Damian had no business attending that tech gala. Not really. He hated social events, hated making small talk with entitled investors and plastic-smiled founders. But when the invitation came in, he accepted it anyway.
Because Layla would be there.
He didn't care about the wine. Or the skyline views. He only cared about walking in with her at his side, like always — sleek, silent, efficient. His. At least for the hours between 8 and 11, when the world watched.
Tonight, she was in black.
A long satin dress, nothing flashy. The kind of fabric that whispered over her hips and said nothing more. She wore no jewelry, just a dark red lip and that same quiet competence he'd come to crave. He didn't compliment her. Damian didn't do compliments. But his eyes had lingered.
She noticed.
They arrived together, as always — she half a step behind, scanning the room while Damian's jaw tensed at every fake handshake. He hated this already. Layla already had the list of names memorized: who mattered, who didn't, who needed a follow-up and who deserved to be iced out. He didn't need to say a word.
But fifteen minutes in, a call came in — urgent. One of his engineers had screwed up a critical launch report. Damian muttered something under his breath, stepped aside to take the call, and paced to a quieter edge of the room.
For once, Layla wasn't directly behind him.
And that was when Luke Rashford noticed her.
He'd seen her earlier — not just now. At the panel earlier that day, she'd asked a question from the floor, something sharp about quantum layering and ethics in predictive design. Most people missed it. Luke hadn't.
Now she stood with a glass of white wine, alone, watching the city from behind the glass railings. She looked like a woman who didn't want to be noticed — which, ironically, made it impossible not to.
Luke didn't approach like a man looking for a fight or a flirt. Just interest. Casual confidence.
"Didn't think anyone under thirty actually asked good questions at these things," he said, stepping to her side.
Layla turned, caught off guard — then guarded. "Excuse me?"
He gave her a soft smile. "At the Q&A this morning. Quantum ethics. That was you, wasn't it?"
Her eyes narrowed, lips parted slightly. She didn't answer right away.
"I remember faces," he continued. "Names, not so much. But yours stood out."
She blinked, then recovered with professional cool. "I'm just an executive assistant."
Luke chuckled. "Right. And I'm just a guy with a LinkedIn."
Layla looked him over properly then — the sharp blue suit, no tie, crisp open collar. His presence was magnetic, but not overpowering. More… attentive. Curious.
"Who are you?" she asked, tone neutral.
"Luke Rashford. CEO of Rash Technology."
At that, her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass. She knew the name. She also knew the tension between her boss and this man.
"Damian's… competitor," she said.
"I prefer rival," he replied smoothly. "Sounds more cinematic."
Layla let herself smirk, just a little. "You two don't get along."
"Because he thinks I'm reckless. I think he's a control freak. Tomato, tomahto."
She gave a soft exhale that could've been a laugh. Luke leaned in slightly, voice lower.
"Truth is, I came here for the tech gossip, the overpriced champagne… but finding you here?" He tilted his head. "That's unexpected."
Layla's guard went back up.
"I'm just here for work."
"Sure," he said. "But you're not just anything. You've got presence. Insight. The way you move — like you run things even if no one says it out loud."
She wasn't used to that kind of attention. Not from men like him. Damian barely looked her in the eye unless he was giving instructions. But this man saw her.
"Careful," she said softly. "You sound like you're recruiting."
Luke smiled again. Slower this time. "Would it work?"
Layla didn't answer. But the question lingered in the air between them.
Just then, Damian's voice snapped through the space behind her.
"Layla."
She turned.
He was back — call over, storm in his eyes already brewing. His gaze flicked between her and Luke. His jaw clenched. No smile. No greeting.
Luke gave Damian a slow, respectful nod. "Good to see you again, Damian."
"Wish I could say the same."
"Your assistant has a sharp mind. You should use it more."
Damian didn't blink. "I do."
He looked at Layla. "We're leaving."
She nodded, cool as ever. "Yes, sir."
But as she turned to follow him, Luke slipped her his card without a word — just the touch of paper against her palm.
She didn't look back.
But she kept the card.
The ride back to his penthouse was silent.
Damian hadn't said a word since they left the gala. He hadn't even looked at her, not really. His hand was clenched around the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it had personally offended him.
