Damian sat in his home office, the blue light of his laptop screen casting shadows on his brooding face. Numbers and contracts flashed before him, but nothing held his attention—not fully. No matter how many calls he took, how many emails he responded to, his thoughts kept trailing back to her.
Aria.
Damn her.
She wasn't supposed to get under his skin. She wasn't supposed to occupy his mind or soften the fortress around his heart. Not after what happened with Elena. The memory of his sister's tear-streaked face, the scandal that broke her spirit—he clenched his jaw. Aria's family had started that nightmare. And now, she was in his house. His bed. His life.
A soft knock came on the door.
"Sir Damian," the housekeeper said gently, peeking in. "Dinner is ready."
He gave a stiff nod and stood, adjusting his sleeves as he walked out.
The dining room was quiet, dimly lit, and Aria sat already, a plate of food untouched before her. She wore a simple sundress, her dark curls tied in a loose bun. No makeup, no airs, just soft vulnerability wrapped in poise. She looked up when he entered, and their eyes locked for a moment too long.
He sat opposite her. Neither spoke. The clinking of cutlery and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock were the only sounds in the room.
Halfway through the meal, Damian broke the silence. "Tell me about your flower shop."
Aria blinked, startled. "What?"
"You said you wanted to expand," he said coolly. "What's your plan?"
She hesitated, fork midway to her lips. "Why do you want to know?"
He leaned back in his chair, face unreadable. "Isn't that part of the agreement? Your business... my investment. That's what your grandmother arranged."
The words hit her like a slap. Her lips parted, then closed. "Oh," she said, voice tight. "Right. Of course."
More silence followed. Aria pushed her food around her plate, appetite gone. Damian took a sip of wine, his expression unreadable, even to himself.
After dinner, Aria retreated upstairs. She needed space. Distance. She ran a hot bath, hoping the heat would melt the knot in her chest. She didn't know what stung more—his cold reminder that she was just a transaction or her own foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, he cared a little.
Wrapped in a towel, she padded out of the bathroom, drying her curls with another. She didn't hear the door open.
Damian walked in and stopped dead in his tracks.
Aria froze, towel in hand, damp hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Water droplets trailed down her skin. His eyes darkened for a brief second, but he schooled his face, clearing his throat and walking past her into the bathroom without a word.
Aria exhaled slowly, her heart hammering. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
Damian turned on the shower and leaned his hands against the cool tile. Cold water poured over him, but it did little to quench the fire under his skin. She didn't even try to tempt him. That was the worst part. She was just… there. Existing. And somehow, that was enough to unravel his composure.
He stayed in there far longer than needed. When he emerged, the room was dark, save for the soft light from Aria's bedside lamp. She lay under the covers, her back to him.
Wordlessly, Damian slid into the bed beside her. He could feel the tension in her spine. Aria didn't say a word. Neither did he.
And then the storm began.
A rumble of thunder shook the windows, and suddenly the entire estate was cloaked in darkness. The power had gone out.
Aria jolted upright, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. Her hands fumbled for the lamp, but it was useless.
"Aria?" Damian said sharply, sitting up.
Terror turned her blood into ice. She was trembling. Her breaths were ragged. "I-I can't… I need…I—"
She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The A/C was off, but she couldn't stop shaking.
Damian turned to her, eyes adjusting to the faint light from the stormy sky outside. Her hands were clutching the sheets, her face pale.
A hand grasped her chin and tilted it up. "Aria, look at me."
She didn't want to. She wanted to stay in her well of denial forever. If she can't see the monster, it doesn't exist. But the voice didn't sound like it belonged to a monster. It sounded deep and velvety and too authoritative for her not to obey.
Aria slowly opened my eyes.
Whiskey. Fire. Warmth.
Her chills skittered away at the banked fury glimmering beneath those dark pools of concern, but Damian's face softened when their gazes connected. "You're okay."
Only two words, but they contained such calm reassurance that the dam inside her finally broke.
Damian didn't say a word as she sobbed out her frustration on his chest. He just held her until her tears dried enough for mortification to seep into the void left behind by her expelled emotions.
"I'm sorry." she lifted her head and swiped the back of her hand against her damp cheeks.
Her mortification deepened when she saw the tear blotches staining his expensive-looking pajamas.
"I—" she hiccupped. "I ruined your shirt." Of all the ways I'd pictured the night ending, having a mini meltdown in Damain voss's arms wasn't one of them. He didn't even glance down. "It's a shirt. I have plenty."
They stayed like that for minutes that felt like hours. Her panic ebbed, replaced by the steady rise and fall of her chest against his. She had fallen asleep, completely wrapped in his arms.
Damian didn't move.
His hand rested on her back, his other arm cradling her. The storm outside still raged, but inside the room, there was a quiet warmth neither of them dared to acknowledge.
He looked down at her peaceful face, her lashes resting like feathers against her cheeks.
And when she whispered, "why do you hat me so much?" Something stirred in his chest—soft, dangerous, unwelcome.
He clenched his jaw, then slowly turned his head and stared at the ceiling.
He couldn't.
He shouldn't.
He wouldn't.
But he didn't let go.