The hallway was too quiet.
Aria's heels clicked against the polished stone like a countdown—each step a small defiance against the heat still lingering on her skin. Her mouth tingled where his had been. Her hands trembled inside the sleeves of her red coat, pulled tight like armor.
She could still taste him.
God. Damn. Him.
The heat of Damien's hands, the hunger in his kiss, the way he made her forget every reason she had to despise him—it wasn't supposed to happen.
She wasn't that girl anymore. The one who looked too long, who waited too close. The girl who got lost in stolen glances and whispered what-ifs. That girl had been soft. Reckless.
That girl didn't survive.
Aria veered into the estate's library and shut the heavy door behind her, pressing her spine to the wood as if she could keep him out with willpower alone. Floor-to-ceiling shelves wrapped the room like secrets, and the fire in the hearth cast shadows that danced too much like memories.
She crossed to the desk and dropped her binder with a thud. Her fingers gripped the edge of the polished surface like a lifeline.
"You're here to do a job," she whispered, hoping the room would believe her if she said it enough. "Not to feel."
But her body didn't listen.
The kiss hadn't been just desire. It had been history. Regret. A dam breaking open beneath the weight of everything left unsaid.
Worst of all—it had been familiar.
That same dangerous pull had always existed. Even back then. When he belonged to Juliette. When he sat beside her at tastings, his eyes lingering just a second too long. When his voice said one thing, but his silence said something else entirely.
He was temptation in tailored suits and fractured loyalty.
And once—just once—she had wondered what it would feel like to fall.
Now she knew.
It felt like weakness.
And Aria Valehart didn't do weakness anymore.
The door creaked open.
She didn't have to look.
"I'm working," she said coolly, flipping open her planner.
"You kissed me first."
She didn't look up. "Don't flatter yourself."
His laugh was low, rough. Like sin poured neat into crystal.
"Come on, Aria. At least admit it meant something."
She did look up then—and regretted it instantly.
Damien leaned against the frame like he belonged there. Like he belonged anywhere. Hair tousled. Shirt untucked. The storm in his eyes was still there, and it still wanted her.
She hated how good he looked.
Hated more that he knew it.
"It meant I was angry," she snapped. "And stupid. I won't make that mistake again."
He took a slow step forward. Then another. "You think what just happened was a mistake?"
"I think you are."
He stopped just short of her, voice lower now. "Even when I made you tremble?"
Her hand moved before thought caught up.
Smack.
The sound cracked through the room like a shot.
Damien didn't flinch. His jaw tightened—but his eyes gleamed. Not with anger.
With hunger.
"Dangerous," he murmured. "You have no idea how much."
"I'm not here for this."
"No?" He edged closer. "Then why are you still standing here?"
"I'm finishing a job. When it's done, so are we."
He moved around the desk, slow and lethal, until her back brushed against the edge. He placed his hand beside hers—close, but not touching. Still, the air between them burned.
"You can lie to yourself, Aria. But you never could lie to me."
She met his gaze, shoulders squared, chin lifted.
"I don't owe you anything."
"No," he agreed quietly. "But maybe you owe yourself the truth."
Her throat tightened.
It wasn't the kiss that scared her.
It was what came after.
The way it felt. The way it slipped under her skin like a secret too old to bury. The way it whispered that maybe—maybe—they'd never really let go.
"I loved my sister," she said, her voice cracking in places she couldn't hide. "You broke her. You don't get to rewrite that."
Something in his face shifted.
The mask didn't drop—but it slipped.
"You don't know everything," he said.
"I know enough."
"She didn't love me. Not really. She loved the version of me that fit her story. The name. The shine. But you—" He stopped, breath catching. "You saw me. And you ran."
Her breath faltered.
Because he wasn't wrong.
Once, she had seen the real Damien. One night, weeks before the wedding, she found him alone on the stairs. Tired. Frayed. Tie askew, eyes dark with something hollow. He told her things. Things he'd never said out loud. About his father. About legacy. About control dressed up as duty.
She didn't run.
But maybe she should have.
Because once you see someone's wounds, you don't just walk away untouched.
"I didn't run," she said softly. "I just stopped waiting."
He leaned in, close enough to brush his breath against her cheek.
"Then why does this still feel like unfinished business?"
A knock broke the silence.
Elise's voice came through the door. "Aria? The florist is here. They need you."
Aria stepped back fast, every wall snapping back into place.
"I'll be right out."
Damien didn't move.
She turned to him, cold again. "This won't happen again."
He didn't answer. Just watched her like a man memorizing what he'd already lost.
She gathered her things, her fingers unsteady. At the door, she paused—just long enough to make it hurt.
"I didn't run," she said without looking back. "You just never asked me to stay."
And then she was gone.
Damien didn't move. Couldn't. Her words echoed in the space she'd left behind, louder than any scream. They settled in his chest like something unfinished—like a sentence waiting for its end. He stood there, staring at the door as if it might open again, as if she might turn back and give him another chance to say all the things he never had. But the silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of everything they'd never been brave enough to face. And God, it hurt. Because somewhere between what he was and what she needed, they had always missed each other by a breath.
Damien stayed in the quiet, the fire cracking in the corner.
The only thing louder than the silence was the memory of her lips—and everything they never said.
---