Same Day, 9:30 PM – Damien’s POV

The tires hummed against the asphalt like a lullaby dragging through a night that refused to be quiet.

I gripped the wheel tighter, cruising through the dim city streets, shadows flashing across my windshield like whispers I didn't want to hear. The Mercedes responded to every flick of my wrist, smooth, efficient—just like I preferred life to be.

Only, life hadn't been smooth since Clara.

Since she walked into my office like she belonged there, with that careful fire in her gaze. Since she stood her ground when most would have bowed. Since her voice trembled beneath her breath this afternoon and made me forget who the hell I was for a moment.

Dammit.

The seat behind me was still warm with the memory of her body. That scent something soft and feminine, just like the curls she tried to keep pinned and the blouse she forgot to button fully lingered.

My jaw clenched.

This wasn’t me. This wasn’t how I functioned.

Sex was a utility, an indulgence. I controlled the pace, the space, the rules.

But she? Clara? She was a wildfire in disguise. A quiet storm in stilettos and reports. She cracked something open in me that I didn’t ask for and I hated how my body remembered her more than it should.

I turned onto the main bridge, the city skyline glittering like a temptress, but even that couldn’t distract me from the thoughts clawing inside my chest.

My phone buzzed in the passenger seat. I glanced.

Sia.

Of course.

U around? Need company?

Winking emoji. Red lipstick. And fire.

Typical.

Sia knew her place. She never called unless she was called. It was how I liked it how I designed it. Our dynamic was nothing more than flesh against flesh, scratched backs and released stress. I had my rules.

But tonight… I didn’t want her.

I didn’t want the noise, the pretense, the panting emptiness that came afterward.

I didn’t want anyone… except her.

Clara.

The thought tightened my chest. No. No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I’m Damien Thorne. I do not fall in love.

I seduce, I lead, I dominate—I do not… feel.

Not like this.

But the echo of her moan… the way her voice broke when she whispered please in my ear—God. It burned under my skin like an itch I couldn’t scratch without burning myself in the process.

I pulled into the underground garage of my penthouse and killed the engine. The place stood like a fortress of silence and solitude above the world, just as I preferred it. No neighbors. No noise. No judgment.

My private world.

Where nothing ever reached me until Clara.

I walked in, key card beeped. The elevator ride up was quiet, but my thoughts weren’t.

Her eyes.

Her lips.

Her voice.

Her body wrapped around me, trembling beneath my hands.

I remembered every second. Every breath. Every gasp that left her throat like a secret she didn’t mean to share.

The elevator opened. I stepped into the chilled quiet of my home. Marble. Steel. Black leather. Mood lighting. A minimalist's sanctuary built to keep emotions out.

But not tonight.

Tonight, she haunted everything.

I dropped my keys on the glass table and reached for my phone again. Sia’s message was still glowing on the screen.

I stared at it for a long second.

She had never been more than convenience. And I wasn’t in the mood for convenience tonight.

I clicked the message open. Three dots blinked—she was typing again.

I didn’t wait.

Blocked.

I shut the screen off and tossed the phone onto the couch.

For a second, I just stood there.

Hands clenched. Breathing shallow. Mind racing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why did Clara make everything else feel like dust?

I walked to the bar, poured whiskey, didn’t bother with ice. The liquor scorched my throat but not enough to drown her memory.

Not enough to unhear the sound of her begging beneath me.

I sat, loosened my tie, leaned back.

Then reached for the phone again.

Her name stared back at me. Clara.

She hadn’t texted. Not since she left my office hours ago.

I hesitated. My thumb hovered.

Don’t do it.

But I did.

"Goodnight, Clara."

Simple.

Too simple. But it was all I could manage without sounding like a man crawling for her attention.

I waited.

Read receipts off. No typing bubbles. No response.

Silence.

Of course.

I leaned back again, stared at the ceiling. My penthouse suddenly felt colder. Bigger. Like the walls themselves whispered mockery at me.

You’re slipping, Damien Holt.

You’re letting her in.

And the part that terrified me most?

I wanted her in.

I wanted to hold her against that cold glass wall again, watch the city lights shimmer behind her bare skin. I wanted to hear her laugh when she thought I wasn’t looking. I wanted to be the reason her breath hitched again not just from pleasure, but from something deeper. Something real.

No.

No.

I shut my eyes tight.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

She was just my assistant.

A smart, ambitious woman with doe eyes and a stubborn streak but still just an employee.

Yet I couldn’t stop replaying the way her fingers tangled in my shirt, the way her mouth tasted like the line between defiance and surrender.

I took another drink.

The whiskey bit harder this time. But not enough.

I hated this.

The vulnerability. The desire that was more than skin-deep. The want that felt dangerously close to something else.

Something terrifying.

Love?

I scoffed out loud.

I didn’t do love.

Love was chaos. A weakness. A myth designed by the broken to make sense of their wreckage.

I did control. Power. Mastery.

But Clara was undoing all of that.

Piece by piece.

She had no idea. And maybe that’s what made it worse. She was clueless about the effect she had on me. Oblivious to how deeply I was unraveling.

A part of me wanted to scare her off. Push her away. Bury this thing before it turned into a wildfire.

But the other part…?

The other part wanted to feel her beneath me again. Whispering that name only she gets to call me in that broken, breathy way.

"Damien…"

God help me.

I finished the drink, stood, and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city was sprawling. Endless. Alive. But none of it felt enough.

I picked up my phone again. No reply.

Still.

I typed again. Then deleted it.

Typed again.

Deleted.

Why did it matter?

Why did she matter?

I rubbed the back of my neck, pacing.

My chest felt tight.

Not because I was in pain but because I was in something unfamiliar. Something dangerous.

And still, I couldn't stop wanting her.

Not just her body. That was too easy.

I wanted to know what made her laugh. What made her cry. What she dreamed of when she wasn’t buried in office files.

I wanted to be the one who discovered every layer she kept hidden.

And the worst part?

I hated that I wanted it so badly.

I finally typed a second message.

"You did well today. Sleep well."

Professional. Cold. Safe.

I hit send.

Still, no response.

She was probably asleep.

Or ignoring me. Maybe trying to draw the line herself.

Smart girl.

I threw the phone on the bed and ran a hand through my hair. The shower beckoned. I peeled off my shirt, tossing it aside. Steam filled the glass room as hot water poured down my back.

But even under scalding water, she was there.

In my thoughts. In my skin. In the silence between the drops.

Her lips. Her trembling voice. Her damn stubbornness.

And the way she made me want to be something else.

Someone better.

I leaned both hands on the wall and let the water burn away the ache.

But it didn’t.

Because she was already under my skin.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted her gone.