I couldn’t look away.

For one breathless, ridiculous moment, I just stared up at him.

Damien Blackwood.

The man every woman in the city whispered about in glossy magazines, who bought companies like other people bought shoes.

And he was here.

His hands were still on me—one resting against my lower back, the other curled loosely around my upper arm. Like he thought I might try to run.

I probably should have.

Instead, my pulse fluttered so hard it hurt.

His eyes were pale gray, almost silver in the dim light. Up close, they were even colder—like he was cataloging every reaction, every secret I thought I’d hidden.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

His mouth curved—just a little, like he found my struggle entertaining.

“Is this where you tell me you’re spoken for?” he asked, his voice as smooth as the top-shelf whiskey behind the bar.

I blinked.

“What?”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there for one heated, impossible second.

“You have a boyfriend,” he said, as though he was reminding me. “Ethan, isn’t it?”

The way he said Ethan’s name made it sound small. Insignificant.

I felt my face flush, embarrassment and something else twisting low in my belly.

“How do you…?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I make it a point to know everything that interests me.”

I swallowed hard, willing my legs to stop shaking.

“This is…ridiculous,” I managed. “I was only supposed to—”

“Talk to me?” he finished softly. “Convince me you’re worth my attention?”

His tone was amused, but it wasn’t cruel. Just…inevitable. Like he’d already decided how this would end.

I opened my mouth, closed it, then lifted my chin.

“You’re making this difficult,” I said, my voice too thin.

His gaze flicked over me again—slow, deliberate.

“And you’re making this entertaining.”

I wanted to look away. God, I needed to.

Instead, I reached up,because I couldn’t seem to stop myself—and adjusted the crisp line of his collar where it had folded against his throat.

His breath caught.

Only for a fraction of a second, but I felt it.

When I finally forced my gaze back to his face, something dark flickered there—something that made my mouth go dry.

“We do need to talk,” I said, trying to sound professional. “If you have a moment.”

His answer wasn’t words.

He slid his arm fully around my waist—one smooth, unhurried movement that made my heart leap—and lifted me clean off the floor.

I let out a shocked gasp.

“What are you—?”

“Taking you somewhere we won’t be interrupted,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Hold on.”

I didn’t have a choice.

He carried me across the floor like I weighed nothing. Heads turned—some curious, some envious—but he didn’t spare them a glance.

I buried my face against the crisp heat of his suit, too stunned to protest.

*********

The VIP lounge was nothing like the rest of the bar.

No music. No crowd.

Just soft lighting and polished wood, the air scented faintly of expensive cologne and leather.

He set me down on a low velvet couch with a gentleness that left me breathless.

I should have run.

Instead, I sat there—watching as he straightened, tugging his cuffs into place like abducting me was just another part of his evening routine.

“I can walk, you know,” I said, voice thin.

“I’m aware.” He sank into the seat across from me, legs spreading in a careless sprawl. “I preferred not to risk losing your attention.”

I clenched my hands in my lap.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I am,” he agreed, without apology.

A server appeared—young, wide-eyed—and set a gleaming bucket of champagne between us.

Damien lifted the bottle, inspecting the label before nodding.

“That will be all.”

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

My heart was still racing.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted. He set the bottle aside, his gaze never leaving mine. “You came to talk. Let’s talk.”

I swallowed.

This was what I’d come here to do. For Vanessa. For…whatever sick sense of obligation I still felt.

I reached into my purse—my hands unsteady—and pulled out my phone.

“I thought…” My voice shook. “I thought you might like to see what she looks like. In case you forgot.”

His brows lifted, just a fraction.

“Forgot,” he repeated, amused.

I turned the screen toward him. Vanessa’s face filled it—smiling, perfect, everything I’d never been.

Damien glanced at the photo. Once.

Then his gaze slid back to mine, like she didn’t even exist.

“Lovely,” he said, but it was clear he didn’t mean it.

I swallowed.

“She really is interested,” I tried, pushing the words past the lump in my throat. “She—she’s smart and driven and—”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“And you?” he asked, his voice soft. “What are you?”

I stared at him, heat licking up my spine.

“What does that have to do—”

“I’m curious.”

His tone was mild. But his eyes…

God help me, his eyes looked like they could see everything I’d tried to hide.

I set the phone down, feeling too exposed.

“You’re making this difficult,” I said again, because it was the only thing I could think.

He reached for the champagne,unhurried, graceful—and popped the cork. The sound made me jump.

“You look like you need this,” he murmured, pouring a glass and offering it to me.

My fingers brushed his when I took it, and the contact sent another jolt straight through my chest.

“I don’t usually drink on the job,” I whispered.

“Consider tonight…an exception.”

I lifted the glass to my lips, trying to steady my breathing.

The champagne was crisp and cold, bubbles dancing over my tongue.

He watched me drink, his expression unreadable.

“So tell me,” he said softly. “Why did you agree to this little arrangement? Because your sister asked? Or because you were curious?”

I almost choked.

“That’s not—I wasn’t—”

He reached across the low table and caught my wrist in one warm, unyielding hand.

“You’re lying,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my pulse. “You came because you wanted to see me again.”

I shook my head, but the denial didn’t come.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

“And now that you’re here…” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

I swallowed, the bubbles from the champagne fizzing in my veins.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I managed, trying to tug free. “This isn’t—”

His fingers tightened, just enough to make my breath catch.

“I don’t want your sister,” he said, his tone so calm it made me ache.

My heart stuttered.

“What?”

His thumb traced the inside of my wrist—a possessive little caress that made heat crawl through every inch of me.

“I’m not interested in Vanessa,” he said simply. “I’m interested in you.”

The room tilted.

I tried to speak, but no words came.

All I could do was stare at him—my pulse a wild, frightened thing in my throat—as everything I’d tried to pretend wasn’t happening crashed down around me.

His mouth curved, slow and inevitable.

But I couldn’t.

Because deep down, some dark, secret part of me had wanted this.

And that terrified me most of all.