I swallowed hard and turned to the window, the city lights streaking past. Another swallow. My forehead rested against the cool glass. Tears wouldn’t stop. The ride to the hotel felt endless, every second filled with the truth: I had fallen in love with a man who might never love—or respect—me in return.
Hours later, I was slumped in a shadowed corner of the hotel bar, half-collapsed on the couch. Ference stayed with me while the other two bodyguards returned to Damian. I told him more than once he could leave, but he refused—silent and steady by the door. Likely Miller’s orders. So he stood there for hours, watching while I drank myself toward oblivion.
Empty glasses scattered across the table—evidence of a long, lonely night of self-destruction. My head sagged heavy, the room spinning. Muted music and the hum of other guests drifted past, distant and shapeless.
A voice cut through the haze. Familiar. Commanding.
“Where is she?”
Damian’s tone sliced through the room. He found me fast—anger in his eyes, and something I didn’t want to name.
“Damn it, Daisy, how much have you had?” He sniffed a glass, then slammed it down. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Why do you even care?” My words slurred. “Go away. You’re nothing but a shadow.”
He gathered my shoes, then lifted me—unyielding, yet careful. Moonlight spilled across the room as he laid me on the bed and pulled a cover over me. The last thing I saw was concern and regret ghosting his face.
Dazed, I woke heavy, head pounding. Light streamed through thin curtains, stabbing my eyes. It took seconds to realize I wasn’t in my own room.
A hangover clawed at my skull. I pushed upright, careful, still wearing last night’s dress—wrinkled, twisted. Memory seeped back in fragments. Voices murmured nearby. I swayed to the adjoining door and eased it open.
Damian stood by the window, phone to his ear, voice low.
“I don’t know why she didn’t tell you we were here, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”
A breakfast spread waited on the table: fruit, pastries, juice. Coffee scented the air.
“Of course I took care of that. I also had three cloud files created,” he said. His eyes caught mine, then slid away. “I understand. And when?” His face was stone. “Good. And how long will that take him?”
I slipped out, closing the door softly behind me. In the hallway, I realized my keycard was gone.
“Damn it.” My voice cracked. Exhaustion pressed down until I sank against the wall, knees to my chest. Tears stung and broke loose—the night before pressing down, merciless. Locked out, stripped bare, inside and out.
“Perfect,” I whispered, burying my face in my hands.
A click. A door opening. I lifted my head. Damian. His eyes, usually impenetrable, showed something else. Concern.
He came toward me without sound—deliberate, careful. From his pocket he pulled a card, slid it through, opened my door. But he didn’t leave. He knelt in front of me, close enough I caught the sharp, familiar scent of him. His fingers brushed my hair back, light as breath, as if he could erase everything with that one touch.
“I want to fly back.” My voice broke, raw plea.
He held my gaze. Silent. Then he nodded once. No argument. He lifted me into his arms and carried me inside.
The bathroom filled with steam as water ran. I peeled out of the wrinkled dress, his presence behind me steady—too gentle for the man I thought I knew. Each touch careful. Almost painful in its tenderness. I closed my eyes, heat surrounding me, his silence both unbearable and soothing. The pain inside didn’t vanish, but his patience loosened something in the knot that had been strangling me all night.
In his cabin on the plane, I stared at the clouds drifting endless outside. I had no strength left; exhaustion wrapped me like lead. Most of the flight I spent in that bed. A flight attendant came and went, but Damian stayed buried in his work elsewhere.
A soft click broke the quiet. Without a word, he lay down beside me. He took the remote, switched onThe Wolf of Wall Street, then pulled me against him. My head rested on his chest. His warmth pressed close. His tenderness burned as much as it soothed.
Once again, he healed wounds he’d carved himself. Damian Miller was a master of manipulation.
Chapter 10 Daisy
The shop was silent. Only the faint ticking of the wall clock. I sat at my desk, an old manuscript in my hands, the scent of leather and dust filling the air. My fingers turned pages mechanically, but my eyes stayed on one thing: my phone. No light. No sound. No Damian.
Two weeks. Not even aHow are you?Not even anI’m busy.Nothing. As if I’d imagined it all.
I tapped the screen. Silence. Was I that easy to forget? Was that all it had been—a rush, a game? Over for him, while I was still trapped in it. Anger burned—at him, at myself, at this longing that clung like a disease. I had slept with him. I had given him everything. And now he treated me like air. No name for it. No certainty. No answer. Only silence—louder than any fight. A man who had touched me so deeply, then vanished as if I had never existed.
