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Chapter 24 — Morning in the Glass Tower
The first thing Athena noticed was the light.
It spilled through the tall windows in a pale wash, turning the marble floors into a sheen of silver. The rain had softened during the night, now little more than mist tracing lazy patterns down the glass. For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then memory returned—slowly, heavily. Damon's penthouse. The night before. The near-kiss that still burned behind her eyelids.
She sat up, pulling the throw blanket higher around her shoulders. Someone had placed a glass of water on the table beside the couch, condensation pooling beneath it. The faint aroma of coffee drifted from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Everything was immaculate again, as if the tension of the night had been folded and put away with the same precision as the pressed napkins on the counter.
Athena slipped her feet to the floor and crossed the open living space. The city below looked indifferent, wrapped in morning haze, its noise muffled by the height. She paused at the glass, her reflection faintly merging with the skyline. In the half-light she looked almost like a stranger—someone older, steadier, less certain of where she belonged.
A quiet murmur of a voice drew her attention. Damon.
He was in the next room, speaking in low, clipped tones. She moved closer without thinking. His back was to her, shoulders broad beneath a simple grey shirt, one hand braced on the window frame as he looked out over the city.
"…I want the guest list from last night cross-checked," he was saying, his voice steady but cold. "Every vendor, every staff member. Anyone with access to the drinks service. I don't care how routine it looks."
A pause, then: "No, she doesn't know yet. And I'd prefer to keep it that way until we have something concrete."
Athena lingered in the doorway, the words sending a quiet chill through her. So it wasn't just paranoia; he truly believed someone had meant to harm her. She felt the urge to ask questions, but she stayed silent, unwilling to interrupt that sharp, contained focus she knew too well.
When he ended the call and turned, their eyes met. For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
"You're awake," he said finally, his tone softer than the night before. "How do you feel?"
"Better," she replied, though her voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to stay."
He shook his head once. "You didn't have much choice." He gestured toward the dining table. "Come eat something. You'll feel steadier."
She hesitated but followed. The table had already been set: toast, fruit, coffee, all the ordinary markers of civility. Yet the silence between them felt anything but ordinary. Damon poured her coffee without asking how she liked it. Of course he remembered.
For a while, they simply ate. The clink of cutlery echoed faintly in the large room. Athena focused on her plate, on anything except the way his presence filled the space—controlled, composed, but not entirely calm.
Finally she said, "You were on the phone earlier."
His eyes lifted to hers. "Yes."
"You're investigating."
He didn't deny it. "Someone tampered with your drink. I intend to find out who."
"That isn't your responsibility," she said quietly.
A faint crease formed between his brows. "It became my responsibility the moment I found you."
The certainty in his tone left her momentarily without breath. She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. "I'll be fine, Damon. You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," he interrupted, then stopped himself, exhaling slowly. "But I will."
The words settled between them like a promise neither of them had planned to make.
They ate in silence again after that, but it was a different silence—softer, carrying too many memories. Every now and then she caught him glancing at her, quickly, as if confirming she was real. And she found herself doing the same.
When breakfast was over, Athena rose first. "I should go back to campus," she said. "Clara will worry."
Damon stood as well. "I'll have a driver take you."
"I can manage a cab."
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—a trace of the old stubbornness. "Indulge me this once."
She almost smiled. "You still give orders like the world hasn't learned to tell you no."
He looked at her then, really looked, and whatever reply he had died somewhere behind a faint, wry curve of his mouth. "Maybe the world stopped trying," he murmured.
She gathered her small clutch from the couch. "That's not healthy."
"No," he said softly, "it isn't."
For a moment they stood facing each other, the quiet hum of the city rising around them. She wanted to thank him, to ask why he always managed to make her feel seen and cornered at the same time. Instead she said, "Goodbye, Damon."
He stepped forward—not close enough to touch her, but close enough that she felt the shift in the air. "Take care, Athena."
She nodded once and turned away before she could change her mind.
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Damon's POV
He watched the elevator doors close around her reflection, the faint shimmer of her hair the last thing he saw before the steel panels met. For a long time, he stood there, unmoving. The penthouse felt hollow again.
The phone on the counter buzzed. "Talk to me," he said when he answered.
His assistant's voice came through, brisk and efficient. "We've reviewed partial footage from the gala. The servers didn't show any irregularities, but one of the catering staff left early—no record of checkout."
"Name?"
"Lucien Rowe. New hire. No digital footprint beyond a forged résumé."
Damon's jaw tightened. "Find him."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call, setting the phone down with controlled precision. Through the window, the rain had started again, light and steady. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
He had spent years building systems where nothing slipped past him. Yet somehow, Athena had slipped through every barrier he'd ever built—twice now. And whoever had targeted her had chosen a public setting, a night meant to celebrate her. That wasn't coincidence; it was strategy.
Damon turned back toward the table. Her untouched cup of coffee sat cooling beside the folded napkin. He reached out and took it to the sink, but for a moment his hand lingered on the porcelain, absorbing the fading warmth.
He didn't believe in fate. He believed in precision, control, consequence. But this—this felt personal.
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Athena's POV
By the time the car rolled through the gates of Alderidge University, the rain had stopped. The campus lawns glistened, and the world smelled faintly of wet earth and paper. Athena pressed her forehead lightly to the cool glass of the window, watching students hurry past with umbrellas.
She told herself she was fine. That the dizzy rush of last night meant nothing, that Damon's quiet protectiveness was only guilt. But the ache in her chest told another story.
When the car stopped, she thanked the driver and stepped out. The air felt new, crisp. As she walked toward her building, her phone buzzed—a message from an unknown number.
Unknown: Be careful who you trust, Athena.
She froze. Around her, campus life went on—laughing voices, footsteps, the slam of a door. She typed a quick reply, but the number was already disconnected.
Her pulse jumped, unease settling deep in her stomach. The world that had felt safe only moments ago suddenly seemed filled with invisible edges.
Far above the city, in a glass tower where the rain hadn't yet stopped, Damon stared out at the skyline, phone in hand, as if he somehow felt the same chill.
The storm wasn't over. It had only just changed form.