The soft morning light spilled through the tall windows of Isla's guest room, painting faint golden streaks across the floor.
The world outside was already awake — the muted hum of the city's traffic below drifted up through the half-open window, blending with the faint rustle of the curtains in the breeze.
But none of it could quiet her thoughts.
She had barely slept.
The night had been long, restless, filled with replayed images of Damian — the sharp lines of his jaw, the measured calm in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on her for just a second too long.
Even in dreams, she'd felt his presence, vivid and unsettling, as though he'd been there with her, watching.
She turned over in bed, pressing a hand against her chest, trying to will her racing heart into some semblance of calm.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
She froze, instinctively smoothing her hair and tugging the sheet higher over herself.
"Breakfast," came Damian's deep, steady voice.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
"Coming," she called back, her voice softer than she intended.
Moments later, she stood before her mirror, slipping into a pale blouse and a fitted skirt.
The blouse was simple but soft against her skin, its neckline modest yet graceful.
She ran her hands over the fabric, hesitating before leaving the sanctuary of her room.
Her stomach fluttered with anticipation and nerves.
Damian was already at the dining table when she descended the stairs.
He was immaculate as always, his shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, the morning light catching on the expensive watch that gleamed against his wrist.
His posture was relaxed, but there was a weight about him — a presence that filled the room effortlessly.
He glanced up as she approached, his expression unreadable.
"Good morning."
She nodded slightly, her lips curling into a faint smile. "Morning."
His eyes followed her for just a moment as she sat down.
The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of butter and toast.
She lifted the cup he'd poured for her, the heat of it warming her palms, but her heart thudded harder with every beat, as if he could hear it.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, voice calm and deliberate.
"Mostly," she murmured, avoiding his gaze.
She didn't dare admit that her dreams had been full of him, or that she'd woken with her pulse pounding and an ache she couldn't quite name.
"Mostly," he repeated slowly, his eyes flicking over her face with quiet scrutiny.
"I see."
Something about his tone made her skin prickle.
There was no judgment there, but something else — a quiet understanding, maybe, or a subtle warning she couldn't quite decipher.
She shifted in her chair, suddenly self-conscious.
Later that morning, Damian retreated to his study.
Isla followed at a measured pace, though she pretended she wasn't.
She lingered near the bookshelves lining the walls, tracing her fingers lightly along the spines of expensive leather-bound volumes, pretending to browse.
The room was rich and refined, the scent of polished wood and faint cologne filling her senses.
Damian sat behind his desk, absorbed in paperwork, his head bent slightly as he flipped through documents with precise movements.
She couldn't stop watching him — the strength in his hands, the way his brow furrowed slightly when he focused, the calm control in every line of his body.
The quiet power he carried wasn't loud or ostentatious; it was the kind that made her pulse race without him having to say a word.
He looked up suddenly, his eyes locking onto hers.
"You seem distracted," he said, voice smooth but edged with something she couldn't name.
Isla felt her cheeks heat.
"Just… thinking."
"About your reading?" he asked, glancing briefly at the book she held — one she hadn't even opened.
She hesitated, her voice low when she finally spoke.
"About… you."
The word hung in the air between them like a spark.
A flicker passed over Damian's face, subtle but unmistakable.
His jaw tightened slightly, his dark eyes unreadable.
"About me," he repeated slowly.
She swallowed hard, the confession out now, irretrievable.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Damian's gaze held hers for what felt like forever before he finally set his pen down.
"Isla," he said, his voice steady, measured, but not cold.
"Living under my roof comes with expectations. There are… lines you shouldn't cross. I'd like to think you understand that."
She forced herself to look him in the eye, her pulse hammering.
"I do."
"Good."
"But," she added softly, her lips curling into the faintest smile, "some lines… aren't always so clear."
For a moment, something flickered in Damian's expression — amusement, maybe.
Or interest.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her as though she were a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.
"Be careful with that curiosity," he said finally, his voice low, smooth as velvet but with a quiet firmness beneath.
The day dragged on, filled with small moments that sent sparks racing through Isla's veins.
She brushed past him in the hallway, her hand grazing his arm just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin.
He passed her a book from a high shelf, their fingers barely touching, but the contact made her breath catch.
At lunch, she dared to meet his gaze with a smile that was just a little too knowing.
