Damian’s POV

The day wasn’t supposed to spiral. It was meant to be simple—quiet.

I’d buried myself in paperwork inside the study. Contracts, coded letters, reports that reeked of betrayal. A cigarette burned between my fingers, smoke curling lazily as a jazz record hummed low in the background. For once, the world felt steady. Predictable.

Then Adrian walked in.

He never knocked. Just barged in like the house belonged to him. His cologne hit first, then that smug grin I’d hated since we were boys.

“Damian,” he drawled, dropping into the leather chair opposite me like it was his throne. “This mausoleum of a house—still feels like a prison. How the hell do you breathe in here?”

I flicked ash into the tray, not even looking at him. “I don’t recall inviting you to critique my ventilation.”

He laughed, leaning back, feeding on my irritation like it was his favorite whiskey.

And then the door opened again.

Elena stepped in, quiet, almost cautious, carrying a silver tray with a decanter sweating cold droplets. For a second, I thought my eyes were lying. She wasn’t wrapped in her usual shapeless sweaters or dull skirts. No—she wore the uniform the housekeeper had given her.

And fuck if I didn’t realize how dangerous a maid’s dress could look.

The fabric clung in all the wrong places. The hem stopped just above her thighs—too short, indecent. Her waist pulled in sharply, hips curving out so perfectly it made the cloth strain. When she bent slightly to set the tray down, the neckline dipped, offering a flash of soft skin that mocked the discipline I prided myself on.

I forced my jaw to tighten, not slacken. But Adrian noticed. He always noticed.

“Well, well, Damian,” he said with that drawl that made me want to break his teeth. He stood, circling her like a predator who’d smelled blood. His eyes dragged over her like she was just decoration. “You didn’t tell me you kept treasures like this hidden away. I almost thought you’d turned monk on me.”

Elena stiffened, her knuckles whitening around the tray. She didn’t answer. Smart.

But Adrian wasn’t finished. He leaned closer, lips curling. “You know, I heard stories about Marco’s tastes. Women who could ruin a man with a single sway of the hips. Tell me, little dove—did Marco get a taste before he died? Because if you look this sinful in a maid’s cloth…” He let the words drip filth. “…I can only imagine what you looked like in the ones you used to wear.”

Her face flamed, eyes flashing with something fierce beneath the shame. She didn’t lash back—though God knows I half-expected her to. She just swallowed it, lips pressed thin like she was choking down fire.

Then Adrian touched her. His hand slid down her arm, bold, arrogant. Testing how far he could humiliate her under my roof.

That was it.

“Enough.” My voice cracked like a whip. Cold, sharp, final. Adrian stilled, but that smirk clung to his face.

I pushed back from my desk, rounding it with purpose. “Take your hand off her.”

He chuckled but obeyed, stepping back. “Easy, brother. I was just testing your… staff.”

My glare could’ve carved stone. “Mind your tongue in my study.”

Then I turned to her. Her chest rose too quickly, tray still clutched to her stomach like armor. “Leave us,” I said.

She hesitated. Those brown eyes flicked to me, searching for something I wasn’t about to give. Then she nodded and slipped out, the door closing softly behind her.

The silence left behind felt suffocating.

Adrian’s grin widened. “You’re wound tighter than I thought. Maybe she isn’t just staff to you after all.”

I ignored him. But his words lodged in me like glass.

---

Night swallowed the estate whole.

The ledger still sat open, untouched. Reports blurred into nothing under my gaze. All I could see was her. The hem of that dress. The faint tremor in her breath when Adrian whispered filth in her ear.

By the time I heard the knock on my chamber door, I was already pacing like a caged animal.

“Enter.”

She slipped in, quiet as a shadow, carrying fresh sheets. She bent forward to smooth the fabric, stretching across my bed. The hem of that damn dress rose higher, baring the soft curve of her thighs. Her hair spilled forward, exposing the pale line of her neck.

Control snapped, tight and merciless.

For one reckless second, all I wanted was to haul her against me, bury myself inside her pussy, and fuck her until I burned this sickness out of my veins. She didn’t even know what kind of weapon she carried.

My jaw locked until I tasted iron.

She turned back, clutching the sheet, and my fury found its mark.

“On your knees,” I ordered, harsher than I meant.

Her eyes widened, confusion flickering—but she obeyed. Kneeling before me, hands tight in her lap, shoulders trembling. She didn’t realize how much worse that made it.

“What happened this morning?” My voice cut low. “Why the uniform? Did you shorten it? Or do you enjoy tempting every set of eyes in this house?”

Her breath hitched. “No—I didn’t touch it. I swear. It was given to me like this.”

My laugh was bitter, jagged. “Don’t play innocent. God.” My gaze betrayed me, dragging down her form. “I didn’t realize you were built like that. No wonder Marco lost his mind over you. He literally died for it.”

Her face crumpled, as if my words had struck harder than a fist.

“You’ll never wear it again,” I snapped.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, voice shaking.

But the sight of her there—kneeling, trembling, beautiful—wasn’t enough to quiet the storm clawing inside me. I crouched before her, shadow swallowing hers, voice dropping to something cold and deliberate.

“I know you’ve been waiting for this question since the day you stepped foot here. Who sent you to kill my brother?”

Her breath faltered. Then her lie. “I don’t know them. They used me. They threatened the only friend I had, the one I called a sister. Please—you have to believe me.”

“Liar.” The word tore out of me.

She flinched, tears trembling on her lashes. “Please—I’m telling the truth.”

And I snapped.

My hand moved before thought. The slap cracked the air, vicious and sharp. Her head jerked, lips splitting against her teeth. Blood welled red at the corner of her mouth.

The sight gutted me instantly.

She stared at the floor, chest heaving, shaking so hard I could hear it. My palm burned with the echo of what I’d done.

Regret surged—real, raw—but pride shoved it down.

“Leave,” I rasped.

She rose slowly, stiff with pain. She kept her eyes down, clutching the tray. Blood glistened on her lip like a scar I’d carved there.

When the door shut, silence crushed me.

“Fuck.” The word ripped out of me, raw

and desperate. My hand shook. My chest burned.

Did I just… slap her?

God help me.

I hated her. I hated myself more.