“It’s impressive.” The coldness in his voice hit harder than a slap. He didn’t look at me, not even in passing. Detached. Clinical. With every word, the wall between us rose higher, impossible to scale.
A knot closed in my throat, choking back the words I wanted to spill—anything to shatter this silence, this indifference. The faint trace of his cologne clung like a ghost of last night, now nothing but an illusion. My chest ached with a hollow, merciless question. Was he angry at me? At himself? Was he already pushing me away before admitting there was anything real between us? Or had there never been anything at all—only my foolish hope wearing the mask of truth?
I had thought last night meant something—an unspoken bond, a silent promise. But now it felt like I had been wrong.
The urge to close the space, to touch him, to force him to look at me, was unbearable. But I couldn’t. Because the emptiness in his eyes—no, the absence of anything at all—made me a stranger. Someone easily discarded.
Something inside me cracked, quiet and invisible. That was what hurt most: that I had been so close, and now he was farther than ever.
“Over here—it could be,” I said, gesturing to a case filled with relics and wall paintings from the reign of Ramses the Great. I leaned closer, my breath catching. “Damian,” I whispered. He stepped beside me, his gaze locking on the painting—a Phoenix pendant, identical to his.
“That must be it.”
“You’re right. That’s it. Incredible.” His praise was hollow, spoken from a distance. He pulled out his phone and snapped pictures.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Damian, what’s going on with you? Why are you so… distant?”
He exhaled, sharp and heavy. “Not now, Daisy.”Noted.
The rejection stung—cold and precise. Pressing further would only deepen the cut. I turned back to the case, swallowing the ache.
The discovery should have consumed me with triumph. Instead, the silence grew louder, thicker.
On the ride back, tension clotted the air. Damian pressed the intercom.
“Take Daisy back to the hotel. Drop me here.”
I frowned. “Wait—where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Alessandra,” he said coolly, already half-turned away as the car stopped.
“What? Why?” I followed him out, the words burning in my chest.
“Seriously? Since when do I have to tell you where I’m going?”
“You don’t have to, but—”
“We’re not a couple, Daisy.” His voice cut through me. “Alessandra’s an old friend. She asked to see me.”
He stepped closer, fingers gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his. His mouth crashed against mine in a hard, punishing kiss. “Last night was nice,” he murmured, the words almost a threat. “Stay in the hotel room. Do you understand? Don’t even think about wandering Rome alone.” He released me and turned away.
The bitter taste of him clung to my lips. The warmth of last night had frozen into something jagged and cold. I felt raw, hollow, used—and still my body ached for him. For a moment I watched him walk down the street and disappear into a nightclub.
It wasn’t that he left. It was how he left. Without hesitation. Without looking back. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t spent hours watching me, kissing me, undressing me, splitting me open until I thought I’d shatter. As if he hadn’t held me like something precious, only to discard me like something ordinary.
And I was left there. With his taste still on my tongue. With his imprint still deep inside me. With the searing, foolish belief that it had been more. Because it had felt like more. But to him, it had been nothing but a night. A body. A release.
Now he was gone, off to another woman. As if I had never existed.
I hated myself for every second I’d believed I meant anything to him. I hated my trembling, my longing, my damn heart. Most of all, I hated myself for still wanting him.
A soft knock came at my door. I glanced at the clock — already 11:30 a.m. No word from Damian. Still wrapped in my bathrobe, unshowered, I’d eaten a late breakfast and wasted most of the morning trying to shake off the sleepless night. I had spent those hours wide awake, talking through every detail with Jenn. I’d never hidden anything from her. She’d half-joked she’d fly to Rome and kick Miller’s ass herself. As soon as I was back in New York: a weekend with her. I needed that grounding — her laughter and blunt honesty.
When I opened the door, Ference stood there.
“Mr. Miller requests that you meet him in the hotel restaurant in one hour,” he said in his usual measured tone.
My brows rose. “And he can’t tell me that himself?”
