The text glowed against the pre-dawn darkness of my cramped bedroom, a single, potent sentence burning itself onto my retinas: " Dream of me" I blinked, disoriented, the cool plastic of my phone casing pressed uncomfortably against my cheek. My fingers were stiff, curled around it like a lifeline. Lovesick idiot, the thought slammed into me, sharp and unwelcome. Yet, the corners of my mouth betrayed me, lifting in a traitorous smile I immediately tried to smother. I hated it. Hated the warmth that flooded my chest, the stupid little flip my stomach performed. Hated, most of all, that I couldn't resist scrolling back up just to read it again. And again. And a third time, dissecting the two words for hidden meaning, for the timbre of his voice I could somehow hear in the silence. Only the insistent buzz of my alarm, a harsh reality check, finally pried me from the bed, the phantom warmth of his words clinging stubbornly.
The commute was a blur of subway noise and crowded sidewalks, my mind replaying that simple text like a broken record. By the time I pushed through the glass doors of the coffee shop, the scent of roasted beans and steamed milk doing little to ground me, Lila was already perched on a stool behind the counter, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She took one look at my face – the lingering softness around my eyes I hadn't managed to erase, the slight, unconscious curve of my lips I was desperately trying to flatten – and slammed both palms down on the counter with a resounding thwack.
"Oh my god." Her voice was a theatrical whisper that carried across the empty shop. "Don't. Tell. Me. That's a man smile."
Heat prickled up my neck. I busied myself shoving my bag under the counter, avoiding her laser gaze. "It's not," I insisted, my voice tighter than intended. "I'm just… inexplicably cheerful this morning. Maybe I finally got a decent night's sleep." The lie tasted sour.
She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, eyes narrowed to slits. "Right. So the mysterious billionaire you accidentally claimed as your man last Friday night, the one who apparently texts you goodnight pet names, has absolutely *nothing* to do with this sudden outbreak of sunshine?"
"Lila." My warning was low, edged with the flustered panic bubbling inside me. How did she know? Had she seen my phone? Had I been sighing dramatically? I needed to get a grip.
She gasped, a hand flying to her chest in mock astonishment. "Scarlett Hayes! Lowkey smiling at her phone like somebody's wife! I knew it! The signs were all there – the distracted sighing, the checking your reflection in the coffee machine… Mrs. Billionaire-to-be in the making! Should I start curtsying now?"
I rolled my eyes so hard it sent a jolt of pain through my temple. "You're impossible. And delusional. And probably caffeine-deprived. Get the espresso machine started." I grabbed an apron, tying it with unnecessary force, hoping the mundane task would anchor me. But Lila's words echoed, uncomfortably close to the chaotic truth swirling beneath my forced nonchalance.
The truth was, she wasn't entirely wrong. My hand kept twitching towards the pocket of my apron every five minutes, phantom vibrations teasing my nerves. Every chime of the doorbell, every notification sound from a customer's phone, sent a jolt through me. Waiting. Hoping.The anticipation was a live wire under my skin, humming louder than the espresso grinder. And then, mid-way through a complicated oat milk latte order, it happened. A distinct, sharp buzz against my hip. My heart didn't just skip a beat; it executed a full, stupid flip that left me momentarily breathless. I fumbled the milk pitcher, barely catching it before it hit the floor.
"Everything okay, Scar?" Lila asked, her voice dripping with innocent concern I didn't buy for a second.
"Fine!" I chirped, too brightly. "Just… clumsy." With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone, shielding the screen from Lila's predatory gaze.
> Damien: Do you prefer wine or champagne?
The simple question felt loaded. My thumb hovered, then flew across the screen, my usual defensive snark rising to the surface, a shield against the sheer intensity of my reaction to seeing his name.
> Me: Depends. Are you trying to impress me or get me drunk?
The reply came alarmingly fast, as if he'd been waiting, phone in hand.
> Damien: Can't I do both?
A shiver traced my spine. Bold. Arrogant. Infuriatingly Damien. My lips pressed together, fighting another traitorous smile.
> Me: Sounds like you don't trust your personality to do the work.
His comeback was instantaneous.
> Damien: And yet you're still answering.
Damn him. He had a point. Why was I answering? Why was my pulse racing? Why did this stupid, flirty banter feel like stepping onto a high wire?
> Me: Maybe I'm bored.
The lie tasted even worse than the one I'd told Lila. Bored was the last thing I was. I was electrified, terrified, and absurdly exhilarated.
