The sunlight poured through Isla's window like molten gold, drenching her bed in warmth she barely felt.
Her mind wasn't on the morning or the new day; it was still wrapped in last night's charged atmosphere, still replaying every stolen glance Damian had given her.
That single look — his eyes dark, searching, betraying desire behind a mask of composure — had tattooed itself onto her thoughts.
She stretched lazily, fingers brushing the cool sheets where she'd tossed and turned, restless with anticipation.
Today, she thought, slipping out of bed, she wouldn't just test the waters; she'd dip her toes in deep enough to make ripples Damian couldn't ignore.
Her school uniform hung neatly over the chair, pressed to perfection, yet she lingered over it, fingertips trailing over the fabric.
She imagined his gaze on her — not as a guardian or a man of control, but as someone caught between restraint and surrender.
That flicker of hunger in his eyes last night… she'd seen it, clear as day. It made her heart race.
"Damian…" she whispered to herself, the name tasting like a secret she wasn't supposed to say out loud.
------
By the time she reached school, Isla had slipped her uniform on like armor, but inside she was a storm of thoughts.
The corridors were buzzing — students laughing, exchanging gossip, the usual morning chaos — yet Isla felt like she was walking through a different world entirely.
It didn't take long for Adrian to find her.
"Isla," he drawled, leaning against the locker beside hers, his grin careless but sharp.
Adrian wasn't new to attention; he basked in it.
But lately, his interest in her had grown… bolder.
"You've been quiet," he said, leaning closer so only she could hear.
His voice carried the soft hum of curiosity. "Distracted, maybe?"
She forced a light laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm fine. Just… busy."
Adrian's gaze dropped briefly to her phone in her hand, the corner of his lips curling upward. "Busy with who?"
"None of your business," she said, though her heart gave an involuntary jolt at the thought of Damian reading one of her texts — of him catching someone else's name on her screen.
She liked the idea of his jealousy, liked imagining his composure cracking for her.
Adrian smirked knowingly. "You're glowing," he teased. "Must be someone special."
She shut her locker with a firm click, her pulse quickening.
Adrian's attention thrilled her in a dangerous way, but only because it sharpened the fantasy she carried — the image of Damian hearing Adrian's name, imagining another boy trying to claim her.
She pictured that flicker of darkness in Damian's gaze deepening, his restraint snapping just a little more.
Classes dragged on, Isla's mind never staying on the lessons.
She twirled her pen, her notebook full of idle doodles and words she didn't remember writing.
All she could see was Damian's face in the dim glow of the study last night, the sharp line of his jaw as he'd looked up at her.
He wants me too, she thought with certainty, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.
He has to.
The hours blurred into one another.
Adrian passed her a folded note during literature, his handwriting messy but charming: You've been on my mind all day.
She stuffed it into her bag, heart pounding, not because of Adrian but because she knew exactly whose reaction she wanted to this kind of attention.
------
Miles away, Damian sat in his office, surrounded by sleek, minimalist luxury.
The glass walls overlooked the city — tall buildings shimmering under the late morning sun — but Damian's attention wasn't on the skyline.
He was on a call, voice measured and calm, yet his mind wasn't fully present.
"…Yes, push the merger back to next quarter. I'll review the numbers tonight," he said curtly, ending the call.
He leaned back in his leather chair, loosening his tie slightly.
His desk was spotless except for a few organized files and a crystal tumbler filled with water.
The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air — a mix of spice and cedar, understated yet commanding.
But beneath the calm exterior, a single thought pulsed: Isla.
Damian closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
She was bold — too bold for her own good.
Last night's conversation still echoed in his head, her soft, daring words teasing him: I like consequences.
She was dangerous.
Not because she tried to be, but because she wasn't trying at all. Isla was temptation in its purest form — no artifice, no manipulation, just raw innocence laced with daring curiosity.
He exhaled slowly, glancing at his reflection in the glass wall.
He had built an empire on control, on discipline.
Yet here he was, struggling with a desire that refused to be locked away.
------
By the time Isla returned home, her heart was thrumming like a trapped bird.
She slipped off her shoes by the door, setting her bag down with deliberate care.
The faint scent of Damian's cologne lingered in the air again, stronger this time.
He was here.
She moved quietly down the hallway, drawn to the soft click of a pen, the rustle of paper.
The study door was ajar, and there he was — seated at his desk, perfectly composed in a dark suit, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms.
The lamplight cast a golden glow over him, making him look carved from shadows and power.
