Layla arrived at the upstate branch on time. Alone. As always, she handled everything.
Staff reports. Launch updates. Team restructuring.
She fixed what needed fixing.
She smoothed what needed smoothing.
Just like Damian would've wanted.
But he wasn't there. He never came to this branch. Only once, and it had been years ago.
So when he suddenly walked into the meeting room, everything paused.
People froze.
Phones dropped.
Heads turned.
It was like seeing a celebrity walk into a classroom.
Damian Days. In the flesh.
Black suit, sunglasses, calm like ice. The women couldn't stop staring.
One lady quietly took a picture. Another whispered, "Is that really him?"
He didn't say much. Just walked in, nodded once, and sat beside Layla like he'd been there the whole time.
Layla blinked, shocked, but didn't ask questions. That wasn't her place.
After the meeting, the girls started bringing things.
Small gifts. Company souvenirs. Local wine. A custom hoodie with the company logo.
Each one handed to Layla, asking her to "please give it to Mr. Days."
She carried them all, awkwardly stacking everything in her arms, walking behind him like a moving shelf.
When they got to his car, he turned around.
"Put everything in the back seat."
She did.
Then he opened the driver's door.
"Catch the next train back to headquarters."
Layla froze. "Wait—what?"
He didn't respond. Just entered the car.
She stood there, stunned, looking at the gifts, the road, the building behind her.
Then the car door slowly opened again.
"Get in."
She hesitated, then walked around and got in beside him. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak.
Just drove.
The ride was silent. No music. No talking. Just the sound of the engine and the occasional swipe of the wipers.
The tension sat heavy between them.
Then, out of nowhere, he asked:
"Have you eaten today?"
She shifted in her seat. "Yeah."
Her stomach chose that moment to betray her. It rumbled. Loud.
He acted like he didn't hear it.
Then suddenly — without warning — he made a sharp turn.
Layla grabbed the side of the door. "Where are we going?"
"To feed the liar sitting next to me."
He pulled into a quiet lot in front of a sleek, expensive-looking restaurant.
He stepped out first.
Layla didn't move at first.
But then… she followed.
Still confused. Still hungry.
Still wondering what game he was playing.
Dinner had been… weird.
Not bad. Not romantic.
Just quiet.
He ordered for both of them. Watched her eat. Barely touched his own food.
And now, they were back in the car.
Still no music. Still no small talk.
But he seemed… calmer. Less stiff.
They pulled up in front of her apartment.
She reached for the door handle when his voice stopped her.
"You handled the branch meeting well today."
She turned to look at him. He wasn't smiling, but his voice had softened.
"You can take anything you like from those gifts. You earned it."
Layla blinked. "Thank you…"
She opened the car door and stepped out.
Then walked toward her front door. Just as she reached it, she heard him again.
"Layla—"
She turned.
He was still in the car.
"Got water?"
She paused. "You don't have water in your car?"
Damian always had everything. Towels. Mints. Extra chargers. Imported bottled water.
He was the definition of prepared.
He shrugged once. "Left it at headquarters."
She narrowed her eyes. Suspicious. "Wait outside. I'll get you one."
She turned to go in.
"Wow. I've become that bad, huh?"
She turned back slowly.
He raised an eyebrow. "You think I'll burn your curtains or something?"
She didn't even get to reply before he pushed his door open and followed her.
Straight to the door she'd already unlocked.
And just like that…
Damian Kane — cold, impossible, unreadable Damian — walked into her house.
No warning.
Just tension in the air.
And no water in his hand.
He stepped in without asking.
Just walked past her, into the living room like he'd been there before.
He hadn't.
Layla closed the door behind them slowly. She stared at his back for a second. Still trying to figure him out.
Damian never came unannounced. Never asked for help. Never forgot anything.
But here he was. In her house. Supposedly for water.
"Kitchen's that way," she said, walking past him.
He followed.
She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle, and handed it to him.
He took it — but didn't drink.
Just stared at it like it held answers.
Then he looked up at her.
"You live alone?"
She frowned. "Yeah."
"No cameras? No security?"
"I'm not a billionaire," she said dryly.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, still holding the bottle.
"You shouldn't walk alone at night."
She blinked. "You followed me?"
"I didn't have to. You're predictable."
Layla's lips parted slightly, unsure how to respond. He looked tired. Not physically — emotionally. Like he'd been fighting something all day.
"You confuse me," she said.
He looked at her then. Sharp. Focused. "How?"
"You're either distant or overbearing. Cold or watching me too much. I don't know what you want."
Silence.
Then he spoke, low and even:
"I want things I shouldn't want."
She didn't move. Didn't speak.
"You're not just my assistant, Layla."
She swallowed hard. Her chest rose with a slow breath.
"Then what am I?"
He looked at her for a long time. Then stepped forward — just a little too close.
"The only person I trust."
She didn't expect that.
And it broke something inside her.
She didn't smile. Didn't flirt. Just stood there with her heart pounding, looking up at a man who never let anyone in — and now… was standing in her kitchen.
Not for water.
For her.
But all he said was—
"I should go."
She nodded once, quietly. "Okay."
But neither of them moved.
He looked at her again.
"Lock your door behind me."
Then he finally turned… and left.
And she just stood there, in the middle of her kitchen, unsure if she should scream, cry, or follow him.