---
Chapter Two: An Unexpected Conversation
The silence stretched between them, hanging in the air like the hush before a storm. Damian had always been the one to dominate conversations, to pull words from others as easily as a magician pulls coins from behind an ear. But the girl—this strange, innocent girl—merely blinked at him, her lips parted as though a thousand replies had collided and none had made it out.
"Well?" Damian asked, tilting his head. His voice was calm, but the weight of expectation in it was unmistakable. People weren't supposed to hesitate when he spoke.
"I—I was chasing a butterfly," she finally stammered, holding her hands in front of her as if he might scold her for such a childish thing.
Damian's lips curved into a slow, amused smile. "A butterfly." He repeated the word like it was the most peculiar thing he had ever heard. "I don't believe anyone's ever given me that answer before. Usually, when I ask people what they're doing, they tell me they're waiting for me. Or working for me. Or hoping to impress me. But a butterfly?"
The girl's cheeks flushed. "It was pretty. And it doesn't cost anything to look at."
That reply stopped him for a beat. How long had it been since someone had spoken to him without carefully calculating what he wanted to hear? Damian studied her intently. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen—too young for his world, but there was a brightness in her that unsettled him.
"And what is your name?" he asked, softening his tone slightly.
"Clara," she said, clutching her skirt. "Clara Rose."
He repeated it slowly, savoring the syllables like fine wine. "Clara Rose. A name that doesn't sound like it belongs at one of my father's dinner tables."
"It doesn't," she said boldly, surprising them both. "I live in the village, just past the orchard. My father tends the stables."
Damian's brows lifted. He wasn't used to this—an unpolished honesty, a lack of fear at telling him she came from nowhere important. Most people he encountered tripped over themselves to present a pedigree or some carefully rehearsed story of worth. But Clara simply… was.
"Then what are you doing here?" he asked, half in jest, half curious.
"I… I sneak in sometimes," she admitted, glancing down at the flowers. "Your gardens are nicer than the village square. Nobody notices me."
Damian let out a soft laugh, genuine and unguarded. The sound startled even him. "So, you've been trespassing on my estate."
Clara's eyes went wide. "I didn't mean any harm! I just—"
He lifted a hand to silence her, still smirking. "Relax, little thief of butterflies. If I wanted to have you dragged out by the guards, I would've done it already. But I suppose…" He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, "I find your honesty refreshing."
Her heart pounded in her chest. She should have run, should have bowed her head and mumbled an apology. But there was something magnetic in his gaze, something dangerous and compelling all at once.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she blurted, biting her lip as soon as the words escaped.
Damian chuckled, a low, velvety sound. "Because no one ever looks me in the eye like you do. And I find it… entertaining."
Clara didn't know whether to feel flattered or insulted. "I didn't mean to entertain you. I just came to see the flowers."
"Then perhaps I should plant more of them," he replied smoothly.
Her brow furrowed at his teasing tone, and Damian, who had made grown men sweat in boardrooms and women swoon at galas, was struck by how she tilted her head in confusion instead of batting her lashes or rehearsing a practiced smile.
It was… almost funny.
Almost dangerous.
For the first time in years, Damian felt something break through the monotony of his life. Clara Rose, the innocent village girl who chased butterflies, had walked straight into his world of marble and iron. And he had no intention of letting her walk back out so easily.
"Clara Rose," he said softly, almost to himself. "You've just become far more interesting than everyone else in this house."
She swallowed hard, not knowing what he meant, but sensing it was the beginning of something she could neither predict nor escape.
And Damian knew—this was only the start of his possession.