The man nodded and left. I sank onto the soft bed and checked my watch. The streets outside were already dark. Almost half past nine—European time. I typed quick messages to Jenn and my mother to say I’d made it safely to Rome. Then I unpacked a few things and chose my outfit for the night: a short white dress, a light blue denim jacket, and ballet flats. After that, I showered.
At 10:15 p.m., a knock sounded at my door. When I opened it, Damian stood there, leaning against the doorframe with his phone pressed to his ear. His gaze locked on me, a faint smile curving the corner of his mouth, dimples cutting deep. He wasn’t in his usual suit but in blue jeans and a white shirt, the top buttons undone. His hair looked freshly washed, slightly mussed, as if his fingers had just combed through it. A trace of something woody and masculine drifted toward me.
“All right, we’ll handle the rest tomorrow,” he said into the phone, never breaking eye contact. Then he slid the phone into his pocket. “Ready?”
I nodded, irritated at myself. I snatched my bag, closed the door, and followed him down the hall to the elevators. Every movement he made carried effortless grace. Damian was a prism of a man—every angle catching the light in a new way, every facet sharper and more dangerous than the last.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside.
“No cardigan tonight?” he asked, pressing the button for the lobby.
“No. Not tonight.” My reply came clipped.
The elevator started its descent. Silence fell, broken only by the low hum of the machinery. Then Damian shifted. He turned toward me, stepped closer, and braced his hand against the wall beside my head. Not rough, not rushed—calculated. His breath brushed my cheek, cool with peppermint. My body locked in place while everything inside me burned.
“Do you know what the biggest problem is, Daisy?”
My voice was barely steady. “What is it?”
His eyes searched mine as if trying to find something buried there. “When you’re this close… it feels like you belong to me. Like I could just take you—without asking, without thinking. And then…” His gaze darkened, something unreadable flickering—regret, maybe. “…then I look at you and I know I never could.”
The elevator shuddered to a stop. A soft chime broke the moment, and the doors slid open. Damian stepped back, drawing in the intensity he wore like a cloak, slipping it off as easily as an actor stepping out of character.
A woman entered, commanding the space without trying. Long legs balanced on black heels, a dress clinging to her body as if cut from luxury. Hair flawless, lips shaped with precision, her perfume sharp and unmistakable. She belonged to this world. I didn’t.
She didn’t glance at me. Not even the courtesy of acknowledgment. To her, I was invisible. Decoration, at best. Her eyes sought Damian instead, and something passed betweenthem—a flicker, subtle but unmistakable. Recognition. History. A language I couldn’t translate. A smile touched her lips, the kind born of confidence, privilege, superiority.
Pain bored into my chest. Not sudden—creeping. Like rust. This woman embodied the glamour and elegance that surrounded Damian—a world I didn’t belong to and never would. I was nothing more than an interruption. A distraction. A story that was never meant to be. She was made for him. Both beautiful. Both dangerous. Both carrying that elegance. And me? I was the girl who had always hoped to be enough and never was.
So I smiled. Not real. Like millions of other women who had learned to smile when it hurt most. When you felt like you weren’t good enough. Not pretty enough. Not smooth enough. Not elegant enough. Not quiet enough. Just not enough.
The elevator kept moving. I forced myself to breathe evenly. At the same time, I wanted to scream, run, disappear. But I stood there. And stayed.
Outside, the light of the streetlamps rippled on the river, stretching beside us like a shimmering ribbon. Damian and I walked along the bank toward the city, the night air soft against my skin.
“How did you manage to build your empire in New York? To become so wealthy?” I asked.
“It was a slow build. Even years before I took over my parents’ shop, I was already searching for valuable artifacts, networkingwith collectors and scholars. My focus was always on pieces that were unique, that carried weight and value. Over time, I expanded into New York and built everything from there.” He paused. “It took persistence. A willingness to take risks. But luck played its part too—especially when I stumbled onto rare finds that cemented my reputation.”
“And how do you expand your collection and run your business today?”
“I have a top-notch team I can rely on, and I’ve built strong relationships with museums, auction houses, and private collectors who give me access to exclusive pieces. Some of my partners live in Rome as well.”
We crossed a small bridge and paused at the railing.
“And how did your love for history begin?” he asked.
“When I was a child, my grandmother often took me to museums. She was a history teacher, and I wanted to know everything she knew. In the attic of her house, she kept a collection of old things. I wanted to research their history—when they were made, by whom, and how far their journey had been.”
We pushed away from the railing and walked on along the riverbank. Damian stopped in front of a bench.
“Have you ever been to an excavation?” he asked, motioning for me to sit. “I could take you to one sometime.”
“Seriously? You’d do that? I’ve never been.”
“If I know the time and place of the next one, I can arrange it.”
“That would be incredible.”
