The silence in the car was almost erotic. Not peaceful. Not calm. No it thrummed with unsaid things, with everything he hadn't done at that dinner, with everything I wanted him to do now.
Damien's hand was on the steering wheel like it was a weapon. Veins taut, knuckles flexed, jaw clenched like it was holding back more than just words. I sat with my legs crossed, dress riding high, champagne haze still lingering on my skin. I didn't speak. I didn't need to. We were both simmering and we both knew why.
Talia Mycroft the ghost in red lipstick. The mirror to my own insecurity, held up like a challenge across the table.
"I don't like liars," I said finally, my voice low, flat, the window glass cool against my temple.
Damien didn't look at me. "And I don't like accusations."
I laughed just once, sharp. "That wasn't an accusation. That was a warning."
He pulled the car into the garage of the estate, killed the engine, and turned to face me in one smooth, deliberate movement. "You forget yourself, Isla."
"No," I said, eyes locked on his. "I remember exactly who I am."
Silence.
"Get out of the car."
I didn't move.
"Damien—"
"I said get out."
He got out first. Slammed the door. Walked around. Yanked mine open. I stepped out slow. Deliberate. Just to see how far I could push him. Apparently, far because the second my heel hit the ground, his hand was at my waist, dragging me forward, lips crushing mine before I could even inhale. The kiss wasn't tender. It was punishment. Possession. Control reasserted in the only language he spoke fluently. Power.
His hands gripped my hips like he wanted to brand me through the fabric. My back hit the hood of the car with a thud that echoed through the garage. I gasped. He didn't let me breathe. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were a wildfire. "You don't get to question me."
I bit my bottom lip, tasting defiance. "Then don't give me reasons to."
His gaze dropped. "Careful, Isla. You're not untouchable."
"I never asked to be," I whispered.
His hand slid down the curve of my thigh, lifting my dress as he pressed himself between my legs, his body hard and demanding against mine. "You want proof you're mine?" he rasped. "I'll give it to you."
I should've said no. Should've reminded him of the contract. Of boundaries but the heat between us didn't care about clauses or consequences. So when he lifted me onto the hood, yanked my dress higher, and buried his mouth against my throat — I let him and when his hands spread my legs and his mouth replaced his threats with something far filthier— I moaned like I wasn't faking anything anymore.
*****
The fire in the library was low, casting flickering shadows on the marble floor. Damien poured himself a drink, his shirt half-unbuttoned, hair slightly unruly a rare thing for a man so tightly wound. I watched from the couch, a blanket pulled around my legs.
"I need to know," I said, breaking the quiet. "Who is she really?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Didn't look at me.
"She was a mistake," he said finally. "One I made a long time ago. And one I'll never repeat."
"Was she in love with you?"
"Yes."
"And you?"
He met my gaze. "No."
I wanted to believe him. Needed to. But trust was a currency I didn't carry and Damien Valerius was a man who dealt in illusions.
"You're still not telling me everything," I said.
"No," he admitted. "I'm not."
"Why?"
He walked toward me, slow, predatory. "Because if I tell you everything, Isla, I won't be able to stop myself from keeping you."
His hand brushed my ankle. Then my knee. Then the inside of my thigh.
"You already are."
The fire crackled behind him, but it was nothing compared to the heat simmering beneath my skin. I wasn't sure if I wanted to run from him or run toward him if the hunger coiling between us was something I should fear or something I should fall into. His fingers grazed higher beneath the blanket, and my breath caught in my throat.
"Say something," I whispered.
"What do you want me to say?" His voice was a slow, velvet drag — smooth, seductive, designed to unravel me.
"Something real."
He paused, hand still at my thigh, gaze locked on mine like he was weighing whether I could handle what lived in the shadows of his truth.
Then, finally — "I don't trust myself around you."
I blinked. That was… not what I expected.
"You mean you don't trust me," I countered.
He smiled faintly, but there was no humour in it. "You still think this is about you?"
"Aren't I the one under contract?"
"You think a few signatures on a dotted line make me the one in control?"
I hesitated. The silence between us stretched, thin and dangerous.
Then he leaned closer, voice low and fierce: "You're the one who came into my life like a storm I didn't see coming. You think I planned for this? For you?"
"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
He stared at me like he could see all the things I tried to hide — the fear, the doubt, the ache for something I wasn't sure I could name.
"Obsession," he said simply. "Violent, visceral obsession. That's what this is."
He stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair and stepping away like distance could make it safer. It didn't. It just made the pull stronger.
"I shouldn't have kissed you," he muttered. "Shouldn't have touched you tonight."
I got to my feet. The blanket slid off my legs and pooled to the floor, and suddenly there was nothing between us but the tension we kept feeding.
"I kissed you back," I said.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point, Damien?" I demanded, walking toward him until I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. "That you want me but you're too afraid to admit it? Or that you already have me and it terrifies you?"
"I don't want you," he said, too fast, too tight.
I arched a brow.
"Lie better," I said.
He stared at me like he was one second from losing every shred of restraint then he spun around and left the room. Coward.
I stood there alone in the library, heart pounding, lips still swollen from his kiss, body still humming with the aftermath of his touch and realized I wasn't just crossing lines anymore. I was erasing them. Whatever waited on the other side of this wouldn't be safe.
When I woke, sunlight bled through the tall windows like gold silk. The sheets were cold beside me Damien hadn't returned to the room. Typical. My chest felt heavy as I sat up, rubbing the back of my neck. Regret tried to whisper in my ear, but I shut it out. I'd made my choices. He'd made his. Now we had to live with them.
I dressed quickly and made my way downstairs. The staff were already moving like quiet shadows, but the air in the house felt different. Tense. I found Damien in the conservatory, standing by the glass wall, a phone pressed to his ear. He was barefoot, shirtless under a grey robe, and the morning light cut over his profile like a sculpture carved from storm clouds.
"I don't care what the board says," he was saying. "The numbers speak for themselves. If they want to push me out, they better be ready for war."
He ended the call with a violent swipe and turned to find me already watching.
"You're up early," he said, voice low and rasped from disuse.
"You didn't come back to bed," I replied, crossing my arms.
He didn't answer.
"What's going on?"
He looked at me for a long second, then finally said, "Talia's father is making moves. He wants control of the company."
I froze. "What?"
"It's a power play. He's using her as a wedge trying to paint this… thing between us as a liability. A scandal."
"Because of the contract?"
"Because he knows I want you more than I should," Damien said simply. "And that makes me vulnerable."
The honesty stunned me for a second, I didn't know what to say.
Then I asked, "So what happens now?"
He stepped closer. "Now? You're going to come with me to the foundation gala tonight. We're going to smile for the cameras. And you're going to wear the dress I sent upstairs."
"And if I say no?"
He leaned down, his breath ghosting my cheek. "You won't."
He knew I wouldn't run. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The dress waiting upstairs was red. Not crimson or burgundy or wine — no. This was a red designed to provoke. To seduce. The kind of red you wore when you wanted the room to stare and a man to burn. It fit like it had been sewn over my body, second skin tight, plunging in the front and back, the silk slicing up my thigh with a slit that left nothing to the imagination. Of course it was Valentino. Of course the heels were Loudoun.
Damien didn't do subtle. He did spectacle. And I was his latest display. The black town car slid through the gates of the Valerius estate, headlights cutting through dusk, and I tried not to fidget as we approached the grand hotel downtown. He hadn't spoken much since our exchange in the conservatory. He hadn't needed to. The air between us said everything.
He wanted to possess me tonight and maybe I wanted to be possessed. The hotel's entrance was flooded with flashing lights. Paparazzi. Security. Socialites in diamonds and silk, all dripping elegance and cold calculation. Damien stepped out first, one hand adjusting his cufflinks obsidian and platinum. Then he turned, extended his hand to me. I took it.
The moment I stepped out, the crowd stirred. Cameras snapped. Whispers followed. Is that her? The fake fiancée? She doesn't look fake to me. Damien didn't flinch. He placed his hand low on my back, just above the curve of my ass, guiding me forward like I was both his prize and his possession.
Inside, the ballroom glowed with crystal chandeliers and money. Waiters glided by with trays of champagne. A string quartet played something elegant and forgettable in the background.
"Smile," he murmured at my ear as a board member approached.
I did.
Damien introduced me with the effortless charm of a man who knew he owned every room he walked into. I played the role of doting fiancée with a practiced grace — arm on his, a laugh at the right moments, eyes warm but unreadable. Beneath the performance, something darker pulsed. Every time he touched my waist, every time his fingers skimmed too low or his mouth dipped to whisper against my neck, I felt it. That tension. That damn pull.
