Damian arrived two hours late.
Layla was already at her desk, face buried in files, pretending she hadn't just spent the night in her boss's house. Pretending nothing had happened. Pretending she wasn't still reeling from the way he'd looked at her… and then dismissed her like always.
He didn't say a word when he walked past her. No glance. No comment. No acknowledgment of the night before.
Cold. As usual.
Fine.
She buried herself in reports. The office buzzed like any other Monday morning. Meetings, calls, staff moving in and out. But everything felt louder today. Heavier.
Just before noon, her intercom buzzed.
"Come in."
Damian's voice. Distant. Clipped.
Layla rolled her eyes and grabbed her notepad. She knocked once before stepping in.
He was by the window, back turned, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water he clearly hadn't touched.
"You wanted to see me?"
He didn't turn around. "You're going to Geneva tomorrow."
Her heart skipped. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I thought Olivia was handling Geneva—"
"She was," he said, still not facing her. "Now you are."
Silence.
Layla stepped forward slowly. "So you're shipping me out?"
His voice was still low, but firmer now. "It's work."
"Is it?" she challenged.
He turned then—slowly. His eyes were blank. Emotionless. But his jaw was tight. "You're the best person for the job."
"Right."
He stepped forward and placed a brown folder on the table. "Your flight leaves tomorrow evening. The branch director will pick you up. You'll be there for four days."
Layla took the folder. Her hand brushed his. He didn't flinch. But she did.
"Anything else?"
Damian's lips parted… then closed. He hesitated.
"No. That's all."
Layla turned. Just as her hand reached the doorknob, she heard it:
"You didn't touch any of the gifts."
She paused.
"Last night," he added. "I told you to pick something. You didn't."
"I didn't need to."
"You deserve nice things, Layla."
That made her turn around. "Why? Because I stayed with you when you were sick? Or because Luke Rashford talks to me?"
His gaze darkened. "You don't get it."
"Then help me," she said quietly. "Help me get it. Because right now, all I see is a man trying to hide."
Silence.
"You can go," he said finally.
Layla swallowed her words and walked out.
This time, she didn't slam the door. She just closed it gently — like the end of a question that would never be answered.
Layla landed feeling unsure. The last 48 hours had been a mix of confusion, care, and now—distance.
Her mind was still on Damian, but work came first.
The meeting was bigger than she expected. Executives, government reps, and CEOs from around Europe.
Layla handled it well. Every presentation. Every question. She nailed it.
After one of her sessions, a woman approached her.
"Layla?"
"Yes?"
"I've heard a lot about you—from Damian Days"
Layla blinked. "Oh?"
"He's been pushing your name around the boardroom for months. Saying you're the future of his company. Didn't know?"
Layla shook her head slowly.
"You're not just here for training, sweetheart. He sent you to lead."
She stood there, stunned.
Everything began to make sense. The trips. The projects. The pressure.
It wasn't punishment. It was preparation.
Later That Night – Layla Calls Her Mom
"Mama, I have to tell you something."
"What is it, Layla? Are you okay?"
"I think…" She paused. Smiling. "I think I'm doing well. Better than I thought."
"Of course you are. You've always been strong."
"No, mama. Damian—my boss—he's been… he's been helping me. Not in a simple way. In a big, quiet, serious way."
Her mom was silent for a second.
Then:
"Hmm. That man… maybe he sees something in you the way I always have."
Layla closed her eyes. She didn't want to admit how much that meant.
Especially now.
Layla shut her apartment door behind her and leaned against it. Her head throbbed. Geneva had drained her. Not just the travel, or the meetings, or the pressure to deliver—but the part where she kept pretending her boss wasn't becoming something else in her head.
She tossed her bag aside and stared at her phone on the table.
It was late.
He hadn't called.
And she couldn't sleep with this weight on her chest.
She reached for the phone, hesitated… then tapped call.
It rang. Once. Twice—
"Layla."
She froze.
"Hi," she said, trying to keep her tone level. "I wasn't sure you'd be awake."
"I was," Damian said. His voice was calm. Neutral. "Just going through emails."
Of course he was.
"I got back a little while ago," she said. "Geneva went well. I think."
"I heard," he replied. "The partners were impressed. You did good work."
Layla sat down slowly on the edge of her bed. She swallowed.
"Thanks."
Another pause.
"You needed something?"
That question caught her off guard. It wasn't rude—but it wasn't warm either. Just… Damian.
"No. I just…" she hesitated. "I guess I wanted to check in."
Another pause.
"Alright. Thanks for the update," he said, like he was about to end the call.
But Layla blurted, "Can I see you?"
A beat of silence.
"Tonight?" Damian asked.
Her fingers tightened on the phone.
"…Yes."
He didn't respond immediately. She could hear the faint sound of him shifting again—maybe standing up, maybe moving closer to the window.
"I'm home," he finally said, voice unreadable.
"I can come there," she offered, soft but clear.
Another pause.
"You sure?"
"Yes."
This time, his voice dropped just slightly.
"I'll leave the gate open."
Damian's POV –
He stared at the screen longer than he should've.
The Geneva report had come in hours ago. It was flawless. Efficient. Handled with class.
Handled like Layla.
Investors were impressed. One even said they'd assumed she was in upper management. Another asked when she'd be promoted. Damian said nothing. Just nodded, like he hadn't orchestrated every opportunity from the shadows.
He leaned back in his chair. Still suited from earlier. The collar of his shirt loose. A half-empty glass of whiskey on the table beside him.
Her voice had echoed in that boardroom even though she wasn't there. And yet—tonight, it was her silence that filled the room.
He checked his phone again.
Nothing.
She's tired. She just got back.
He knew it. Still, he'd been checking his phone for the past hour like a fool.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't call. He'd seen the look on her face before she left—hope, curiosity, maybe something more. But he couldn't go there. Not when he still couldn't figure out why her presence messed with his balance.
He'd heard his mother call four times tonight. Ignored every single one. Her voice would push buttons he couldn't handle right now.
Then—finally—his phone lit up.
Layla.
He didn't wait past the second ring. "Layla."
Her voice was soft, unsure. But it hit him harder than he liked.
"I wasn't sure you'd be awake," she said.
"I was. Just going through emails."
Lie. He'd been staring at the wall.
"I got back a little while ago. Geneva went well. I think."
"I heard. The partners were impressed. You did good work."
And she had. But he didn't know how to say I'm proud of you without it sounding too personal. So he stuck to facts. Clean. Safe.
There was a pause.
"You needed something?"
He wanted her to say yes. Something. Anything. Give him a reason to keep this line open longer than necessary.
"No. I just…" Her voice trailed. "I guess I wanted to check in."
His heart jumped—and he hated that it did.
Another pause. He was ready to let her go before he said too much.
But then—her voice, low and hesitant.
"Can I see you?"
Everything in him went still.
He gripped the edge of the desk. Tight.
"Tonight?"
"…Yes."
God. Yes.
He covered the tension in his chest with practiced calm. "I'm home."
"I can come there," she said.
He clenched his jaw. He should say no. He should set a boundary. He should end this here.
But instead, he murmured, "You sure?"
"Yes."
His breath left him slower this time.
"I'll leave the gate open."
Damian placed his phone on the desk, screen down.
He didn't move for a long moment.
She was coming.
And he hated how much that stirred inside him.
He stood, walked to the tall glass window of his study, and looked out. The driveway was empty. Silent. The wind rustled faintly through the trees.
Minutes ticked by.
He didn't pour another drink.
He just waited.
Because for the first time in a long time—Damian King wasn't thinking about work, or control, or strategy.
He was just waiting… for her.