> Damien: Then I'll fix that. I'm picking you up at 8.
The air left my lungs in a rush. Tonight. It was happening. Tonight. My chest tightened, a coil of panic and anticipation winding tighter. God help me, my thumbs moved anyway, defiance flaring.
> Me: We'll see if you actually show.
His response was a challenge, a promise, wrapped in that signature arrogance.
> Damien: Oh, I'll show. The question is—will you?
---
The rest of my shift dragged like a bad date narrated by a particularly dull voiceover. Minutes stretched into hours. Every latte art heart I attempted looked lopsided, every customer interaction felt like wading through molasses. Lila's knowing smirks and poorly disguised winks were relentless. My thoughts were a chaotic whirlpool centered on one immovable point: 8 p.m. By the time I finally escaped the coffee-scented confines, the caffeine that usually fueled me had been replaced entirely by jangling nerves flooding my bloodstream. They were a physical presence, making my hands tremble and my stomach churn.
Home offered no sanctuary. The shower was a frantic attempt to wash away the day and the anxiety, but the steam only seemed to amplify the frantic thrumming under my skin. My hair became an enemy. The first attempt at styling felt too stiff, too formal. I washed it out, cursing, then tried again, aiming for effortless waves that ended up looking more like I'd wrestled a hedge. Trying too hard, I accused my reflection. I scraped it back into a sleek ponytail. Not trying hard enough! I yanked the elastic out, sending damp strands flying. The cycle of self-recrimination was exhausting.
Hanging on the back of my closet door, a silent, damning witness to my internal chaos, was the dress. Black. Sleek. Deceptively simple. The fabric whispered luxury, the price tag still screaming in my memory – an obscene number that felt utterly alien in my modest apartment. It hung there, shimmering faintly in the dim light, not just mocking my bank account, but mocking my pretense of indifference. It belonged to a different world. Damien's world.
Lila appeared like a mischievous ghost, sprawling across my rumpled bedspread, unwrapping a cherry lollipop with deliberate slowness. Her eyes tracked my every frantic move.
"You look hot," she announced, popping the candy into her mouth. Her voice was muffled but clear. "Seriously. Like 'oops, I tripped and fell directly into a billionaire's lap, and also, I look amazing doing it' hot."
"That's not a look," I muttered, my fingers smoothing the impossibly soft fabric over my hips for the twentieth time. It felt foreign, yet it fit like it was made for me, hugging curves I usually hid under oversized sweaters.
"It is now. Embrace it." She sucked thoughtfully on the lollipop. "Just remember my advice: rich men are like particularly well-groomed stray cats. Feed them once, show a little attention, and they'll keep circling your doorstep, purring."
"That's… deeply unsettling and not remotely comforting," I muttered, finally stepping into the stupidly high heels that completed the ensemble. My reflection in the full-length mirror was a stranger – sophisticated, sharp, vulnerable. My hands, holding the straps, were visibly shaking.
"Unsettling but true," Lila countered, swinging her legs. "Now, go knock his bespoke socks off. And text me if he turns out to be a secret axe murderer. Or, you know, just really bad in bed."
"Lila!"
"What? Practicalities!"
---
At exactly 8 p.m., the silence of my apartment was shattered not by the expected chime of my phone, but by a firm, resonant knock on my front door.
My breath hitched, freezing me mid-pace in the living room. He came upstairs? He knew my apartment number? Of course he did. Damien Thorne didn't do things by halves. The casual intimacy of him standing outside my door, in my slightly shabby building hallway, felt more invasive, more real, than any text. Panic flared, hot and bright. Run. Hide. Pretend you're not home. But my traitorous feet carried me forward.
Opening the door felt like stepping onto a precipice. The air whooshed out of my lungs. Damien stood there, a study in monochrome power. His black suit was impeccably tailored, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame, crisp white shirt stark against it. He looked less like a man and more like a force of nature carved from shadow and arrogance, straight out of a high-end magazine spread titled 'Untouchable Billionaires Who Own the Night'. His gaze, dark and assessing, swept over me – from the precarious heels, up the length of the black dress, lingering for a heartbeat on the exposed line of my throat, finally meeting my eyes. That infuriating, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, slow and deliberate.
"Well, well," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that resonated deep in my chest. "So the wildcat cleans up… remarkably well."
Heat flooded my cheeks, a traitorous blush betraying me instantly. I grasped for composure, for the sharp retort that usually came so easily. "You're early." The words sounded breathless.