As if all the pretending was just a slow unravelling of restraint neither of us had any intention of keeping. Halfway through the night, I found myself alone on the terrace, needing air. The music was distant here, the night cool against my skin. A moment later, I felt him behind me.
"You're doing well," he said.
"I'm used to pretending."
He stepped closer, his body a wall of heat behind mine. "You don't have to pretend with me."
I turned, lifting my chin. "Don't I?"
Our eyes locked, and something shifted. The noise of the gala faded. The city beyond disappeared. There was only him Damien Alexander Valerius, a man who held power like a weapon and touched me like a curse.
"You look like sin in that dress," he said, voice rough.
"You chose it."
"Exactly."
Then his hands were on me one at my hip, the other at my nape pulling me forward, dragging my mouth to his and I let him because for all the games, all the danger, all the warnings stitched into every breath between us… I wanted this.
His kiss wasn't gentle. It was desperate. Possessive. His tongue slid against mine, claiming, tasting, devouring. I moaned softly, clutching the lapels of his suit as his body pressed me against the terrace rail. It should've felt reckless but It felt inevitable. When he pulled away, we were both breathing hard.
"Let me take you home," he said, voice low.
My lips parted, a protest on the edge.
He silenced it with another kiss. This one slower. Lingering. Like he was memorizing my mouth.
"I'll burn the world down for you," he whispered, forehead against mine. "But I won't share you. Ever."
Then he walked away, leaving me shaken, lips bruised, heart hammering. Once again, I followed.
We didn't go home. Not yet. We made it as far as the elevator. The moment the doors slid shut, Damien hit the emergency stop. The lights dimmed slightly, giving the space a strange intimacy, almost like we were sealed inside a secret. He turned to face me. The quiet hum of the hotel faded until all I could hear was the way we were breathing — shallow, tense, like we were seconds from something we couldn't undo.
"You shouldn't look at me the way you do," he said, his fingers dragging the strap of my dress off one shoulder. "Like you want me to lose control."
I stared up at him. "What if I do?"
His jaw flexed. "Then you'll get exactly what you asked for."
His mouth crashed into mine hungry and brutal and suddenly, there was no more space. Just heat and silk and desperation. I hit the wall of the elevator with a soft gasp as his thigh wedged between mine, parting them, and his hands roamed with none of the patience he showed in public.
He yanked up my dress, baring the tops of my thighs, his hand finding the thin scrap of lace between my legs. He groaned when he felt how wet I already was.
"All this," he growled, "for me?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. His fingers pushed aside the lace and slid inside without warning two thick, commanding strokes that made my knees buckle. I cried out, clinging to his shoulders as his mouth moved along my throat.
"Quiet," he murmured against my skin. "Unless you want the whole floor to know how badly you want your fake fiancé."
I bit down on my lip. Hard. He thrust his fingers faster, deeper, curling them just right, until stars sparked behind my eyelids and my hips rolled helplessly against his palm. Just when I thought I'd shatter he stopped, Pulled his fingers out slowly. Smirked at the sound I made.
"You want more?" he asked.
I nodded, throat tight. He unzipped just enough to free himself, wrapping one arm around my waist and lifting me like I weighed nothing. My back hit the wall again, legs wrapped around his hips then he thrust inside me no warning, no hesitation.
I choked on a moan. It was fast. Furious. All teeth and breath and silk slipping down my body. Every thrust was punishment and reward, as if he needed to mark me, ruin me, remind me exactly who I belonged to even if it was all pretend.
"Say my name," he rasped against my lips.
"Damien."
He groaned, deep and raw, and slammed into me harder, his grip bruising on my hips. It didn't take long. We were too on edge. Too full of want and denial and all the things we wouldn't say. I came first shaking and gasping his name like a prayer. He followed with a low growl, spilling inside me as his mouth crushed mine in one final kiss and then… silence.
Just us, tangled and breathless in an elevator no one dared interrupt. When he finally set me down, his touch lingered on my thigh, like he hated letting go.
"I'm not done with you," he said, adjusting his shirt and suit like nothing happened.
He hit the elevator button again. Lights returned. Motion resumed. I fixed my dress with shaking hands, flushed and aching and not nearly as ashamed as I should've been. Because when the doors opened and the hotel staff glanced our way… Damien only smirked. And I —I stepped out beside him like nothing had happened. Like I wasn't still dripping with him.
Like I hadn't just let him fuck me in an elevator in the middle of his empire's most important event. I smiled at the world m, my body still belonged to him. And maybe… I didn't mind.