When Damian returned, the house was quiet.
The maids bowed quickly as he walked past, their eyes darting to the small paper bag in his hand.
None of them had ever seen their boss carry anything other than documents or weapons, and now he was holding a bag with pink packaging peeking from the top.
He didn't say a word—just climbed the stairs with that calm, intimidating stride of his.
Elena was lying on her bed when the door creaked open. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
He didn't speak—just walked over to her table. "I didn't know which brand you used," he said bluntly, setting the bags down on the bed. "So I bought all of them."
Elena blinked at the small pile — various brands, heating pads even chocolates. "You… bought all this?" she asked, her voice soft with disbelief.
"T-thank you," she murmured, sitting up. "But you didn't have to…" Her cheeks turned the faintest pink.
Damian sat down on the edge of her bed, one eyebrow lifting.
"But you're blushing," he said, voice low with amusement.
Her lips parted, caught off guard. "I'm not"
He crossed his arms, staring at her like she was fragile porcelain.
"Do you need a doctor?"
"No, Damian," she said gently. "Just some rest."
"What are you even doing here? You should be at work."
"I'm staying," he said simply, leaning back with that casual dominance that made her nervous and comforted at the same time.
"So you don't pass out from pain while I'm gone."
"I'm fine, Damian."
"You'll be fine," he corrected, his gaze holding hers. "If I'm by your side."
She looked away, trying to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. Her heartbeat felt embarrassingly loud in her chest.
They spent the rest of the morning teasing each other. He'd make a sarcastic remark, and she'd shoot back with unexpected wit.
For once, he didn't snap—he laughed. A genuine, warm sound that startled even him.
***
She paused at the heavy door, smoothing her dress with her small hands before she knocked.
The door opened before she could call — Isabel standing there, hair loose, eyes bright, but there was someone else behind her: a young man in the room, the kind of boy who looked like he belonged in magazines.
He was shirtless, but took his shirt hurried, embarrassed. He looked away and left the house quickly when he saw Noami.
Noami blinked, trying to gather herself.
She stepped inside, taking in the scene — Isabel in a robe that had been hastily wrapped, pretending composure.
"What brings you here?" Isabel asked smoothly, though there was a trace of color on her cheeks.
Noami's voice was casual at first, but there was something behind it — curiosity sharpened into worry.
"Who was that guy?" she asked, eyes flicking toward the doorway where the boy had just gone.
Isabel shrugged, breezy and practiced. "Oh, him? He's my father's friend's son.
We were just—having fun. Nothing to write home about." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
Noami hesitated, then dropped the question that had been gnawing at her all afternoon.
"Did Damian ever go to get tampons for you?"
Isabel froze. For a blink, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. Then she laughed — a little too loud, brittle at the edges. "Damian Volkov? Buying tampons? Please.
That's impossible. We both know him. He'd sooner burn a store down than stand in a girls' aisle."
Noami watched her carefully. "Because I saw him today," she said quietly. "At the grocery.
He was standing by the feminine-care aisle. I thought I was seeing things at first."
She leaned in conspiratorially. "He was packing up boxes — ten different brands. I thought maybe he was shopping for a charity drive or something."
For a second Isabel's face didn't move. Then anger flashed through her like cold fire.
She slammed a fist on the table, porcelain clinking. "You're lying," she said, too hard. "You must be lying."
Noami shook her head. "I'm not. I came here to you because I thought—" She stopped, seeing Isabel's expression shift. The amusement gone, something colder moving in its place.
Isabel's voice lowered, deadly and small. "Who sent him?" she hissed.
"Who sent Damian Volkov — the Damian we both know — to buy tampons?" Her lips tightened, and she advanced a step closer to Noami like a cat narrowing on prey.
Noami swallowed. "I don't know. I only saw him there.
Maybe he's doing it for someone?" She tried to sound casual but the truth was catching in her throat.
Isabel's eyes went hard, distant. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe.
"I hope it isn't that girl," she said finally, slow and venomous. "I hope it isn't Elena."
Noami's mouth went dry. "But why would—" she began.
Isabel cut her off with a hiss. "If it is Elena," she said, voice low as a promise,
"I will ruin her. I will make sure she knows what it means to cross me." Her face was thunderous with space for no doubt.
Noami backed away a little, suddenly uncomfortable with the temperature in the room. "It can't be," she said, quickly, trying to soothe. "Damian doesn't do errands for—"
Isabel's laugh was a short, hard sound. "You still don't know him, Naomi. You still don't understand what he'll do for what he wants."
She let the words hang, terrible and certain.
***
They were in the kitchen together. The maids couldn't hide their surprise when Damian rolled up his sleeves and started chopping vegetables beside her.
Elena chuckled softly, sneaking glances at his face as he tried to follow her instructions.
Without thinking twice, she leaned unto him, hands on his broad shoulders as she placed a gentle kiss on his lips.
"Don't start what you can't finish Elena" he utters.
"You can't do anything now Damian".
"Today's your lucky day cupcake" he said and they went back to their position before the kiss.
"You're not doing it right," she teased, trying not to smile too wide.
He gave her a mock glare. "Are you challenging my cooking skills, cupcake?"
"Do you even have any?" she shot back.
Damian smirked. "Careful. I might ban you from the kitchen."
"You wouldn't dare," she said, giggling as he flicked a little water at her. She retaliated by tapping his arm with the spoon, earning another laugh.
"You call that slicing?" Elena teased, pointing at the uneven vegetables. "You'd starve if you ever had to cook for yourself."
Damian narrowed his eyes, feigning offense. "I don't remember asking for your review, cupcake."
She grinned. "You're just mad because I'm better."
He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You wish."
Elena tried to ignore the way his nearness made her heart stutter.
"It's not a wish. It's a fact."
"Say that again," he murmured, eyes locked on hers.
Her breath caught. For a moment, the teasing faded into a silence that felt electric. Neither of them looked away.
She was the first to laugh it off. "You're impossible."
Damian's mouth curved slightly. "And you talk too much."
He reached out, brushing a strand of grain-dusted hair from her face, his touch slow, deliberate.
"See? Better," he said quietly, his voice low and teasing, but gentler than she'd ever heard it.
Elena blinked, flustered, feeling her heartbeat everywhere. "You're just trying to distract me."
"Is it working?" he asked, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
She huffed and turned away, pretending to focus on the food, but he could see the faint blush creeping up her neck.
By the time the food was ready, Damian leaned on the counter beside her, watching her proudly present the dish like it was a trophy.
"See? Told you I could cook," she said.
He chuckled. "With my help, cupcake."
"In your dreams,"
When they sat down, she reached over to give him a spoonful of the dish. "Here," she said softly, "taste."
He leaned forward, took the bite, and nodded approvingly. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" she echoed, pretending to be offended. "That's all?"
His eyes softened. "It's perfect," he said finally.