He lifted his wrist, the face of an undoubtedly obscenely expensive watch catching the hallway light as he checked it with exaggerated precision. "It's 8:01, Scarlett. Technically, you'relate." His eyes flicked back to mine, challenging.
I crossed my arms, a flimsy barrier against his overwhelming presence. The familiar gesture helped, anchoring me slightly. "Maybe I was taking my time," I countered, lifting my chin. "Making sure you were actually worth the wait."
He didn't move, but he seemed to fill the entire doorway. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. Just a fraction, but it was enough to bring the scent of him – sandalwood, something expensive and clean, and sheer, potent masculinity – washing over me. My pulse stuttered, a frantic drum against my ribs. His gaze held mine, intense, searching. "And?" The single word was soft, dangerous. "Am I?"
The intensity was too much. Holding his gaze felt like staring into the sun. Before I could formulate a coherent answer, let alone a witty one, I turned sharply on my heel, the movement sending my hair swinging. "We'll see," I tossed over my shoulder, hoping my voice sounded steadier than my knees felt. His low, rich chuckle followed me down the narrow hallway, wrapping around me like smoke, both a threat and a promise.
---
The car was a silent, plush cavern – sleek black leather, tinted windows turning the vibrant city lights outside into a muted, flowing kaleidoscope. The engine was a barely perceptible hum. Damien sat beside me, a powerful, immovable presence. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, the memory of his proximity at my door still humming in the small space between us. My fingers twisted nervously in the fabric of my dress. He broke the quiet, his voice smooth, cutting through the thrum of my nerves.
"Nervous?" He didn't turn his head, his profile sharp against the passing lights.
The question, so direct, ignited my defensiveness. "Of you?" I scoffed, injecting as much disdain as I could muster, which wasn't nearly enough. "Please. You're not that terrifying."
His head turned then, slowly. His gaze slid over me again, a tangible caress that lingered on the rapid pulse point in my throat, the slight tremor in my hands I tried to hide. "Good," he said, a hint of that smirk returning. "I'd hate for you to be intimidated."
I met his gaze, forcing bravado. "By what? The sheer size of your ego? It's impressive, I'll give you that. Probably needs its own zip code."
He chuckled, a dark, warm sound. "By the fact," he said, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost conversational yet laden with intent, "that you look like you belong right here. Beside me. Like you were made to sit in this car, wearing that dress."
I nearly choked on my own breath. The casual audacity of it stole my words. "Excuse me?" My voice came out strangled.
He shifted slightly, his arm resting along the back of the seat behind me, not touching, but the implication was clear. Possessive. "You heard me, Scarlett." He sounded infuriatingly calm, as if commenting on the upholstery.
I tore my gaze away, staring fixedly out the window at the blurred streaks of light, willing my racing heart to slow. The heat creeping up my neck felt like a brand. "You're delusional," I managed, the words lacking their usual bite.
"And you're blushing," he countered softly, amusement lacing his tone. "Quite beautifully, actually."
The conflicting urges were overwhelming – the fierce desire to smack the smug look off his face warred violently with an equally strong, terrifying urge to lean into the warmth radiating from him, to see what that dark promise in his eyes truly meant. Instead, paralyzed by the war within, I did neither. I sat rigidly, staring out at the city, feeling the weight of his gaze and the terrifying truth that part of me wanted to belong exactly where he said I looked like I did.
---
Dinner wasn't at a restaurant. Not in any sense I understood. The sleek car glided to a stop before an unassuming, towering glass monolith in the heart of the financial district. A discreet, uniformed attendant materialized, opening my door before Damien could. He guided me not towards a bustling entrance, but to a private elevator bank guarded by a keypad and a stern-faced security officer who merely nodded at Damien. The elevator was all polished steel and silence, whisking us upwards with dizzying speed. When the doors slid open, it wasn't onto a hallway, but directly onto the rooftop.
The city hit me first – a vast, breathtaking sprawl of light stretching to the horizon, the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings piercing the velvet sky like jewelled lances. The air was cool, crisp, carrying the distant hum of the metropolis below. Then I saw it: a single, elegant table for two, positioned near the edge, draped in pristine white linen. Crystal glasses gleamed, catching the flicker of numerous candles set in low, hurricane lamps. Soft, instrumental music drifted from hidden speakers, barely audible over the whisper of the wind and the city's heartbeat. It was obscenely romantic, meticulously staged, and utterly surreal.
