*Isabella's POV*
The next day, Tony drove us through the afternoon traffic. The leather of the backseat was cool against my skin, and the faint scent of Damien's cologne filled the small space, a constant, distracting reminder of the night before. My body still hummed with a pleasant ache, a testament to his... pounding last night after dinner. I watched the buildings streak past, a nervous energy bubbling inside me. I had to break the silence.
"Have you heard what Jacob did at his party?" I asked, trying to make small talk, but it felt more like I was poking a bee's nest with a short stick.
"What?" he asked, not even bothering to look at me. He was staring out the window, his profile sharp and unreadable.
"He told the press we were dating," I replied, my voice a little too high.
He just shrugged, a completely infuriatingly calm gesture. "Oh yeah," he said, turning to look out the window. "Well, you were there with him in public. His statement made sense."
My eyebrows shot up. "Sense? But... won't it cause problems at work?" I pressed. I was thinking about the office gossip, the whispers, the professional lines we'd always been so careful about.
"He works in New York and you work in Raleigh," he replied, his tone dismissive. "People barely know him here."
I couldn't fucking believe it. Was he being deliberately dense? "Are you serious?" I said, my voice rising with disbelief. "He makes headlines monthly. Everybody in the fucking country knows who he is."
He let out an impatient sigh, finally turning to face me properly. "Whatever, Isabella. What's done is done," he said, his tone sharp. "And for the record, we don't have that HR rule anymore." He said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
I just stared at him, my mouth slightly open. "What?" I finally managed to squeak out. "But last week... you know what? Fuck it. You move fast," I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
A slow, smug grin spread across his face, and he winked at me, a silent, infuriatingly charming acknowledgment that he knew exactly what he was doing.
"How was poker night?" I asked, trying to sound genuinely interested, hoping to steer us into safer, less complicated waters.
He let out a long, weary sigh, running a hand over his face. "Awful," he said, the word flat and heavy.
"Did you lose?" I asked, already picturing a table full of serious-looking men in expensive suits.
"I wasn't feeling so good," he said, his voice low. "So I went home and kinda got drunk on my good whiskey." He sighed again, and I could hear the frustration in it, the self-recrimination.
"The twenty-thousand-dollar one?" I asked, my voice rising in disbelief. I never imagined he'd actually drink it. "What the hell? I've never seen you drunk." The Damien I knew was always in control, a fortress of composure. The idea of him alone, getting pissed on expensive whiskey, felt... wrong. It was a crack in the armor I didn't know existed.
He just nodded, his gaze fixed on something outside the car window, his expression completely nonchalant, as if he'd just told me he'd had a glass of cheap wine.
"We're here," he said, his tone suddenly shifting, snapping me back to the present.
I blinked, realizing the car had stopped. I hadn't even noticed. We were downtown, the streets familiar, not far from my office. My brain scrambled to catch up. What the fuck were we doing here? I followed Damien out of the car, my eyes scanning the building in front of us. It was an apartment building, and by the looks of it, a fucking luxury one. What the hell was this?
"Will you tell me what the fuck we're doing here?" I asked, my voice echoing slightly in the huge space as we stepped out of the elevator and into the apartment. The place was fucking stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, the lights twinkling below like a fallen constellation. The furniture was minimalist but chic, all clean and expensive-looking fabrics. It smelled of new paint.
"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice quiet, watching my reaction with an unnerving intensity.
"Yeah, I mean... it's amazing," I said, my head swivelling as I tried to take it all in. My eyes traced the exposed brick wall, the sleek, modern kitchen, the massive abstract painting on the main wall. "But what is it?" I asked, turning back to him, my confusion growing.
"Your apartment," he replied, so fucking casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
"My what?" I scoffed, a nervous laugh escaping my lips. "I don't own any bloody apartment." And then it hit me. The realisation slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. The way he was looking at me, the location, the sheer, insane luxury of it all. "You didn't," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
"I did," he said, a small, defiant smile playing on his lips.
"Damien!" I exploded, the anger and shock boiling over. "How many fucking times have I told you! Stop treating me like your sugar baby!" I spat out, the words sharp.
But in a swift, fluid movement that took my breath away, my back hit the wall behind us. He towered over me, his body a cage of heat and muscle, his eyes firmly holding mine, pinning me in place more effectively than his hands ever could.
"And how many times do I have to tell you," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated right through me, "stop thinking so fucking lowly of yourself." His right hand slammed against the wall beside my head, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. But his other hand was gentle, holding my waist, a firm, possessive grip that felt more like a request for my attention than a restraint. It was like he wanted to cage me, but he'd still left an open door for me in case I needed to leave. To fly.