Clara’s POV

Saturday Night – My Apartment

Saturday night came with the kind of stillness that made everything feel louder. The hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the muffled sound of distant traffic. But what was loudest of all was Maya’s voice, echoing in my head like a stubborn song.

"You’re twenty-seven, Clara. Stop acting like you have forever."

She hadn’t said it cruelly. In fact, she’d laughed when she said it, Jayden bouncing beside her, smoothie in hand. But there was something behind her eyes—concern, maybe. A knowing. The kind of knowing that only comes from watching someone you love wrap their emotions in caution tape.

And maybe she was right.

Because as I stood by my window, looking out into the glow of the city, my thoughts weren’t on work. They weren’t on Monday’s reports or quarterly goals. They were on Damien.

The last time I saw him was the day before his trip. That morning, he’d stood behind his desk, suit perfect, voice calm as always, but there was something in the way he handed me the box. Something restrained. Something dangerous.

I hadn’t seen him since. Hadn’t heard his voice in real time. Just a few short texts after the meeting. And now, I found myself staring at my reflection, heart pacing faster than it had any right to.

Tomorrow was Sunday. Dinner was at 8 p.m.

I told myself it was just dinner. Just a thank-you gesture. Just another moment between a boss and an employee who had exceeded expectations.

But I was lying to myself. And I knew it.

I missed him. I missed his presence. The way he stood too still, spoke too deliberately. The way he never smiled fully, but when he did, it felt like the world had paused. Damien was not an easy-going man. He didn’t banter. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t charm. He focused. He controlled. He conquered meetings and silences alike.

And yet… beneath that armor, there was something.

Something I’d seen in the way his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. In the way his voice softened only when saying my name. In the way he handed me that necklace—not with drama or speeches—but with that look. That damn unreadable look.

I woke up from my fantasy with a shake of my head. “He’s your boss,” I whispered aloud, as if saying it could make the feeling retreat.

But it didn’t.

Because even if he was my boss… my feelings were still real.

And he was still… him. Damien was infuriatingly hot. Always in control. Always composed. Like he’d built a fortress around himself and lost the key. The kind of man no one penetrated, no one cracked. But for some reason, a small part of me believed he was cracking—just a little—for me.

I pulled my robe tighter and walked into my room. Tomorrow was a big day. I didn’t know what to expect. But the urgency building in my chest told me one thing:

I wasn’t just looking forward to Sunday night’s dinner. I needed it.

Damien’s Narrative

Saturday Night – His Penthouse, 7:18 p.m.

The lights of the city below blinked like signals I didn’t have time to decode. I stood by the massive window in my penthouse, dressed in a dark charcoal shirt, cuffs still unbuttoned. I stared out into the skyline with a drink in my hand, but my mind wasn’t on Zurich anymore.

The business transaction was a success. Langston had called earlier to confirm the numbers. The partnership was now locked in. The figures had aligned perfectly, exactly as I predicted. Everything had gone according to plan.

Still, the only thing tugging at my attention now wasn’t the numbers. It wasn’t even the call from Langston.

It was her.

Clara Monroe.

I set my glass down.

She had surprised me. Not just at the meeting—though her poise, her command of the room had impressed everyone but with how present she stayed in my mind long after it was over. I don’t like distractions. Never have. But Clara wasn’t just a distraction. She was a quiet force.

A soft kind of obsession.

I’d tried not to admit it to myself. But when she messaged me last night just four words: “Good evening, Boss”my stomach clenched in a way it hadn’t in years.

I hadn’t expected to hear from her then. I thought she’d keep things professional, keep things clean. But her message was like a spark.

And God help me, I responded without thinking.

Hi pretty. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Why did I say that? That wasn’t me. That wasn’t the man I built myself to be. That wasn’t Damien Knight—the man who dominates boardrooms, who closes deals without blinking.

But Clara makes me blink.

She makes me think.

And tonight, she’ll be across the table from me. In less than an hour.

I sat down at my desk, flipping open my laptop to review the Zurich reports again. Just a final glance. Just something to ground me before she arrives.

But then my phone lit up.

Clara: Goodnight, see you tomorrow.

Three words. That was it.

And still, they sent something pulsing through my chest.

I typed back:

Me: Alright. Sleep well. Looking forward to seeing you.

I didn’t add anything else. I wouldn’t let myself. Not yet.

I need to keep control. I need to remember who I am.

But deep down, I already know:

By the end of tonight…

That control might not be mine anymore.

But deep down, he already knew:

By the end of tonight…

That control might not be his anymore.