Damien's POV
She haunted him.
Every breath Damien took felt like a tether to Aria Valehart—tight, frayed, and ready to snap. He could still feel her in the room, though she'd vanished hours ago, her scent lingering like a whisper of perfume across his skin.
The study was dark now, save for the amber glow of a single lamp on the sideboard. Outside, the Hudson rolled under a moonlit sky, silver waves cresting like the thoughts breaking inside his mind.
He ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the untouched glass of bourbon. The same drink he'd poured three times tonight. The same one he couldn't bring himself to finish.
Because his mouth still remembered hers.
Because every inch of his restraint had cracked beneath her fingers.
He should've known better. Should've kept it professional. But there was nothing professional about the way Aria's body had arched into his, how her lips had opened like surrender before she shoved him away with a fury that tasted like longing.
Damien could handle hatred.
But that kiss… that crack in her voice when she said you never asked me to stay… That was something else entirely.
That was unfinished business. That was emotion.
And emotion was far more dangerous than rage.
He stood and stalked to the window, gripping the edge of the frame. The moonlight cast pale lines across his forearms, and in the stillness, he saw her again—red coat flaring behind her like a warning, eyes like flint. That woman was not the Aria he once knew.
But she was the one he wanted now.
Still wanted.
Always had.
---
Saturday Morning – Thornewell Estate Conservatory
Aria's POV
The morning air was cool against Aria's bare arms as she stepped into the conservatory. Sunlight poured in through the glass dome, scattering light across orchids and creeping vines, bathing the marble floor in soft gold.
It was too beautiful a place for chaos.
Too serene for the storm inside her.
She'd dressed with intention—silk wide-leg pants in dove gray, a camisole soft as whispers, no bra. The fabric skimmed her body like a secret. She wasn't trying to tempt fate. But she was reclaiming control.
Let him look.
Let him remember.
The night before had been a mistake. A lapse. But the fire it rekindled inside her... that part wasn't pretend. She hated how he still affected her—how even now, her skin tingled with phantom touches, her lips bruised from memory.
She poured herself a cup of coffee from the silver urn on the breakfast bar, fingers steady, spine straighter than ever.
"You're up early."
She didn't turn. She didn't need to.
Damien's voice slid over her like satin—rich and uninvited.
"Big day," she said, lifting her cup. "Venue walkthrough. Menu finalizations. Your public image, salvaged one wine pairing at a time."
He chuckled, stepping into view.
He was barefoot. Shirtless. Only a pair of slate joggers hung low on his hips, and the sight of him stripped down like that—hair damp, muscles carved in shadow—sent a ripple through her composure.
He knew it, too.
Smug bastard.
But she kept her tone cool. "Didn't realize you started mornings with a strip show."
"I don't," he said easily. "You're just lucky."
She rolled her eyes and turned away, pretending to examine a blooming orchid.
He crossed the space slowly, like a predator who knew exactly when to pounce. "Didn't sleep well."
"You should try a conscience. Works wonders."
"Is that what kept you up?" His voice dipped, teasing. "Your conscience? Or something else?"
She spun, eyes sharp. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I don't need to. You're doing it for me." His gaze flicked down, lingering on the curve of her waist beneath the silk. "Though you wore that on purpose, didn't you?"
"I wore what was clean."
"You wore what you knew I'd remember."
He was too close now. Not touching, but nearly.
Her breath caught.
She hated that he was right.
Damien reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek, fingers grazing her skin with maddening slowness.
Aria froze.
The contact was brief—barely a whisper.
But it felt like ignition.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured.
"I don't care what I do to you."
"Liar."
The word slid between them like silk—and then he stepped forward, crowding her gently against the ivy-covered wall of the conservatory.
Sunlight pooled at their feet. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees beyond the glass.
Inside, the air pulsed with tension.
His hands came to rest on either side of her, caging her in without touching. "I see the way you look at me."
"I look at you the same way I look at bad decisions," she said, voice taut. "Briefly. Then I walk away."
"But you didn't walk away last night."
"That was a mistake."
"Then make it again."
His mouth was close—so close—his breath warm against her skin. He didn't move in. Didn't rush. Just wait.
Waited for her to close the distance.
And god help her, she nearly did.
But Aria pressed her palm flat against his chest, firm and unyielding. "I'm not here to fall for you again."
"You never fell," he said softly. "You jumped."
Their eyes locked. Something shifted between them—hotter than anger, deeper than want. And in that moment, she knew:
She was still standing on the edge.
And somehow, she didn't know if she wanted to step back or fall forward. Because either way, Damien Thornewell was waiting.
---
Later That Night – Estate Ballroom
The ballroom had transformed into a dreamscape—crystal chandeliers dripping light across mirrored tables, candle flames flickering in delicate glass domes. Violinists rehearsed quietly near the stage while the catering team made final adjustments.
Aria walked the perimeter with her tablet, ticking off final notes. Her heels clicked softly across marble, her attention focused—until a presence moved behind her.
"You missed the wine tasting."
She turned slowly.
Damien stood there in a charcoal suit, open collar, no tie. The kind of elegance that whispered power instead of screaming it.
"I was busy," she said.
"You always are."
He held out a glass of red. Full-bodied. Rich. Temptation in a crystal chalice.
She accepted it without comment, sipping once—eyes locked to his.
"Stop trying to seduce me with Merlot," she murmured.
"You're thinking about last night, aren't you?"
"Only the part where I left."
"You mean the part where you said you didn't run?"
A muscle ticked in her jaw.
He stepped closer.
"You didn't run, Aria. But you're still holding back."
"I'm protecting myself."
"From me?" he asked gently. "Or from what you feel?"
The honesty in his tone cut deep.
He was a liar.
A ruin.
A storm in a suit.
But this wasn't a game for him.
She saw it in the way his gaze dropped to her mouth, reverent, not hungry. In the tremor behind his words when he said her name like it meant something.
"I can't do this again," she whispered. "Not if you're going to disappear."
"I won't."
"You say that now…"
"Then let me prove it."
He reached for her, fingers brushing her wrist, then sliding down until his hand gently encircled hers.
"I've spent five years wishing I could rewrite what happened," he said, voice low. "Let me start with this."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it—slowly, softly. Not possessive.
Penitent.
Her breath shuddered.
For a moment, they just stood there. No past. No pain. Just two people suspended in something fragile and real.
Aria set her wine down.
"Meet me in the solarium," she said.
And walked away without looking back.