Damien's POV
The city hadn't changed.
It still smelled like rain-soaked ambition, scorched asphalt, and whispered secrets carried on the wind. From the 42nd floor of Thornewell Tower, I watched Manhattan pulse beneath me—an empire I owned but never really belonged to.
A crystal tumbler of scotch sat heavy in my hand, untouched. Not because I cared for the taste. No, it was just a prop—a shield against the fire burning hotter in my chest.
Aria Valehart.
I told myself I wouldn't reach out. That I wouldn't drag the past back into my life. But then her name landed on the shortlist for the event planner. Like fate had dropped a match into the dry wreckage I'd been trying to bury for five years.
And I didn't just light the fire.
I poured gasoline over it.
I chose her.
Because if I was ever going to face the ruin I'd caused... if I was ever going to stop seeing her in every reflection, every shadow—I needed her back.
Not as a memory.
But here.
Close enough to hurt me.
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Friday — Thornewell Estate, Upstate New York
The estate—my grandfather's legacy—loomed gray and cold beneath the stormy sky. A fortress surrounded by ancient trees, iron gates, and more secrets than I cared to count.
I stood at the upstairs study window, watching the black SUV roll through the gates. My pulse picked up, slow and steady.
And then she appeared.
Aria Valehart.
She stepped onto the gravel drive like she owned every step of it. Her red coat cinched tight at the waist, matching lipstick bold on lips that once whispered my name like it meant everything.
She looked like vengeance wrapped in silk.
Like sin.
And she was here.
Every step she took made the air thicken, stretched time until it felt like the walls might crack.
I moved toward the staircase just as the front doors swung open. She walked in without hesitation, heels clicking sharp and deliberate against the marble floor.
I could feel her before she even looked up.
Then she did.
Our eyes locked.
And just like that, five years vanished.
She didn't flinch.
"You sent for me."
Always cutting straight to the bone.
I leaned against the bannister, trying to seem casual in my black dress shirt and tailored slacks, but inside, I was unraveling just from looking at her.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because there's no one else I trust with this event."
Her eyes narrowed. "You trust me?"
"I always did."
She laughed—low, sharp, like a blade.
"You left my sister at the altar and vanished. You don't get to say you trusted me."
I didn't change my expression, but inside something tightened—dark and sharp.
"I trusted you," I said quietly, "not to follow me."
She paused—a flicker, just half a second—and I knew I'd hit a nerve. Beneath all that anger, she still wondered. Still wanted answers.
I hated myself for giving them to her too late.
"Are we doing this or not?" she asked, stepping closer. Her red coat swayed with her movement, every step a challenge.
"You want a flawless gala? Fine. I'll give you the event of the year. But after that—we're done."
Her words were cold and professional, but her body betrayed her.
I saw it in the way her gaze dipped, just for a moment. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The flutter beneath her jaw.
She still felt it.
So did I.
I stepped down the stairs slowly, closing the distance until we were eye to eye. Too close.
"You really think this is just about a gala?"
Her jaw tensed. "Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not that girl anymore."
My voice dropped, rough and intimate. "I never wanted that girl. I wanted you."
Her eyes blinked.
And that was it—the crack.
The mask slipped.
Her hands moved first—fisting the lapels of my shirt, pulling me toward her—and I met her halfway.
Our mouths collided—breath hot, lips fierce and desperate.
She kissed me like she wanted to erase every memory.
I kissed her like she was the memory.
I groaned low as her fingers tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make my pulse spike.
My hands found the belt of her coat and tugged, loosening the knot until the fabric fell open around her like a blooming rose.
Beneath—black blouse, skin like cream, the curve of her waist begging to be touched.
I pressed her back against the hallway wall, cupping her face and kissing her deeper—slower now—savoring every inch of years lost, silence, and secrets.
"Tell me to stop," I murmured against her lips.
She didn't.
Instead, her hands slid beneath my shirt, palms warm against my skin. She whispered, "Shut up, Damien."
My control snapped like a wire stretched too tight.
I devoured her—hands roaming, lips trailing fire down her neck as her breath hitched, body arching into mine.
She was fire and silk and reckless—everything I never deserved but couldn't let go of.
My fingers slipped beneath her blouse hem, brushing bare skin. She trembled—just once.
Then she shoved me back.
Hard.
We stared, breathless.
For a long, fractured second, neither of us spoke. The air between us was thick with the ghosts of what we used to be—late nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises made under moonlight, and the way she used to say my name like it was both a curse and a prayer. I could still taste the defiance on her lips, but beneath it, I tasted longing too. Not just for me. For answers. For closure. Maybe even for revenge. And if this was her battlefield, I'd let her draw the lines—because I already knew I'd cross every single one just to get to her again.
Her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair tumbling loose from its knot.
"This changes nothing," she said, voice ragged.
I straightened my shirt, eyes dark. "It changes everything."
She smirked bitterly.
"You think kissing me fixes what you did?"
"No," I said. "But it proves you're not over it."
She stepped back, smoothing her coat closed with shaking fingers.
"I don't have to be over something to use it."
Then she walked away, heels echoing down the hall like a verdict.
I didn't move.
I just watched her go.
And for the first time in five years, I smiled.
Because whatever this is between us...
It's not over.
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