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Chapter 5 -   Chapter Three – Silk and Shadows

Part One

 

The night air in The Waterfront carried a peculiar perfume — a mingling of ocean salt, gasoline from luxury yachts, and something sweet, like vanilla and jasmine drifting from the upscale promenade. Neon lights rippled off the water, broken by the lazy sway of moored boats. Damian stood beside his battered delivery scooter, the contrast between him and his surroundings as sharp as a blade.

He had just dropped off a catering order for one of the glass-walled penthouses that loomed above, where champagne was being poured and laughter tinkled like wind chimes in a breeze. His jacket hung loosely off his shoulders, the thin fabric of his black shirt clinging to the lean muscle underneath. Years of constant motion — lifting crates, running errands, skipping meals — had carved his body into something unintentional yet magnetic. His frame was long and lithe, built not for posing but for surviving.

And then there were his eyes.

They weren't simply dark red — they were dangerous. There was a stillness in them, the kind of look you'd expect from someone standing on the edge of a decision they couldn't take back. A look that said I've lost enough to know I can lose more. People felt it before they understood it. It made strangers pause. It made them curious.

He was sliding his helmet over his head when he caught movement from the corner of his vision.

She emerged from the shadows of the marble-pillared lobby like a scene breaking from slow motion. Tall — at least in her heels — her figure poured into a wine-red silk dress that shimmered with each step. Her hair was black, glossy, and heavy, falling over one shoulder like a sheet of midnight. Her lips were painted the same deep red as her dress, and her eyes were the kind that didn't just look at you — they appraised you, weighed you, decided what you were worth.

"You work fast," she said, her voice husky with the faint trace of a European accent.

Damian adjusted the strap on his helmet. "It's a delivery. Not much to it."

Her smile deepened, slow and deliberate, as if savoring a thought. "Everything has… more to it. If you know where to look." She closed the distance between them with the grace of someone who had been watched her entire life. "What's your name?"

He hesitated. "Damian."

"I'm Selene." She let the name hang there like an offering. "You have… a certain look, Damian. A look that could open doors. There are people who'd pay well for your time."

There it was — the offer. Wrapped in silk, served with a smile that promised something decadent.

Damian's gaze was steady. "I'm not for sale."

 

Her eyebrow arched, not in offense but in intrigue, as if his refusal was the rarest thing, she'd heard all night. "Everyone's for sale," she murmured. "Some just don't know their price yet."

"I know mine." He slid the helmet fully on, the click of the strap final. "And it's not on your list."

For a moment, neither moved. The hum of the city filled the silence — the distant throb of bass from a rooftop bar, the rush of water against the docks. Then Selene's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"We'll see."

As Damian drove off, he didn't notice the two silhouettes watching from across the street.

One leaned casually against a black car, her caramel-toned hair swept into a loose chignon, wearing a tailored white coat that fell just above the knee. She was younger than Selene by a handful of years, her beauty sharp and knowing, the kind that had aged like fine whiskey — richer, deeper, and more dangerous.

Beside her stood a woman whose presence could freeze a room mid-breath. Late forties, every line of her face carved with elegance, her silver-blonde hair twisted into an immaculate knot. Diamonds glittered on her ears, not oversized but chosen to whisper old money. She didn't speak, only watched Damian ride away, her eyes narrowing with quiet calculation.

***

Later that night, in a candlelit lounge tucked behind a hotel's false wall…

Selene sipped her champagne and set the glass down with a soft click. "He turned me down."

The caramel-haired woman laughed softly. "You? Selene Renaud? That hasn't happened since—"

"Don't finish that sentence, Lucia."

Lucia smirked. "I'm just saying, maybe the boy isn't as simple as he looks."

"He's not a boy," the silver-haired woman said. Her voice was cold, precise, carrying the authority of someone used to ending conversations with a single word. "He's… dangerous. Not in skill. In the way the sea is dangerous — calm one moment, then pulling you under the next. Did you see his eyes?"

Lucia tilted her head. "Yes. They say come closer. But they also say don't expect to come back the same."

Selene's nails tapped the table. "I want him."

The silver-haired woman — Maris, to those who knew her — regarded her with a faint smile. "Then we find out everything. Where he works. Who he lives with. His debts. His weaknesses. Everything."

"And when we know?" Lucia asked.

Maris leaned back, her diamonds catching the low light. "Then we take him apart. Piece by piece. Until he comes to us willingly… or not at all."

Selene's lips parted in a smile; this time genuine. "Consider it done."

***

Damian's apartment, a few days later

It wasn't much — a single-room walk-up with a leaking radiator and a window that looked out over a brick wall. But it was his. And more importantly, it was paid for with the sweat of his own back.

He sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping a wad of crumpled bills from the day's work. Part of it he set aside for rent. The rest went into a battered envelope — the one he mailed home every week without fail.

It would've been easier to take Selene's offer. Easier to lean into that dangerous charm people always saw before they saw him. But easier meant owned. And Damian had promised himself a long time ago he'd never wear a collar, no matter how expensive.

Still… lately, he felt it. The eyes. Watching.

He caught glimpses in reflective glass — a figure leaning too long against a lamppost, a parked car where it didn't belong. He brushed it off as city paranoia, but deep down he knew. Selene hadn't heard "no" as an ending. She'd heard it as a challenge.

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