He didn't look up immediately, but she felt his awareness shift the second she stepped inside.
"Isla," he said finally, voice calm but carrying weight.
Her lips curved faintly. "You're working too hard."
"Someone has to," he replied evenly, his pen poised over a document.
But when his gaze lifted, just briefly, she saw it — the flicker in his eyes.
She stepped closer, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
"I've been… thinking about you," she said softly, each word deliberate.
His pen paused mid-stroke. "You shouldn't."
"Why not?" she countered, leaning against the desk, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne mingled with paper and ink. "You think about me."
The silence stretched between them, charged and dangerous.
His jaw tightened slightly, and she saw his fingers flex once against the pen before setting it down.
"Some things," he said slowly, voice low and measured, "are better left unspoken."
She smiled, her courage emboldened by his hesitation. "And some things are better… tested."
That earned her a look — sharp, warning, but not without heat. "Careful, Isla."
"I like danger," she whispered, tilting her head, letting her gaze linger on his face.
His breath came just a fraction slower, his composure cracking enough for her to feel it like static in the air.
------
After that night was a quiet war.
The clinking of cutlery was the only sound at first, the atmosphere thick enough to choke on.
Isla toyed with her fork, pretending to be absorbed in her meal, but she felt every glance he gave her — sharp, assessing, heated.
He was fighting himself.
She could see it.
The way his jaw shifted when she crossed her legs, the slight pause before he answered her casual questions, the exhale he gave when she leaned just a little too close while passing him a dish.
"Did you… enjoy work today?" she asked lightly, her voice carrying more weight than the question itself.
He studied her for a moment before answering.
"Productive," he said simply, but his eyes stayed on her a beat too long.
She smirked faintly, her chest tight with anticipation.
This game they were playing was no longer one-sided.
After dinner, Isla lingered in the doorway of the study.
Damian was leaning back in his chair, jacket off now, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He glanced up, expression unreadable.
"You should be resting," he said.
"I'm not tired," she murmured, stepping inside.
He set his pen down again, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "Isla… this isn't a game."
"Who said it was?" she countered, her voice soft but steady.
She took another step forward, closing the distance.
He stood suddenly, towering over her, and for a heartbeat, she froze.
The proximity was intoxicating; he smelled like cedar and leather, and his presence filled every inch of space.
"You're playing with fire," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.
She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Maybe I like getting burned."
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he exhaled slowly, stepping back just enough to reclaim his composure.
"Go to your room," he said finally, voice controlled.
She lingered in the doorway, her lips curving into a faint smile.
"Goodnight… Damian."
He didn't respond. But she felt his gaze burning into her back as she walked away.
Later in her room, her phone buzzed.
Adrian: Are you avoiding me? Or just… distracted?
She stared at the screen, her pulse quickening.
She imagined Damian reading the message, imagined his reaction.
That thought sent a shiver down her spine.
She typed back quickly: Maybe I'm just busy.
Adrian replied almost instantly: Busy thinking of me?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she set her phone aside and lay back, closing her eyes.
All she could see was Damian — the way his control had cracked tonight, the danger in his voice when he'd told her she was playing with fire.
He wants me. I want him. And soon, no one will stop us.
*****
The next evening, Damian was in the living room when she returned home, standing near the window with his phone in hand.
His suit jacket hung loosely, his tie undone — he looked like a man exhausted by the day but too disciplined to show it.
"Isla," he greeted softly, glancing up from his phone.
His voice carried warning and… something else. Something intimate.
She stepped closer, smiling faintly. "You look tired."
He met her gaze, his jaw tight. "You shouldn't test me tonight."
"Maybe I like testing you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His expression hardened, but his eyes betrayed him — dark, hungry, conflicted.
"Careful," he murmured. "There are consequences to this."
She smiled, stepping just close enough to feel his warmth. "Maybe I want the consequences."
For a moment, silence. Then Damian's phone buzzed, and his gaze flicked to the screen — his face tightening at whatever he saw.
"Go upstairs," he said abruptly, his tone sharper now.
"Why?" she asked, startled.
"Now, Isla."
Something in his voice made her freeze.
She turned slowly, her heart pounding, and as she climbed the stairs, she couldn't help but glance back.
Damian was still standing by the window, his expression unreadable, phone pressed to his ear.
"Why are you calling me?" she heard him say, his voice low, dangerous. "You should have stayed gone."
The words sent a chill down her spine.
Who was he talking to?
And why did she suddenly feel like she wasn't just playing with fire… but about to step into an inferno?