“It was clever of you to use the recordings against him. I doubt Mason will risk court. You approach everything with such strategy,” I said, sipping my wine.
Damian only shrugged. “That’s why I’ve come this far.”
“I’ve wondered how you became who you are now—so much control, strength, power. Was it always like this? Did it come from growing up with the Millers?”
He speared a shrimp, chewed thoughtfully, then set down his fork. “The Millers taught me that discipline, hard work, and perseverance can get you almost anywhere. But that wasn’t all. They also made me understand that sometimes you have to be ruthless, unyielding, if you want to reach your goals.”
He said it like fact—then looked away, as if the cost still had teeth.
“That sounds like a heavy weight to carry as a child.”
“It made me stronger.”
“Do you remember much of your life before them?”
“Only fragments. I remember once, when I was very young, I spilled a beer mug. My father lost it. He beat me so hard I couldn’t sit for a week. Another time, maybe when I was four or five, he lifted me out of the car, set me on a bench by the highway, and told me to wait there until they came back. My mother didn’t even step out of the car. She didn’t say goodbye. I never saw them again.”
A bitter lump tightened in my throat. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was the best thing they ever did for me.”
We ate in silence for a while.
“My father once took me to one of his meetings,” I said quietly. “The room had peeling brown wallpaper. His friends were there—drinking, doing drugs, smoking cigars. God knows what else.”
I paused, my chest tightening. “He made me sit on one of his friends’ laps the whole time. All I could feel was his cock pressing undermy dress. Every time I asked to get down, he pulled me back, stroked my hair, told me to be quiet. It wasn’t the only time. When my father finally found out… I never saw that man again. I think he killed him.”
Damian’s face darkened, fury flashing in his eyes. “That explains so much, Daisy. Why you’re drawn to men like me—because you’ve never known safety. Not as a child. Not as a woman.” His voice dropped lower as the waitress slid another glass of wine in front of me. He didn’t look away. “Your childhood was a nightmare. Your father taught you powerlessness. It became familiar. And what’s familiar feels like safety. So you chase it again—in different shapes, same undertow. You look for men who control you because control reads as safe. It’s twisted. It’s real.”
His words cut deep, stirring something I didn’t want touched. The way he saw me—so clearly, so unflinchingly—both terrified and mesmerized me. He could name the things I tried hardest to bury.
“I know I’m no good for you,” he said quietly. “I know the way I love is destructive. But I can’t stop. Control is the only way I feel safe.”
“I don’t care, Damian. I want you—all of you. Your darkness, your strength, your control. But I can’t share you. I can’t stand it when you’re with other women.”
He leaned back, face tightening, walls sliding into place. But behind his eyes, I saw the fight burning. “And that’s the problem, Daisy. The distance is the only thing that protects me from you. Because I’ve already let you too close.” He clenched a fist against the table, as if he needed the anchor. “Don’t you see? I’ve never lost myself with anyone else. But with you—it’s already happened. Mason wasn’t just about rage. It was about you. You made me lose control, and that’s something I can’t allow. You’ve already crossed too far inside, and that’s why I need to keep you at arm’s length. That’s why I need freedom.”
I closed my eyes, letting his words settle heavy inside me. Still, I knew the truth—I wanted him. No matter how many times he warned me, I couldn’t turn away. He’d never be the man who stayed, but I still couldn’t let him go.
“There are so many things you don’t know about me. Things you wouldn’t understand—things that would make you see me in a way you couldn’t bear. There’s a part of my life where there are no gray areas, only violence, power, and control. A part of me you’d despise if you knew how deeply I’m tied to it.”
“Then tell me,” I demanded, my fingers drumming restlessly against the tablecloth.
Damian leaned closer, caught my hand, and squeezed it hard. “I can’t.”
We stepped into NYX, the music and lights crashing over me in a wave of heat and sound. Damian pulled me through the crowd, his grip firm, his presence magnetic as he greeted guests with easy charm. Women’s eyes lingered on him—hungry, covetous—and the reminder of how many wanted him burned inside me.
“We’ll sit in the lounge,” Damian said, steering me toward an oasis of leather couches and polished wood. He stopped here and there to greet acquaintances, his hand never loosening on me.
“This is Daisy Elfhorn,” he introduced, and suddenly every gaze—polished men, flawless women—shifted to me. Instinctively, I searched for the guy who had hit on me last time, but he wasn’t there. Thank God.
Damian guided me into a cushioned corner. “Sit here.”
The moment I did, a waitress appeared, balancing champagne and glasses with rehearsed precision. Damian poured, clinked his glass against mine, and held my gaze.
“What does a manager actually do to keep a place like this running?” I asked.
“It takes planning, precision. Booking the right artists, keeping security airtight, making sure the guests leave with a night they can’t forget.”