Layla sat beside him, calm on the outside — unreadable — but her fingers were still curled around the sleek white card hidden in her clutch.
Luke Rashford. CEO. Rash Technology. Personal Line.
And beneath it, handwritten in dark ink: "If you ever want to be seen."
She hadn't thrown it away.
She could've.
But she didn't.
Damian noticed. Of course, he noticed. He noticed everything about her. The way she'd smiled — no, not smiled — engaged with Luke. The way she hadn't recoiled. Hadn't shut it down.
When he pulled into the underground garage, he didn't get out immediately. The car stayed running. Tension sat in the silence like a third passenger.
Then, finally—
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
His voice was low. Controlled. Too controlled.
Layla blinked at the question. "It was a work event."
"That wasn't an answer."
She turned to face him. "What kind of answer are you looking for?"
He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were darker than usual, not with fatigue — with restraint. A sharp kind of restraint that looked like it was one wrong word from snapping.
"Do you know who that man is?"
She didn't blink. "Luke Rashford. I know."
Damian's laugh was short and bitter. "You think he came over because he recognized your voice from the Q&A?"
Layla's expression didn't change. "He said that's why."
"He's lying."
"And you know that because…?"
"Because I know men like him." He leaned closer, voice lowering. "Charming. Calculated. Opportunistic."
"Sounds familiar," she said quietly.
A pause. Sharp.
His eyes flared, just for a second — then he leaned back.
"So, what? You're entertaining it?"
"Entertaining what?"
"Him."
Layla tilted her head. "Why would that matter to you?"
And there it was — the moment.
He could've told her the truth. That it mattered too much. That watching her talk to another man — especially that man — made something cold and ugly twist in his gut.
But he didn't.
Instead, he said nothing.
Layla nodded slowly, lips pressed into a near-smile. She opened the car door and stepped out without waiting for him.
He sat there. Watching her walk away.
Still saying nothing.
But behind his silence, his mind was loud:
She's mine.
She works for me.
He doesn't get to look at her like that.
Why didn't she look at me like that?
The soft click of her apartment door shutting behind her sounded louder than it should have.
Layla kicked off her heels, dropped her clutch on the entryway table, and stood there for a second — still, as if she were waiting for the silence to ask her a question she didn't want to answer.
She exhaled slowly, the way she always did when she shed the armor that came with Damian's world. The dress clung to her body like it still wanted to belong to that night. She stepped out of it in the dark.
And then, finally, opened the clutch.
The card was still there.
Luke Rashford.
CEO. Clean, confident typeface. Simple, expensive cardstock. No embellishments. Just power, quietly stated. Like him.
And the handwritten line at the bottom?
If you ever want to be seen.
She stared at it longer than she should've. Like the ink might change if she looked hard enough.
She didn't want to admit it — not even to herself — but something in her stomach had twisted when he said those words. Because… wasn't that the root of it all?
Damian never really saw her. Not the way Luke did.
Not the way someone who cared would.
Damian used her brilliance like it was a tool. Valued it, sure. Trusted it, definitely. But not once had he told her she was anything more than efficient. Useful. Unreplaceable, maybe — but never wanted.
And God, she wanted to be wanted. Not owned. Not controlled. Wanted.
Luke hadn't touched her. Hadn't leaned in too far. Hadn't tried to cross a line.
He'd just listened.
And in a room full of men who only looked at her when Damian introduced her as his assistant, Luke had looked at her first.
Layla walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter.
Her phone buzzed. A text.
Damian:
Meeting moved to 10AM. Be here by 9.
No "thank you" for the night. No check-in. No apology for the cold ride home. Just… the usual. Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't stared at her in that car like he was seconds away from either kissing her or firing her.
She didn't reply.
Her eyes drifted to the card again. Just lying there on the counter. Daring her.
She didn't want to call him.
Didn't want to need that attention.
Didn't want to play games between two powerful men who saw her as a piece on their board.
But part of her — the quiet part, the lonely part, the woman under all that poise — wondered…
What would it feel like… to be wanted without being possessed?
She didn't throw the card away.
She placed it in her drawer, closed it softly, and walked to bed.
But sleep didn't come easily.
Not with Luke's words echoing.
And not with Damian's silence haunting her just the same.