“Pleased to meet you,” I said, forcing my voice steady as I took it.
The narrow couch had room for two. Damian sat beside her—no hesitation, no glance my way, no quietSit with me.
Of course there was no space leftnext to him. Of course she was there. Of course he didn’t look.
My pride flared like an open wound; I wanted to rip her hand off his damn thigh. My body moved to the opposite couch—wider, but lonelier—while inside me a storm raged.
What had I expected? That he’d pull me onto his lap? That he’d say,Daisy, sit with me?How naïve.
Heat flooded my face, raw and exposed. It was nothing. It was everything.
Rogger, one of the men beside me, leaned in with a charming smile and talked about Rome and its hidden corners. Drinks flowed, voices rose. Damian and Alessandra laughed. Her hand rested on his thigh—casual, proprietary.
A sharp twist tore through my gut. Then I saw her playing with his fingers—and worse, he let her. Not just let her; he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, slow, deliberate, almost tender. Something inside me snapped so hard I grew dizzy.
I had no right to be hurt. And yet I was coming apart. My cheeks burned, my pride bristled, and I wanted nothing more than to rip her hand from his leg. Not because she’d crossed a line, but because she was permitted something I didn’t even dare wish for.
No one could see the storm in me. Not her. Least of all him.
Rogger poured me another drink, as if siding with my growing collapse.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked, passing me the glass.
“Why not?”
The moment I stood, a hand closed around my arm. Damian’s. His body too close, his grip too firm.
“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, Daisy.”
“And who decides that?” The words cut. My gaze locked on his and didn’t waver.
I slipped free, swallowed the drink in one burn, and set the glass down with a smile colder than ice. Then I turned to Rogger.
“Come on. Let’s dance.”
The alcohol burned, but not as much as the words I couldn’t say. The music couldn’t drown my thoughts. Damian lived under my skin.
Later, in the courtyard where lanterns swayed, I tried to breathe. Strings of lights hung between the trees, casting soft color across the cobblestones. For a flicker, everything felt light.
Rogger talked about midnight walks through Piazza Navona, his voice steady and warm. Then he set a hand lightly on my shoulder, almost friendly.
“Shall we get another drink?” he asked with a smile.
I was about to answer when movement at the doorway stopped me. Damian stood there—motionless, shoulders taut, jaw clenched. His gaze locked on Rogger’s hand. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He only looked, and it hit like a blow.
“If you put your hand on something that belongs to me again, I’ll break it.” His voice sliced the night open.
Rogger froze, hands raised. “I didn’t mean— I just thought—”
“Leave.”
He hesitated, then slipped back inside.
“Are you insane? What the hell was that? He was being friendly. He didn’t do anything.”
“His hand was on you.”
“So what? You didn’t exactly keep Alessandra at arm’s length.” The words left me before I could stop them. “Maybe you should go back inside. To her.”
