I stared at my phone. How many times had I imagined his name lighting the screen? And then—like a cruel joke—it rang.
I jerked upright. New York area code. My heart leapt, just once. I grabbed it before the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Miss Elfhorn? This is Maria Palman, calling on behalf of Miller Antiques. You’ll be receiving an email shortly with the details for the manuscript transfer. Please confirm in writing, yes?”
Her voice was friendly. Professional. A secretary. Not Damian. No apology. NoI’ve missed you.
“Thank you.”
The instructions were simple: manuscript number BL8839721 to be delivered to New York within three days. I ended the call and rang the driver. I would deliver it today.
The urge to see him was a roar inside me. My mind whispered:He doesn’t want you. Not the way you want him.But my heart screamed back:See him. Feel him. Even if it hurts. Even if it kills you.
As we drove, my eyes never left my phone. No message. No Damian. I scrolled through our old conversations, closed them, reopened them ten seconds later. Swipe. Screen on. Nothing. Pathetic.
I tried to focus on the manuscript in the bag beside me—the real reason I was here. My job. The excuse. But my gaze slid back to the phone, again and again.
Two weeks. Not a word. Not a call. And here I was, using work as an excuse to chase him. How pathetic.
I should have told Bastien to turn the car around. But I stayed quiet.
At the lobby of Miller & Co. Antiques, I drew a breath and stepped inside. With every step toward the counter, tension pulled tighter.
“Good afternoon. I have a delivery for Mr. Miller.”
The receptionist glanced up. “Name?”
“Daisy Elfhorn.”
She typed. “You weren’t scheduled for a few days, but I’ll take it. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
I hesitated. My heart screamed louder than my reason. “I’d prefer to give it to him personally. Could you announce me?”
“I’ll try,” she said, dialing. “He’s not answering.”
“Is he in?”
“Almost certainly. He had a meeting half an hour ago.”
“I work for him at the shop. The manuscript is valuable. I’d rather not leave it here.”
She hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. You can see his private secretaries upstairs.”
Relief rushed through me. I headed to the elevators, hands trembling as I pressed for the 27th floor. I clutched the manuscript like a shield. Every breath a quiet prayer to my own heart:Don’t bleed too much this time.
Maybe I should have left it at reception. But something in me refused to back down. I had to see him. Even if it was just a glimpse. Even if it proved none of it had been real.
The elevator hummed, lights flickering. His voice echoed in my head. His touch burned my skin like a phantom. This longing—it wasn’t a flutter. It was a weight in my chest, heavy, shameful. Afire that could only be quenched by seeing him. Or by letting him burn me again.
The doors opened. My heart stopped. Then dropped, hard, into the pit of my stomach. For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
Damian stood there, effortless, perfect. Smiling. With a woman who looked cut from a perfume ad. Her hand rested on his chest like it belonged there. And he let it. The way she smiled made it worse. He leaned close, whispered something only for her. She laughed. So did he.
My finger hit the lobby button before my brain caught up. I needed to vanish. I didn’t want to see him bend closer. Didn’t want to hear her say his name like it was hers. Didn’t want to feel everything in me tighten and snap.
But he saw me. Even before the doors closed, his eyes lifted and met mine. His smile froze.
