Poisoned Smiles

Every day, I play the part.

I brew his coffee. I file his papers. I smile when he passes me in the hallway, calm, professional, untouchable. I nod when he gives an order, laugh politely when he makes a sharp comment during board meetings, and type every letter he dictates with steady fingers.

But inside, the rage is alive.

Sometimes, as I pour his coffee, I imagine slipping something into the cup. A powder that would burn his insides. A liquid that would still his heart before he finished the sip. The fantasy feels so vivid that my hand trembles when I set the cup down.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Because patience is the knife that cuts the deepest.

So instead, I hand him his coffee with a smile. A poisoned smile. One he never notices.

The world fears Damian Blackthorne, and for good reason.

I’ve seen the way rivals crumble after meetings with him, the way his cold words strip them bare until they leave shaking. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to. One glare, one sharp phrase, and men twice his age fold like paper.

He is cruel when he wants to be. Ruthless. A king who doesn’t mind spilling blood to protect his throne.

But then, there’s me.

And with me, he’s different.

He asks me how I’m feeling when I look tired. He tells me to go home when the hours stretch too late. Once, when a careless board member made a sharp remark about “secretaries being replaceable,” Damian’s voice went quiet, deadly, as he told the man to apologize. The executive stammered, pale, while Damian’s hand brushed against mine under the table—steady, grounding.

That hand should make me sick.

Instead, it makes me hesitate.

And hesitation is dangerous.

Because sometimes I find myself wondering: why does he protect me? Why does he look at me like I’m more than an assistant? Why does his gaze soften in ways I’ve never seen when he deals with anyone else?

And the worst question of all: what if… what if he isn’t the monster?

I crush the thought every time it comes.

No. I know what happened. I know what I lost. I know whose name was whispered into my ear as my world was carved apart.

Damian Blackthorne.

The man I will kill.

At night, when the city sleeps and my apartment is dark, the ghosts come back.

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for a child’s laugh that will never come. I see Lily twirling with her dolls, her little head cocked in that stubborn way, her giggle spilling through the living room. I hear Matthew’s voice, soft and teasing, telling me I look beautiful even with my hair tangled and my belly swollen.

And then I see the blood.

I see Lily’s body fall silent. I see Matthew’s eyes go blank. I feel the stabbing again, steel plunging into me, tearing not just my body but my soul.

I clutch my sheets until my nails tear through fabric. I remind myself over and over: this is why I can’t falter. This is why I can’t let the kindness fool me. This is why I must kill him.

For them.

For what was stolen.

Sometimes, I stand in front of the mirror with the dagger.

It’s small, sleek, sharpened to perfection. A blade that will slip between ribs, pierce through to the heart.

I raise it in my hand, staring at the reflection of Aria Vale—the mask, the stranger, the woman I’ve become.

“One strike,” I whisper to the glass. My voice trembles, but the words are steady. “One kill.”

I practice the movement. Smooth. Quick. No hesitation. Straight into the chest, angled upward. I imagine the blood spilling, the life leaving his eyes.

I imagine balance restored.

But then, his face comes to mind—the way he looks at me when he says thank you, the quiet warmth that shouldn’t exist in a man like him.

And my hand shakes.

I drop the dagger onto the counter, pressing my palms to the sink, breathing hard.

“No,” I whisper. “Don’t be weak. Don’t forget.”

But the doubt creeps in anyway.

Lately, Damian has started asking questions.

Not about work—about me.

Where did I grow up? Do I have family? Why don’t I ever talk about my past?

I dodge them all. A joke here, a shrug there, a quick redirection to business. He doesn’t push, but his eyes linger on me too long. Curious. Searching.

And that scares me more than his ruthlessness ever did.

Because if he digs too deep, if he sees the cracks, if he realizes who I am… then this game is over.

And I’m not ready yet.

It happens one night.

Another late evening at his penthouse. I had come by with files for him to review before the Asia meeting. The building was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on you.

I knocked, but no answer came. The door wasn’t locked, so I stepped in, telling myself it was normal. Telling myself I wasn’t nervous.

The penthouse was dim, only a few lights glowing. I heard movement down the hall—muted, uneven, like someone shifting heavy weight.

Curiosity pulled me toward it before I could stop myself.

And then I saw him.

Damian Blackthorne.

Not at his desk, not in a suit, not the untouchable titan. But in his gym, shirtless, his body slick with sweat, bruises blooming across his ribs. His hands were steady as he wrapped bandages around them, but I could see the strain in his shoulders, the cut along his jaw.

For a moment, I froze.

I had never seen him like this. Vulnerable. Mortal.

His head lifted slowly, and his eyes found mine.

Sharp. Unreadable. Too close.

And then his voice—low, rough, dangerous in a way I couldn’t name—broke the silence.

“You’re the only person I let see me like this. Why?”