"Definitely was," he amended. "You're challenging me at every turn. You have opinions. You push back. You're not grateful or intimidated or eager to please."
"Should I be?"
"Most women in your situation would be."
"I'm not most women." She was using his own words back at him. "You already established that."
Something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. "I did, didn't I?"
They finished the meal in a more companionable silence. Aria found herself studying him when he wasn't looking the way he ate with precise, economical movements, the way tension lived in his shoulders even when he was supposedly relaxed, the way his eyes occasionally went distant as if he was already thinking three steps ahead on some mental chess board.
He was beautiful in a harsh, angular way. All sharp edges and controlled power. But there were moments like when he'd shared about his mother, or when he'd complimented her instincts where something softer showed through. Something almost… human.
They were clearing the dishes Damien had insisted on helping despite Margaret leaving instructions to just leave everything when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and his entire demeanor changed. His jaw clenched, his eyes went cold, and when he answered, his voice was pure ice. "What do you want?"
Aria couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but she watched Damien's face darken with each passing second.
"No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."
A pause.
"I don't care. The answer is no."
Another pause, longer this time.
"You lost the right to ask me for anything when you left me at that fire station." His knuckles were white where he gripped the phone. "Don't call this number again."
He ended the call and stood there for a moment, breathing hard, visibly fighting for control.
Aria typed carefully: "Your mother?"
He nodded once, sharp and angry.
"What did she want?"
"Money. What else?" The bitterness in his voice was toxic. "She's called four times in the past month. Always the same. Some sob story about debts or medical bills or rent. Always a different number so I can't block her."
"Have you ever seen her? Since she left you?"
"Once. When I was eighteen. She showed up at my college dorm claiming she wanted to reconnect, wanted to explain, wanted to be a mother again." His laugh was harsh.
"Turned out she'd seen an article about my scholarship and thought I might have money. When she realized I was working three jobs just to eat, she disappeared again."
Aria's heart broke for the eight-year-old boy who'd been abandoned, for the eighteen-year-old who'd been betrayed again. She moved closer to him, not touching but close enough to offer silent support.
"I'm sorry. That's unforgivable."
"It's in the past," he said, but his hands were still shaking slightly. "I don't let it affect me."
"Damien." She waited until he looked at her. "It clearly does affect you. And that's okay. She hurt you in the worst possible way. You don't have to pretend you're over it."
He stared at her for a long moment, and she saw something crack in his expression. Some of that rigid control slipping.
"I built all of this" he gestured around them, "to prove she was wrong to leave me. To prove I was worth something. But it doesn't matter how much money I make or how successful I become. That eight-year-old kid is still inside me, wondering what he did wrong to make his mother leave."
The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did Aria. He turned away sharply, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," he muttered. "We barely know each other."
Aria pulled out her phone: "Maybe that's why. Sometimes it's easier to be honest with someone who doesn't have preconceptions about who you're supposed to be."
He turned back to face her, his expression unreadable. They stood there in the kitchen this ridiculously expensive, barely-used kitchen just looking at each other. The moment stretched, heavy with things unsaid.
"You're dangerous," Damien said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because you make me want to talk. To share things I've never told anyone. And that's…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "That's not part of the arrangement."
"Maybe it should be. Maybe this would be easier if we were actually honest with each other instead of just playing roles."
"Honest," he repeated. "You want honest?"
She nodded.
"Honest is that I'm attracted to you. More than I expected to be. More than I wanted to be. When I saw you in that wedding dress yesterday, when I kissed you, I felt something I wasn't prepared for. Chemistry, connection, whatever you want to call it." His eyes pinned her in place. "And it scares the hell out of me because attraction complicates things. It makes this arrangement messy when it's supposed to be clean."
Aria's heart was hammering against her ribs. She typed with trembling fingers: "I felt it too. The chemistry. I didn't want to. You're not exactly the kind of man I ever imagined marrying."
"What kind of man did you imagine?"
"Someone kind. Warm. Emotionally available. The opposite of you, basically."
He laughed an actual laugh, short but genuine. "Fair assessment."
"But you're more complicated than I thought. You're not just the cold businessman. There are layers. Damage, yes, but also unexpected depth. And that's dangerous too."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me curious about you. Makes me want to understand you. And that's not part of the arrangement either."
They stood there in the charged silence, the air between them thick with tension and possibility and all the things they weren't saying.
Damien moved first. He closed the distance between them in two steps, his hand coming up to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone in an echo of that wedding kiss.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough. "If you don't want this, tell me now."
Aria could have texted. Could have pushed him away. Could have maintained the distance they'd established, kept this arrangement purely business.
But she didn't.
Instead, she raised up on her toes and closed the final gap between them, pressing her lips to his in answer.
The kiss was different from the chaste one at the wedding. This was heat and hunger, his hands sliding into her hair, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt. His mouth moved against hers with skill and intensity, tasting like wine and want and something darker she couldn't name.
He walked her backward until her back hit the kitchen counter, his body pressing against hers. One hand stayed in her hair while the other spanned her waist, holding her to him as if she might disappear.