The little café Damian had chosen was quiet, tucked away from the bustling heart of the city. The kind of place where time slowed, and people whispered rather than spoke. Elena sat across from him, fingers wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of hazelnut latte, not because she was cold—but because her heart wouldn't stop racing.
He was watching her again. Those eyes—deep, unreadable, unshakably calm—never left her face for long. It made her nervous. And flattered. And confused.
"You're quiet," Damian said, his voice smooth like silk over velvet. "Do I make you nervous?"
She laughed lightly, trying to mask how true the words were. "A little. You're... intimidating."
"I've heard that before," he murmured, lips twitching into what almost passed for a smile. "But I didn't bring you here to scare you."
"Then why did you?" she asked, and immediately regretted how hopeful she sounded.
His expression shifted, ever so slightly. That was the thing about Damian—he never revealed too much. Just enough to keep her wondering. Wanting more.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. "Elena… what would you say if I told you I've been thinking about you since the moment you spilled coffee on my suit?"
Her cheeks flushed instantly. "I'd say you must've been very angry."
"I wasn't," he replied. "I was curious. And a little amused."
"And now?"
"Now," he said, holding her gaze, "I'm interested."
Elena blinked. Her breath hitched somewhere in her throat, and she wasn't sure how to respond. A part of her—maybe the foolish, romantic part—had been hoping for this. The rest of her didn't know what to do with the rush of emotion crashing over her.
"You barely know me," she said softly.
Damian sat back, swirling his untouched espresso. "I know enough."
It felt like a line from a movie. Unreal. Too perfect. Too… scripted.
And yet, she wanted to believe him.
"I don't usually do this," she confessed, her voice quiet.
"What's 'this'?"
"Fall... fast."
That almost-smile returned. "Maybe I'm the exception."
In truth, Damian wasn't feeling much at all. Not the way she was. Not the way he pretended. He had made up his mind earlier that day—this was the easiest route. Elena was good. Sweet. Beautiful, in that unpolished, genuine way that corporate women never were. The kind that made men think about simpler lives.
But Damian didn't want a simpler life. He wanted control. Over his company. Over his future. Over the board members who wouldn't shut up about settling down.
And Elena? She was the answer. The perfect answer.
He reached across the table, brushing his fingers gently against hers. "Elena, I don't want to scare you off. But I don't want to waste time either."
Her pulse jumped at the contact. His hand was warm—steady. Hers felt clumsy in comparison.
"Are you saying… you want to date?"
"I'm saying," he said slowly, "I want something serious. If you're open to it."
The world tilted slightly. Elena swallowed hard. It was happening so fast—but it felt like everything she'd ever wanted. Someone who saw her. Wanted her. Who didn't care about her lack of status or money or polished charm.
She smiled, unsure if she should believe the moment. "I'd be open to that."
He squeezed her hand, briefly, and nodded like it was settled. Like they had already begun.
And just like that, Damian Blackthorn made the first move in a carefully constructed lie.
They left the café an hour later, walking side by side beneath the fading afternoon light. He offered her his arm, and she took it—hesitant, but enchanted.
She talked about her younger brother, about her part-time job, about how she always wanted to travel. Damian listened, nodding when appropriate, occasionally asking just the right question to keep her talking.
But his mind was elsewhere.
She was falling. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her voice softened when she said his name, in the little glance she stole when she thought he wasn't looking.
He had to admit—it was almost too easy.
Back at her apartment, Elena stood in the doorway, reluctant to say goodbye.
Damian watched her for a moment, studying her quiet smile, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear without realizing. She was vulnerable. Not stupid—just unguarded. She wore her heart like an open book, and he was already reading it cover to cover.
"I had a really good time," she said, looking up at him. "Thank you."
"I'm glad." He hesitated, then stepped a little closer. "Would it be too forward if I said I want to see you again? Soon?"
She shook her head, lips parting slightly. "Not forward at all."
A beat of silence passed between them.
Damian reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're… easy to be around."
She laughed, nervous and breathless. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me."
"I meant it."
And then—because it felt like the natural next step—he leaned in and kissed her.
It was soft. Measured. The kind of kiss that left room for mystery. For questions. For hope.
When he pulled back, her eyes were wide with surprise. And something else.
Longing.
"Goodnight, Elena," he said.
"Goodnight," she whispered, hand touching her lips as he turned and walked away.
She stood there long after he disappeared down the street, heart thudding like a drum.
Damian didn't look back. He didn't need to.
The first thread had been pulled.
And soon, the rest would unravel.