The following night, Reina told herself she wouldn't go anywhere near Damian Stone again.
She told herself that twice while pouring Ezra's cereal, three times while folding laundry, and a dozen times while clicking through her laptop to review the surveillance photos she'd taken.
But each time, her gaze caught on his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his pale eyes seemed to see past the camera lens—and her chest tightened with something she didn't want to name.
He'd looked right at her last night. He'd known. She was sure of it.
Which meant the smart thing to do was to pull out of the job before she got burned.
She didn't.
---
Three days later, she found herself leaning against a marble column in the lobby of the Orion Hotel, the kind of place where the cheapest suite cost more than her yearly rent. Damian was upstairs in a meeting with foreign investors; she'd tailed him here under the guise of "routine surveillance."
In reality, she just wanted to see if last night had been a fluke—or if he really did recognize her.
The meeting dragged on. She passed the time pretending to check her phone while scanning the lobby through the reflection of a polished steel panel.
Then the elevator doors slid open.
Damian emerged first, tall and commanding in a slate-gray suit that seemed to have been cut specifically to his body. His tie was loosened, but it didn't make him look relaxed—if anything, it made him look dangerous, like a predator who'd just finished the hunt.
His entourage of suited men peeled away toward the bar, leaving him alone.
Reina straightened, ready to blend into the crowd. But his gaze cut across the lobby like a blade, landing on her with unerring precision.
Her pulse jumped.
He walked toward her. No hesitation. No polite detours.
Every step felt deliberate, calculated, as if he were closing the space between them not just physically but in every other way that mattered.
When he stopped a foot away, she caught the faint scent of his cologne—crisp, expensive, and painfully familiar.
"You," he said, his voice low, rough-edged.
Reina's spine stiffened. "Me."
His eyes swept over her face with unnerving focus, lingering on the faint scar along her hairline. "Who are you?"
"A private citizen," she said coolly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
His jaw tightened. "You look exactly like someone I knew."
She lifted an eyebrow. "And?"
"And she's dead."
Her heart lurched, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. "Maybe you should get your eyes checked, then."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, but frustration. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "What's your name?"
"Reina Blake." She said it with the kind of casual certainty that comes from practice.
His gaze narrowed, searching her for cracks. "Reina," he repeated, as if tasting the sound for hidden truth.
A beat of silence stretched between them, thick enough to choke on. The hum of the lobby faded, her awareness narrowing to the space between his breath and hers.
Then, without warning, he stepped closer.
"You're lying," he said softly.
Her fingers itched to reach for the pepper spray in her purse. "About what?"
"Everything."
The elevator dinged behind him, breaking the moment. A woman in a red dress stepped out, calling his name. Damian's gaze stayed locked on Reina's for a heartbeat longer before he turned away.
But not without a parting shot.
"I'll find out who you are," he said over his shoulder. "And when I do… we're going to have a very long conversation."
---
That night, Reina sat on the edge of her bed, the torn wedding photo in one hand and Ezra's tiny sock in the other.
Her mind kept replaying the way Damian had looked at her—not just like he'd seen a ghost, but like he wanted the ghost to be real.
And that scared her more than anything.
She should have been relieved that he hadn't outright recognized her. She should have been making plans to put distance between them.
Instead, she found herself wondering what would happen if she let him keep looking.
---
Two days later, fate—or maybe foolishness—delivered her straight into his path again.
The client had insisted she follow him to a charity auction. She blended in easily enough—black dress, hair pinned up, the kind of quiet confidence that made her invisible in a crowd of glittering egos.
Damian was across the room, deep in conversation with a board member, when his gaze flicked up and found hers like a magnet.
This time, he didn't walk over immediately. He waited until the crowd shifted, until she was alone near the champagne table, before approaching.
"Miss Blake," he said, as if testing how the name felt in his mouth again.
She turned slowly. "Mr. Stone."
"Twice in one week. That's either fate or stalking."
She sipped her champagne without looking away. "Maybe you're just easy to find."
"Or maybe," he said, stepping closer, "you want me to find you."
Her lips curved in a humorless smile. "In your dreams."
For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes. "Careful. My dreams tend to come true."
Before she could respond, the auctioneer called for the next item. Damian's name was announced as a sponsor, and he stepped away, but not without brushing past her shoulder—close enough that the heat of him lingered even after he was gone.
Reina's heart beat too fast, her hands tightening on he
r glass.
She was supposed to be in control of this.
So why did it feel like Damian Stone had just made his first move?