Damien's POV
The city hadn't changed.
It still smelled of rain-soaked ambition, scorched asphalt, and old money. From the 42nd floor of the Thornewell Tower, Damien watched Manhattan shift and breathe beneath him, an empire he owned—but never really belonged to.
A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched in his hand. He wasn't drinking it for taste. It was a prop. A distraction.
He didn't need the warmth in his chest. Not when something far more dangerous burned there.
Aria Valehart.
He'd told himself he wouldn't do it—wouldn't reach out, wouldn't dig up the past. But when her name landed on the event planner shortlist, it was like fate dropped a match into the wreckage he'd spent five years trying to bury.
And he didn't just light the fire.
He poured gasoline on it.
He chose her.
Because if he was going to face everything he ruined… if he was ever going to stop seeing her eyes in every damn mirror… he needed to bring her back into his world.
She didn't belong in the past anymore.
She belonged right here.
Close enough to hurt him.
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Friday – Thornewell Estate, Upstate New York
The Thornewell estate had once belonged to his grandfather—a sprawling, gray-stoned fortress nestled in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by iron gates and centuries-old trees that whispered secrets in the wind.
Damien stood at the window of the upstairs study, watching as a black SUV pulled through the gate. His pulse ticked once. Then again.
And there she was.
Aria Valehart stepped onto the gravel drive like she'd owned it in a past life. Her long red coat belted tight at the waist, matching lipstick painted across a mouth that had once said his name like it meant something.
She looked like vengeance wrapped in silk.
She looked like sin.
And she was here.
Every step she took toward the house stretched time tighter and tighter, until the very air inside the estate felt ready to snap.
He moved to the staircase just as the front doors opened. She entered without hesitation, her heels clacking against marble in measured, lethal precision.
He could feel her before she even looked up.
Then she did.
Their eyes locked.
And just like that, five years disappeared.
Aria didn't flinch. "You sent for me."
She always knew how to cut straight to the bone.
Damien leaned against the bannister, casual in a black dress shirt and tailored slacks, like he wasn't unraveling just looking at her.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because there's no one else I trust with this event."
Her eyes narrowed. "You trust me?"
"I always did."
She laughed, low and sharp. "You left my sister at the altar and vanished. You don't get to say you trusted me."
Damien's expression didn't shift, but inside, something coiled. Tighter. Darker.
"I trusted you," he said quietly, "not to follow me."
Aria froze for half a second. That tiny pause told him he'd struck something real. Beneath all the anger, she still wondered. Still wanted answers.
And he hated himself for giving them to her too late.
"Are we doing this or not?" she asked, stepping closer, her red coat swaying with each movement. "You want a flawless gala. Fine. I'll give you the event of the year. But after that, we're done."
Her words were cold. Professional. But her body betrayed her.
Damien saw it in the way her gaze dipped—quick, but there—the way her throat moved when she swallowed. The pulse fluttered just beneath her jaw.
She still felt it.
So did he.
He stepped down the stairs slowly, one step at a time, until they stood eye to eye. Close. Too close.
"You really think this is just about a gala?"
Aria's jaw tensed. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not that girl anymore."
His voice dropped, rough and intimate. "I never wanted that girl. I wanted you."
She blinked.
And that was it. The crack.
The moment the mask slipped.
Her hands moved first—fisting the lapels of his shirt, pulling him toward her—and he met her halfway. Their mouths collided, breath hot, lips fierce and demanding. She kissed him like she wanted to erase every memory of him—and he kissed her like she was the memory.
Damien groaned low in his throat as her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make his pulse spike. His hands found the belt of her coat and tugged, releasing the knot so the fabric fell open around her like a blooming rose.
Underneath—black blouse, skin like cream, the curve of her waist begging to be touched.
He pressed her back against the hallway wall, framed her face in his hands, and kissed her deeper. Slower now. Savoring her. Tasting years of silence and secrets.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her lips.
She didn't.
Instead, she slid her hands beneath his shirt, palms against his skin, and whispered, "Shut up, Damien."
His control snapped like a taut wire.
He devoured her then—hands roaming, lips trailing heat down her neck as her breath caught, her body arching into him. She felt like fire and silk and recklessness. Like something he'd never deserved but couldn't let go of.
His fingers slid beneath the hem of her blouse, brushing bare skin. Her body trembled—just once.
Then she shoved him back.
Hard.
They stared at each other, breathless.
Her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair tumbling from its once-perfect knot.
"This changes nothing," she said, voice ragged.
He straightened his shirt, eyes dark. "It changes everything."
Aria smirked bitterly. "You think kissing me fixes what you did?"
"No," he said. "But it proves you're not over it."
She stepped back, smoothing her coat closed with shaking fingers. "I don't have to be over something to use it."
And then she walked away, heels echoing down the hall, each step a declaration.
But Damien didn't move.
He just watched her go.
And for the first time in five years, he smiled.
Because whatever this was between them—it wasn't over.
Not even close.