I never wanted to meet Damian De Rossi.
Scratch that—I never even planned to. My Saturday night bucket list just had exactly three things on it: drink, forget, and possibly eat greasy fries at 2 a.m., but meeting a billionaire mafia heir? Yeah, not even in the fine print.
Yet here I am, the morning after. My life just tilted sideways, and silk sheets that definitely cost more than my entire apartment are now apparently tangled around my legs. The room smells like expensive cologne, bad decisions, and the kind of regret you can't wash off in one shower.
I try to tiptoe out, with heels in hand, and dignity hanging by a thread—when suddenly a voice stops me cold.
"Leaving already?"
I freeze. Damian's voice is deep, smooth, and unfairly amused for someone who should still be asleep. When I glance back, he's simply leaning against the doorframe like he's in some GQ spread, and worst of all, he's shirtless, tousled, and very much awake. His obsidian eyes are locked on me. They are sharp enough to slice through the weak excuses forming in my brain.
"Yes," I manage, clutching my bag like it's a weapon. "I was just... leaving."
"Without breakfast?" His smirk deepens.
"Without anything," I snap, as I slip my heels on with forced dignity. "Last night was—"
"A mistake?" he cuts in, clearly entertained by my misery.
I glare. "Exactly. One reckless mistake. That's all."
But instead of moving aside, he's now stepping forward, and then blocking the door with all six feet of infuriating arrogance. His gaze doesn't waver; it burns.
"You really think you can just walk out of here, Selene?" he asks softly. "Like nothing happened?"
"Yes," I shoot back. "That's literally the plan."
He tilted his head as he studied me with a predator's patience. "What if we didn't use protection? I mean, I was so drunk last night, everything was a blur."
A blur, he says. He went till morning. He could not only kill by looks, but by stamina, which I don't know what triggered last night.
My heart stops. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His tone is maddeningly calm. "What if there were no condoms, no pills, none of that? What then?"
I blink at him, stunned. "Are you seriously—this is insane. You're insane."
Damian shrugs, as if discussing the weather. "I don't want you showing up months from now, knocking on my door, saying I'm your baby daddy."
I hate him. I hate that smug look on his face. I hate that my brain—traitor that it is—replays every blurred detail of last night, trying to confirm if he's right.
And worst of all?
I hate that deep down… he is right.
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Suddenly, I now start, let's say remembering what led to this moment:
FLASHBACK
I wasn't supposed to get drunk that night. I'd promised myself only one cocktail, maybe two. But one turned into three, and three turned into… well, enough that the bar lights were beginning to blur and the bass of the music rattled through my bones.
My head was suddenly light, and my body heavier than usual. I remember laughing at something stupid the bartender said, and spinning the straw in my glass like it held all the answers I'd been avoiding.
That's when I felt it—eyes on me. They were sharp, unrelenting, and watching like they had a claim they never asked for. I turned my head and there he was. Damian De Rossi. A man who looked like sin tailored in Armani, as he lounged at the far end of the bar with a whiskey in hand. His gaze was steady, assessing, and too focused for a casual stranger.
I should've looked away. Instead, I just drowned the rest of my drink.
Then it happened—three men slid into my orbit like vultures scenting weakness. One leaned too close, his breath laced with beer and yes, bad intentions. Another blocked my way out. A third's hand grazed my thigh in a way that had my skin crawling.
I froze, as panic prickled under my skin.
"Come on, sweetheart, don't play hard to get," one of them slurred.
"...No" the words were heavy, I didn't even know what I was doing but I know what I felt.
"Just one night, or don't you like threesomes and a little extra spice?" the other said, he's smirk widening with lust in eyes as he scanned my 'delicate' curves.
Before I could react, another voice cut through, it was low, lethal, and surprisingly controlled.
"She said no."
The men stiffened, and to be honest, so did I. Damian was suddenly there, a shadow and a shield all at once. His jaw was tight, his stare colder than ice as he peeled their hands off me with effortless force.
One of them cursed under his breath. "Mind your business, man."
Damian smiled—a thin, dangerous curve that promised pain. "She is my business."
They backed off. Not because they wanted to, but because something about him said it wasn't worth the fight. Within seconds, they scattered, muttering.
I exhaled shakily, my body trembling.
"You all right?" he asked, but his voice softer now, and worst of all, it was directed at me.
I nodded, though my pride hated how much I needed the rescue. "I was fine."
"Sure you were." He didn't press it, just signaled the bartender. "Her tab. On me."
I blinked, suddenly aware of his presence too close, too overwhelming. "You don't have to—"
"I know." He handed over a black card anyway.
When I tried to walk away, my knees wobbled. Damian caught my arm before I could fall. "You shouldn't be here alone."
And here's where I should've said thank you and left. But instead, the words slipped out before I could stop them: "Stay. Please."
His eyes flickered, searching my face. "You don't want me to."
"Yes, I do." My voice was softer than I meant, raw around the edges.
Something unreadable passed over him, he hesitated, but then finally, quietly: "I have my own devils."
We didn't talk about it. Instead, he led me out of the bar, steadying me as if I weighed nothing. We exchanged names somewhere between the curb and the cab. Selene. Damian. His voice wrapped around mine like a secret.
We drove to his apartment, where he said was nearby. He promised me I would be safe there for the meantime and needed to rest and get sober, after which, head home. I agreed, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to and right now, he was the only one there for me.
By the time we reached his apartment, exhaustion had me in a chokehold. I slumped against the couch, words slipping out of my drunken haze before I could filter them:
"My body... it feels hot."
"Do you need the AC turned up?" he asked with concern laced in his voice.
Before I could think straight, the words slipped out of my mouth and I knew in the later future, I would definitely get to regret it.... i hoped not too though. "No, I just need you right now"
For a moment, silence stretched—thick, loaded. Then Damian leaned closer, shadows cutting across his sharp features. His hand brushed my cheek, hesitation and hunger clashing in his eyes.
And then—…