Damien's eyes slid to me first. Then to Trevor. Then back to me.
It was the kind of look that didn't just see you—it peeled you open, stripped you down, left you raw and bare under the weight of his silence.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he rose.
Slow. Deliberate. Every inch of his six-foot-four frame unfolding like he was making sure we all knew exactly who ran the room. The bar had gone quiet, every pair of eyes glued to him. His presence was… magnetic. Dangerous. The kind of thing that made your chest tighten and your knees want to bend.
He didn't rush. He didn't need to.
By the time his hand slipped around my waist, firm and unyielding, I realized just how badly I'd underestimated what I'd done. His touch wasn't just casual contact—it was possession. A claim. My pulse skittered, heat rushing through me at the closeness.
"Yes," Damien said, voice smooth as velvet, cool as steel. "She is my woman. And who might you be?"
Trevor's face went blotchy red. He puffed out his chest like a peacock trying too hard.
"I am Trevor Scornfield!" he shouted, spittle flying. "I own half the real estate agency in New York!" His finger jabbed toward me. "And how is she your woman when she's an escort?"
I froze, breath locked in my throat.
The word escort hung in the air, heavy, ugly, a reminder of everything I'd sworn I wouldn't become. My cheeks burned, and for a second, I wanted to sink through the floor.
But Damien didn't even blink. His grip on me tightened ever so slightly, grounding me, before he looked down at me with that maddening curve of his mouth.
"Even though she is my woman," he said evenly, "even I can't control her. After all… she's a wild cat."
The bar collectively exhaled, whispers starting in the corners. My heart thundered in my chest. Wild cat? I almost laughed. He didn't know the half of it.
Trevor spluttered, his fists balled at his sides. "I demand compensation!"
Damien's expression didn't change. Calm. Cold. Effortless. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black business card, and handed it to Trevor like it was an afterthought.
"For the dry cleaning," he said.
Trevor snatched it with a sneer, ready to spit more venom—but the second his eyes hit the print, everything changed.
His face drained of color. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. He gagged. His knees buckled. Then—oh, God—he bent damn near in half, muttering apologies like he was praying for his life, before he spun and bolted for the door.
I blinked after him, stunned. "For a short man, he sure can run fast."
Damien's chest gave the faintest rumble, a sound I wasn't sure was a laugh, but the glint in his eyes told me he'd heard. When I turned back, I had to tilt my head—way up—to meet his gaze.
And he was looking at me like I'd just handed him his favorite new game.
"So," he drawled, voice rich with amusement, "you're my woman, huh?"
Heat scorched my cheeks. "I—look, I'm sorry. I was desperate. Trevor was harassing me, and I didn't have time to think of a better way to get out of it."
Damien's gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, lingering a moment too long on my lips. My breath caught, my skin tingling under the weight of it.
"That's a shame," he murmured, voice dipping lower. His smile deepened, just enough to reveal a dimple that made my stomach flip. "But if you're still interested in being my woman…"
He pulled another card from his pocket, smooth as sin, and held it out between his fingers.
"Do call me."
By the time I realized I'd taken it, he was already walking away.
---
The second he disappeared, the dam broke.
"Scarlett! Oh my God!"
"Do you know what you just did?"
"How the hell do you know Damien?"
"What's your relationship with him?"
Half the girls were crowding me, eyes sparkling, voices tripping over each other. Lila shoved her way to the front, gripping my arm like she might shake the answers out of me.
"Wait—who even is he?" I asked, blinking, genuinely lost.
The reaction was immediate. Gasps. Eyes wide like I'd just cursed in church.
"Scarlett," Lila whispered, dead serious. "That's Damien Blackwood. One of the five billionaires who haunt this place."
Another girl leaned in. "The only one who never asks for a girl. Not once."
"And now he just said you're his woman?" someone squealed. "Girl, don't forget us when you climb the ladder, sis."
Their chatter swirled around me, cloying and dizzying. Billionaire. Untouchable. Feared. Desired. And somehow, I'd lied myself into his orbit.
---
That night, alone in bed, the silence pressed down heavy.
But I couldn't stop replaying it. His eyes. His voice. The way he looked at me like I was both a problem and a challenge he wanted to keep.
Would his lips be soft or hard? Could his eyes get any darker? And those damn dimples—how did they make him look both angelic and devilish at the same time?
He looked like temptation poured into a tailored suit. Like sin itself.
A sin I'd happily commit.
I groaned, yanking the covers over my head. "Scarlett, get a grip."
---
The next morning, I armored up: grey sweatpants, oversized hoodie, thick black glasses, and my hair shoved into a bun. If anyone saw me now, they'd never believe I'd been called someone's woman in a room full of billionaires.
First stop: the landlord. I buttered him up with my sweetest smile, handed over a third of the rent in advance, and prayed my charm would buy me the grace I couldn't afford. It worked.
Then a quick Walmart stop, my cart filled with ramen, coffee, and the cheapest wine I could stomach. Life of luxury, right?
But when I got back to my apartment, two men in suits the size of refrigerators stood outside my door.
My door.
One stepped forward, opened it like he owned the place, and bowed his head. "Please get in, young miss."
Ice slid through my veins. I stepped inside on autopilot, pulse hammering.
And there he was.
Damien Blackwood. Sitting on my bed like a king on his throne, hands steepled, eyes sharp.
"What are you doing in my apartment?" I snapped, slamming my grocery bag onto the counter.
He didn't answer my question. Instead, his voice rolled out, smooth and lethal.
"Scarlett Hayes. Only daughter of Melissa and James Hayes, from the small city of Oklahoma. No education. No talent. Moved into New York two years ago and has since then been working as an escort." His gaze lifted, pinning me in place. "You're a little too plain for someone who claims to be my woman."
My face burned. "I already apologized for that."
He leaned back, lips curving just enough to show that damn dimple again. A predator amused by his prey. "I found out I have something that you want."
My throat tightened. "And what's that?"
Damien leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on mine. "Being rich, of course. Let me take you on three dates. If you like me after…" He paused, smile deepening into something dangerous. "…marry me."
The world stopped. My bag slid from my hands, groceries spilling onto the floor with a dull thud.
And there it was—the deal. The trap. The promise of everything I thought I wanted, wrapped up in the devil's grin.