Damian stood near the window of the hotel suite, watching the sun slip below the horizon in slow, deliberate strokes of gold and gray. The lights of the city flickered on one by one, hazy behind the tall panes of glass. Jacksonville looked clean from this high up — sharp edges, soft reflections, a city pretending it didn't have secrets.
He liked that. Control wrapped in illusion.
Just like him.
Behind him, the room was quiet. The hotel had done everything exactly as he requested — pressed linens, fresh-cut white lilies, the private key elevator to the penthouse level. Every detail, down to the temperature, had been measured to perfection.
Still, his skin didn't feel right. His collar sat too stiff against his neck, and the quiet in the room didn't settle. Not the way it usually did.
He checked his watch. 7:56 p.m.
Any moment now.
She'd be walking in.
Emily.
Damian let out a slow breath and reached for his cufflink, twisting it out of habit. He'd spent the day trying to keep his mind on the acquisition, on the contracts, on the upcoming meetings.
But it didn't matter.
Every time he tried to concentrate, all he saw was her laugh echoing across the plane, her knees brushing Alex's, the way her eyes crinkled when she was truly amused. And every time she looked at his friend like that, something low and dark twisted in his chest.
It wasn't jealousy.
He didn't do jealousy.
But it was something. Something uninvited. Something he didn't want to name.
He adjusted the sleeve of his suit again, but his hands stilled as the door opened.
And then…
There she was.
Emily Johnson stepped into the suite like a storm that didn't need to be loud to leave ruin in its wake.
Her dress was red.
Not soft red. Not muted.
It was the color of heat. Of warning. The kind of red that demanded your eyes find it first in any room — and refuse to look away.
The fabric curved around her like it had memorized her. A clean off-shoulder neckline, a high slit up one thigh that revealed just enough skin to disarm, not enough to distract from the rest of her — the proud lift of her chin, the calm in her walk, the look in her eyes that said I know you're watching.
And he was.
He couldn't stop.
Her heels clicked softly as she approached, her clutch tucked beneath her arm, gold earrings catching the ambient light. Her hair was down — loose, effortless waves brushing just above her collarbone. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He knew exactly how her skin would feel.
And now all he wanted to do was feel it again.
Emily stopped in front of him, composed and still.
"Mr. Walker," she said, her voice low and smooth.
Professional. Cool.
He hated it.
He swallowed. "You're on time."
Her eyes didn't flicker. "Of course."
He studied her face for a long moment. Every detail burned into him — the faint shimmer at the corner of her eyes, the rise and fall of her breath, the slight press of her lips together as if she were holding something back.
So was he.
Everything in him said say something.
Tell her she looked beautiful. That he remembered her in cotton and bare skin and soft gasps in a quiet kitchen.
Tell her he hadn't stopped thinking about her since.
But instead, he said nothing.
Because if he spoke, even once, it wouldn't stop.
So he offered his arm.
"Shall we?"
Her pause was almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Then she nodded and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
Her skin was warm.
Steady.
Too familiar.
They walked toward the elevator together, his pace measured, hers matching without effort.
She hadn't asked what he thought of the dress.
She didn't have to.
And still, the thought slipped past his silence:
No one else should see her like this.