need anyone."
And with that, he stepped back.
Arabella's chest burned. "You're such a coward."
He laughed bitterly. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"No. You're scared of feeling anything."
Before he could answer, her phone buzzed from the counter behind them.
She grabbed it—and froze.
It was a message from Leila, her best friend.
"Ara… you need to see this. Check the blog link. It's you. And Damon."
Arabella clicked it open.
And there it was.
A photo. Grainy, taken from what looked like an old security camera.
A much younger Damon—maybe nineteen. Shirtless, grinning.
And right next to him… her.
Same brown eyes. Same long hair.
Arabella, years younger, in a soaked white sundress, sitting in his lap at some party by a beach bonfire.
The headline screamed:
"Billionaire's Bride… Or His Secret Past?"
Her hands went cold.
She didn't remember that night—not fully. It had been a wild summer during a school trip. A week of chaos. A kiss from a stranger whose name she never got…
And it had been him.
"Damon…" she said, voice trembling. "Is this real?"
He stared at the screen, face pale.
Then his voice came out, low and rough:
"I hoped you'd never remember."