The morning sun felt like an accusation as April moved through the penthouse like a ghost, the memory of Damien's kiss clinging to her like a stubborn scent. She half-expected him to be waiting for her, a smug look on his face, ready to gloat over her capitulation.
But the dining area stood empty. A single place setting gleamed under the light. A note, written in his sharp, slashing handwriting, lay beside the coffee pot.
"Unexpected business in Tokyo. Back tomorrow. The house is yours. Don't do anything I'd enjoy punishing you for. - Damien."
The note was infuriating. So casual. As if he had left instructions for a pet. The house is yours. A gilded prison was still a prison, even if the warden was absent. And that last line-"Don't do anything I'd enjoy punishing you for."-it was a tease, a reminder of the dangerous, flirtatious edge their conflict had taken.
She crumpled the note, her face flushing. He was toying with her. The kiss had been a tactical move, and she had fallen for it. She spent the morning in a state of agitated restlessness, jumping at every sound, half-hoping, half-dreading to see him walk through the door. Tokyo… it would certainlyy take a while before she would see him again. The silence of the penthouse, once oppressive, now felt expectant.
By afternoon, her frustration needed an outlet. She found herself drawn back to the sunroom, to the angry, charcoal drawing of the king and the caged bird. It was like a reminder to her old defiance. Now, it felt like a relic from a simpler time.
She took a clean canvas. She didn't plan, she didnt pause to ruminate. She just started mixing paints, her hands moving with a will of their own. She didn't paint her rage. She painted the confusion. Swirls of deep blue and stormy grey clashed with unexpected bursts of gold and a single, bold streak of violet. It was chaotic, emotional, and utterly, painfully honest. She let the creativity flow through her fingers.
She was so absorbed she didn't hear Marcus approach until he was standing in the doorway.
"Lunch, Miss Albert," he said, his voice its usual neutral tone.
She jumped, nearly dropping her brush. "You could make some noise," she snapped, her heart hammering.
"A habit I'm trying to break," he replied, his eyes flicking to the new canvas. He said nothing, but his silence felt more observant than usual.
"Does he have cameras in here?" The question was out before she could stop it. "Is he watching me paint?"
Marcus's expression didn't change. "Mr. Alistair values your privacy. And your talent." He paused. "He's in a series of shareholder meetings. He is not watching you."
The reassurance shouldn't have mattered. But a small, tight knot in her chest loosened. She was alone. Truly alone. For the first time since she'd arrived, the cage door was open, even if she couldn't see the way out. The question was, what would she do with the space?
The freedom was a heady, terrifying thing. She explored parts of the penthouse she had avoided before. She found his library and ran her fingers over the leather-bound books, wondering if he actually read them or if they were just for show. She even dared to step into his private study.
It was surprisingly unlocked. It was as minimalist as the rest of the home, but here, there were small signs of the man. A vintage fountain pen on the desk. A single, framed black-and-white photograph of a stern-looking older man, his father, she presumed. And on the desk, a small, carved stone figure of a bird in flight. It was the only thing in the entire place that felt personal, almost vulnerable.
She picked it up. It was cool and heavy in her hand. Why this? In a world of cold glass and steel, why this small, simple token of freedom?
A sudden noise from the entrance hall made her jump. The soft chime of the elevator. Her blood ran cold. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow.
She hurried out of the study, her pulse racing. Was it him? Had he come back early to check on his prisoner.
It wasn't Damien.
Rowena Sterling stood in the foyer, shaking rain from a pristine white umbrella. She looked April up and down, taking in her paint-stained clothes with a curl of her lip.
"Lost, little artist?" she asked, her voice sweetly poisonous.
"What are you doing here?" April's voice was tighter than she wanted.
"What a question! Am Damien's wife to be…He gave me a key. For emergencies." She placed the umbrella neatly in a stand. "I left a pair of earrings here the other day. Cartier. You understand, I couldn't risk just anyone handling them." She said giving her a meaningul look.
The insult was as precise as a surgeon's cut. April felt a fresh wave of anger, cleaner and sharper than her confusion over Damien. This woman, was as mean as they come. What a beautiful cold viper!
"They're not in the sunroom," April said flatly. "I would have noticed something that didn't belong."
Rowena's smile was icy. "You're quicker than you look. But then, strays often are. It's a survival instinct." She began to glide toward the bedroom hallway, toward Damien's room.
Panic, hot and sudden, flared in April's chest. The stone bird was still clutched in her hand, hidden behind her back. She had been in his study. If Rowena went in there, would she sense the disturbance? Would she know?
"Wait," April said, the word sharp.
Rowena paused, one perfectly manicured hand on the hallway wall. "Is there a problem?"
"You can't just wander around his private space."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Rowena's face. It was the reaction she'd been waiting for. "Oh, my dear. I think you have that backwards.You are in my space" Her gaze dropped to April's fisted hand. "What do you have there?"
April's mind went blank. She couldn't show her. It would be a confession. An admission that she had been snooping, that she was forming a connection to a man that belonged to Rowena.
The elevator chimed again.
This time, it was him.
Damien Alistair stepped out, his hair damp from the rain, his suit jacket slung over his arm. He took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: Rowena, poised and predatory in his hallway; April, standing rigid and guilty-looking, one hand hidden behind her back.
His eyes, cold and tired, landed on April. "I leave for barely forty eight hours," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "And I return to a war zone." He looked at her clenched fist. "What is in your hand, April?"
Time seemed to freeze. April's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Rowena watched with predatory interest, her smile widening. Damien's gaze remained locked on her, waiting.
Every instinct screamed to lie, to deny, to run. But the weight of the stone bird in her hand felt like an anchor, pulling her toward the truth. Slowly, reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers.
The small, carved bird sat in her palm, its wings forever poised for flight.
Damien's eyes flickered from the bird to her face, his expression unreadable. Rowena let out a soft, dismissive laugh. "Stealing now? How predictable."
"It's not stealing," April whispered, her voice raw. "I was just... looking at it."
"Why?" Damien's question was quiet, but it cut through the room.
"It was the only thing in this entire place that felt real," she said, the words torn from her. "Everything else is just... stuff. Cold and perfect. But this..." She looked down at the bird. "This felt like it meant something."
Damien took a step forward. He didn't look at Rowena. He didn't acknowledge her presence at all. His entire focus was on April, on the small stone bird in her hand, on the confession she hadn't meant to make.
He reached out, but not for the bird. His fingers brushed against her palm, sending a shockwave through her system. Then he closed her fingers back over the stone carving.
"Keep it," he said, his voice low.
The world tilted on its axis. Rowena's sharp intake of breath was audible in the stunned silence.
"Damien," Rowena began, her voice tight with fury.
He finally turned to her, his expression turning to ice. "Get out, Rowena."
"You can't be serious. She was—"
"I said get out." The command was absolute, leaving no room for argument. "And leave the key."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, with a sound of pure outrage, Rowena snatched her bag and strode toward the elevator, her heels striking the floor like gunshots.
The doors closed behind her, leaving April alone with Damien, the stone bird burning in her hand, and the terrifying realization that the lines between prisoner and protector had just blurred beyond recognition.