Arabella didn't sleep.
After Damon left Leila's place, the silence felt too heavy, too loaded with unsaid words. Her body ached—not from fatigue, but from the way his eyes had looked at her.
Like she was the only thing that could save him.
But she wasn't his savior.
And she didn't want to be.
Not unless he let her in.
The next morning, her phone buzzed with a message:
DAMON: "You deserve the truth. I'm at the penthouse. No tricks. Just me. Please."
She stared at the screen for a long time.
And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she called a ride.
When the elevator opened, Damon was already waiting.
No guards. No assistant. No mask of power.
Just a man with tired eyes and a bruise on his soul.
Arabella stepped out slowly. "This better not be a trap."
"It's not."
They walked into the living room, and Damon gestured for her to sit. She didn't. She crossed her arms and stared at him.
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "You want to know the truth? Fine. I'll give it to you."
She waited.
"I was seventeen when I first ran away from home. My mom had just died. My father was an alcoholic who blamed me for everything—said I was the reason she got sick."
Her arms dropped a little.
"I ended up on the streets for a while. Doing whatever I could to survive. And then… that summer, the charity organization offered me a chance to join a camp. Just one week. Free food. Warm bed. Sand and sun."
Arabella's breath caught. "That's where we met."
He nodded. "You were dancing barefoot in the sand, wearing that white dress. You smiled at me. And for the first time in years, I felt seen. Like I wasn't invisible."
She sat down slowly.
"I never forgot you," he said. "Even when I built my company from scratch. Even when I got rich, ruthless, and cold. I still remembered the girl on the beach who gave me one perfect night."
Arabella's heart cracked. "Why didn't you tell me from the start?"
"Because I didn't want you to love that version of me. The broken one. The one who had nothing."
Tears slipped down her cheek.
She didn't even notice she was crying until he knelt in front of her and wiped them gently with his thumb.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For lying. For pushing you away. For being too scared to admit that I've loved you since before I knew what love even was."
The words knocked the breath from her lungs.
She stared at him.
Then—slowly, like a dam breaking—she kissed him.
It started gentle. Searching. Hesitant.