"You brought me to a movie set," I breathed, unable to keep the awe from my voice even as I wrapped my arms around myself against the sudden chill – or was it the sheer, intimidating scale of his world?
"I don't do clichés," Damien stated, stepping forward to pull out my chair with an old-world courtesy that felt jarringly natural on him. "Overcrowded restaurants with mediocre food and eavesdropping waiters?" He dismissed the concept with a slight wave. "Besides," he added, taking his own seat opposite me, his gaze sweeping over the panoramic vista, "this view is wasted on most people. They don't truly see it."
The intimacy of the setting, the intensity of his focus now solely on me, was overwhelming. The vastness of the city below somehow made the space between our chairs feel incredibly small. "Then why me?" The question slipped out, raw and unguarded. Why bring me, Scarlett Hayes, coffee slinger and expert in sarcastic comebacks, to this pinnacle of his world?
He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at me, his dark eyes reflecting the city lights, studying my face with an unnerving intensity that made me feel utterly transparent. Like I was the view he'd come to appreciate.
A silent server appeared, presenting menus bound in leather. The dishes listed were elegant swirls of calligraphy, names in French and Italian that meant nothing to me. My usual tactic – self-deprecating humor – kicked in. I looked up at Damien, raising an eyebrow. "Do I need Google Translate, or is there a secret decoder ring for this?"
To my profound shock, Damien laughed. Not the low chuckle from the car, but a genuine, full-throated sound of amusement that transformed his face, softening the hard angles, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was disarming, unexpected, and it instantly dissolved a layer of my tension. "I suppose 'steak and potatoes' wasn't quite the vibe they were going for," he conceded, the warmth lingering in his eyes. "Allow me?" He proceeded to translate, not with condescension, but with a dry wit that matched my own, suggesting dishes based on my tentative preferences.
The food arrived – small, exquisite works of art on oversized plates. We ate. We talked. Surprisingly, easily. He asked about the coffee shop, genuinely listening as I ranted about difficult customers and Lila's antics, his lips quirking at the right moments. He spoke briefly, vaguely, about his work – mergers, acquisitions, things that sounded like abstract battles waged in boardrooms. I challenged him, questioned the ethics of corporate giants; he parried with logic and a pragmatism that was frustratingly sound. We argued about the best pizza in the city (he was wrong, obviously), about classic movies versus modern blockbusters. He teased me relentlessly about my jumpiness; I snapped back about his overconfidence. Instead of being offended, he looked… entertained. Intrigued. His gaze rarely left mine, a constant, warm pressure that was becoming less intimidating, more… addictive.
When dessert arrived – delicate chocolate spheres that melted at the touch of a spoon, revealing hidden treasures of raspberry coulis and vanilla cream – I realized with a start that my hands were steady. I wasn't fidgeting with my napkin or twisting the stem of my wine glass. I was relaxed. Leaning back in my chair, savoring the decadent chocolate, the incredible view, the surprisingly effortless flow of conversation. The city lights glittered below, a carpet of diamonds, and for a moment, the gulf between our worlds felt bridgeable.
It was then he shifted. Leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, the candlelight carving shadows on the planes of his face. The easy camaraderie vanished, replaced by an intensity that crackled in the air. His voice dropped, low and rough, weaving a spell in the space between us.
"Scarlett," he murmured, my name sounding like a secret on his lips. "You're making this very difficult for me."
My heart gave a single, hard thump against my ribs. The spoon in my hand felt suddenly heavy. The warmth of the moment condensed into a sharp, sweet tension. He wasn't talking about the bill or the drive home. He was talking about this. The pull. The game. The terrifying, exhilarating edge we'd been dancing on all night. My own defenses, momentarily lulled, snapped back into place, fueled by the thrill in my veins.
"Good," I replied, my voice miraculously steady, meeting his darkened gaze head-on. A spark of defiance, of the wildcat he'd named, flared. "I'd hate to make anything too easy for you, Damien."
His eyes darkened further, the playful glint replaced by something primal, possessive. The air hummed. For one terrifying, heart-stopping moment, he leaned in. Close enough that the glittering cityscape behind him dissolve into a meaningless blur. Close enough that the candlelight was eclipsed by the intensity in his eyes. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint, clean scent of his skin mixed with the night air. Close enough that I swore I could taste the promise of him – heady, dangerous, and utterly intoxicating – on my own lips.
My breath caught. Time suspended. The world narrowed to the few inches separating us, to the magnetic pull drawing me forward, to the dizzying anticipation of what his lips would feel like against mine.
And then he stopped.