“Another day, Herculaneum. Even more extraordinary—preserved under volcanic ash. Walking those streets, I could almost feel the lives that had once pulsed there. Then Villa Rufolo in Ravello. The gardens were breathtaking. I lost hours roaming among the flowers, studying the architecture.”
“And the National Archaeological Museum in Naples?” he asked.
“Of course. Overwhelming—in the best way. So many priceless pieces in one place.”
“I’d like to fly there with you sometime. I’ve been, but not in years. What do you say?”
“That would be wonderful.” I popped a baby carrot into my mouth. “Honestly, it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened—that he dumped me. It meant I could finally focus on what I love. And besides, he never cared for art or history.”
“Someone who doesn’t care for art or history? That should’ve been a red flag from the start.”
I laughed—because of all people, Damian was the last I expected to hear that from. He seemed to catch the irony, because a faint smile touched his lips. He leaned back, sipping his wine, his gaze drifting to the endless sea of clouds outside the window—soft and weightless. I followed his eyes.
“I once had an experience that left a mark on me,” he said quietly after a moment. “A few years ago, when I was trying to acquire an ancient collection from Greece.”
“Tell me.”
“It was a remarkable collection—artifacts from Greece’s prime. But they weren’t easy to obtain. They belonged to an older man named Kostas, who lived in a small coastal village. He’d inherited them from his father and was deeply attached.”
“Then why sell them?”
“Kostas was dying. No children, no family to pass them to. He decided to sell and donate the money to a foundation in his name.”
“That’s noble.”
“It was,” Damian agreed. “But earning his trust was the real challenge. I spent days in that village, listening to his stories. Everyevening we drank ouzo together, and he spoke of his childhood, of the artifacts that defined his life. I wasn’t used to that—patience, respect. I was the man who bulldozed through people to get what I wanted. Yet Kostas… he was different. He had a reverence for history I couldn’t ignore. In the end, he sold me the collection, but only after I swore to keep it safe and share its story.”
Damian paused, his eyes shadowed with memory. “Kostas died a few months later. I kept my promise. The collection is in my penthouse now, protected, preserved. And every time I see it, I remember those nights with him—and what he taught me about the weight of heritage.”
“That’s a beautiful story. It proves you’re not just a businessman, but someone who understands the soul of what he collects.”
I had to look away, the pull in my stomach tightening, making it harder to see him as the cold man he wanted to be. A side of him that drew me in so deeply, I only wanted more.
Damian Miller, who prided himself on control and calculation, had let me glimpse something raw and human. I knew I might never see him open up like this again. That thought should have made it easier to keep my distance. Instead, it only drew me closer.
If I didn’t rein myself in, I’d fall for him completely—and then I’d be lost.
“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?” he asked, steering the conversation elsewhere.
With a sigh, I leaned back and took a slow sip of wine. “My parents couldn’t be more different. I get along with my mom now, but it wasn’t always easy. She was often wrapped up in herself,chasing some idea of ‘finding herself.’ She wasn’t around much. My dad, though…” My throat tightened. “That’s another story. He was—and still is—mixed up in crime, mostly mafia business and drugs. And he drank heavily. Our relationship is… complicated. But despite everything, we still talk on the phone. More often than I’d like to admit.”
Damian tilted his head, studying me. “Mafia and drugs, huh?” A crooked smile flickered. “Should I be worried about getting shot in a parking garage after this flight?”
“Only if you ditch me without dinner.”
He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I’d never dare.”
A soft giggle slipped out—maybe too much wine, or just too much Damian.
“Sometimes I wonder how I ever managed to crawl out of that chaos and build a life of my own.”
“Sometimes it’s those exact scars that make us stronger,” he said. “But it’s good you found your way.”
“Yes,” I murmured, warmth spreading through my chest.
Damian leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Why did you really leave Woodstock? They’ve got antique shops and museums there, too.”
I dropped my gaze, my hand brushing nervously over my arm. “It got… complicated.” My voice faltered. “My ex, he… he…” The words almost broke me, but I forced them out.
