Chapter 2 Daisy
Ihad been working at the antique shop for five days, slowly falling into its rhythms. Each morning felt less foreign, the routines sinking into me until I could move through them with quiet confidence. The variety of tasks kept me sharp, and I enjoyed the work more than I’d expected. Beatrice trained me with patience and precision—never rushing, never hesitating to explain something twice. The inventory software had intimidated me at first, but within hours I was moving through its screens as if I’d always known how.
That afternoon, I sat at my desk polishing a relic from ancient Egypt with a soft cloth—a scarab no bigger than my thumb, its surface alive with intricate carvings. Through a magnifying glass, I traced the grooves, studying the craftsmanship. From the engraving’s style and the clay’s composition, I placed it in the 18th Dynasty, around 1350 BC. The dating felt instinctive now, as if years of study and obsession had hardened into muscle memory.For the first time in my life, the knowledge I once carried like a burden was being used.
From the moment I stepped into the so-called treasure chamber, I knew this shop wasn’t like any other. Beatrice had told me Mr. Miller’s reach stretched across the globe, his name whispered in museums and among private collectors. He was known for securing pieces other dealers couldn’t touch—artifacts most people would never know existed. The shop was a fortress disguised as a gallery, with climate controls, silent alarms, and cameras watching from above. Everything inside was unique. Priceless. Untouchable.
By late afternoon, I carried a stack of new arrivals upstairs. The smell of aged paper clung to the air, heavy as memory, refusing to fade. I hummed under my breath, cocooned in the hush of yellowed pages and creaking shelves.
One book caught my eye—a heavy leather tome, its spine gilded but brittle. I brushed my fingertips along the rough cover and slid it free, savoring its weight, the faint must of old ink. The air felt different—subtle, but unmistakable, as if something unseen had stepped into the room before I noticed it.
A flicker at the edge of my vision made me pause.
I froze, the book still in my hands.
A face appeared on the other side of the shelf.
A startled sound ripped from me as I lurched back. My shoulder struck the shelf behind me, and books crashed to the floor in a storm of dust. My pulse roared in my throat.
And then he stepped forward.
Him.
Tall. Still. A presence that didn’t arrive—it broke in. The air bent around him, as if balance itself had shifted in his wake. He didn’t belong, he made everything else belong differently. His beauty was undeniable, but it wasn’t beauty that unsettled me. It was the precision of his movements. Controlled. Calculated. Too calm. Too exact.
He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled high—casual, yet nothing about him was relaxed. Ink climbed his forearms like dark warnings carved into flesh. A heavy watch gleamed on his wrist—elegant yet functional, more tool than ornament. His eyes locked on mine. And stayed.
I couldn’t look away. His gaze pierced too deep, too directly, as though he wasn’t looking at me but through me.
“Forgive me,” he said. His voice was dark, resonant—an echo caught in my chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was recognition—of something I couldn’t name. My body wouldn’t move. My breath came shallow, fractured.What had I just seen in his eyes?
He stepped closer, unhurried—then stooped to gather one of the fallen books.
“I… I didn’t hear you come in,” I managed, brushing a strand of hair from my face, my hand trembling despite me.
A fleeting smile ghosted across his lips—so faint I might have imagined it. Yet it changed everything.
He extended his hand.
“Damian Miller.”
His fingers closed around mine, firm, deliberate. He held on too long. Not painfully, but with a weight that pressed into me, as if he were leaving a mark beneath my skin. Assessing. Weighing. Claiming. Like he already knew I’d let him.
My pulse spiked sharp, disorienting.
“Daisy Elfhorn.”
The syllables hung between us. His eyes didn’t waver. A subtle tension worked in his jaw, and then—suddenly—he released me. The withdrawal was abrupt, as though the contact had burned. As though something in him had slipped loose, if only for a breath.
I stepped back before I realized I’d moved. My chest rose sharply, lungs demanding air.
“Beatrice has told me about you,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly around the room only to return to me. “I trust her. And her instincts.”
I nodded, my throat tight. The room felt smaller with him in it, the walls closing, the air denser.
“And how are you settling in?” he asked.