"You seem… distracted," she teased lightly, echoing his words from earlier.
His fork paused midway to his mouth.
He looked at her carefully, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
"Do I?"
"Maybe," she said, tilting her head.
"Thinking about something? Or… someone?"
The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Isla."
Her heart skipped, but she refused to back down.
"Maybe I like games."
There was a long pause, tension filling the space between them.
Damian set his fork down with quiet precision, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Careful," he murmured.
She smiled sweetly, but inside she was trembling.
That evening, Damian left briefly to take a phone call. Isla stayed in the living room, curled up on the leather sofa, pretending to read.
Her ears strained to catch his voice from the study down the hall.
"…No, not tonight," he said, his tone calm but firm. A pause. "…Celeste, we've been over this."
The sound of the name made Isla's breath hitch.
Celeste.
The voice on the other end sounded muffled but persistent, sharp enough that she could hear the tension in Damian's responses.
"…You're being unreasonable. This isn't the time," he continued, his voice low, controlled.
"…I'll call you tomorrow. That's all I can offer tonight."
The call ended with a soft click, followed by silence.
Isla's heart pounded. Celeste.
The name lingered in her mind like perfume, sweet and sharp, sparking questions she couldn't voice.
Ex? Lover? She bit her lip, her curiosity burning hotter than before.
When Damian returned, he found her still curled on the sofa.
His expression was unreadable, but she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her.
"You've been quiet," he remarked.
"Just… reading," she murmured, though the book lay forgotten in her lap.
He stepped closer, his presence filling the space.
"You watch too closely," he said softly, a hint of something in his voice she couldn't place.
"Curiosity can feel harmless… until it isn't."
She tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes despite the flutter in her chest.
"I'm just curious about you."
His jaw tightened slightly.
He leaned down, just enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath.
"You're not ready for all the answers you're looking for, Isla."
Her breath caught. "Maybe I am."
For a moment, he simply stared at her, his expression unreadable, the tension between them almost suffocating.
Then he straightened, his composure snapping back into place like a tailored suit.
"Be careful what you ask for," he said, turning to leave the room.
Hours later, Isla sat alone in the living room, the silence of the house pressing in on her.
Damian's study door was closed, a faint light glowing from beneath it.
She imagined him inside — jacket off, sleeves rolled up, concentration etched into his features.
She couldn't stop thinking about him.
About the way his voice dipped low when he spoke to her, the warmth of his hand when their fingers brushed, the rare flashes of vulnerability that slipped past his composure.
He wasn't just her father's friend anymore.
He wasn't just the man who'd known her since she was little.
He was a mystery, a magnet, a force she couldn't resist even when she knew she should.
The boundaries he kept mentioning felt less like walls and more like an invitation — a challenge.
The soft click of a door made her look up.
Damian appeared in the doorway of the living room, his presence as commanding as ever.
"Isla," he said, his voice low but deliberate.
"We need to talk."
Her stomach flipped. "About… what?"
He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, controlled, like a predator approaching prey.
He stopped in front of her, his gaze locked on hers.
"You know what."
Her breath hitched. "I…"
"I need to know," he said softly, his voice firm but not harsh, "if you understand what you're doing. What you're feeling. This… tension between us… it's not something you can play with."
She swallowed hard, her pulse loud in her ears. "I'm not playing."
His jaw tightened, his expression darkening. "Isla…"
She leaned forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know the risk. And I don't care."
For a moment, the mask of control slipped. His eyes softened, the weight of unspoken desire flashing in them before he blinked it away.
"You should care," he murmured, stepping back, retreating into the safety of distance.
She watched him leave, her heart aching at the space he created between them.
The door to his study clicked shut, but she could still feel the heat of his gaze, the tension that had filled the room like a storm about to break.
Isla sank back against the sofa, her body trembling.
She knew she was pushing him.
Testing him.
And she knew he wouldn't hold that control forever.
The line between restraint and desire was razor-thin now, and she was more than ready to see it snap.
****
Isla's felt her chest, her heart pounding. she could feel him everywhere — in the way he had looked at her, in the words he had said, in the way the air seemed to hum with unspoken promises. and one thought consumed her entirely: how long before he gives in… and how far will she go to make him hers?