Chapter 30 — The Cold Face Yama Smiles
The Aura of the Loved
Damon and Athena finally drifted out of their perfect, isolated world just after noon, the sun now high and bright, making the room too light for the secrets they shared. The conversation that followed was slow, measured, and built on an entirely new foundation of honesty.
They talked about the future—not the abstract future of two strangers, but the terrifyingly concrete future of them. Damon, the man who compartmentalized his life into neat, profitable boxes, found himself struggling to merge the cold logic of his empire with the absolute, non-negotiable requirement of having Athena in his life.
"I leave for New York tomorrow night," he told her, tracing the line of her spine as she dressed in the clothes she wore the night before, now crumpled but strangely beautiful. "The board meeting is critical. I can't postpone it."
"I know," she murmured, securing the zipper. She wasn't surprised. His life was built on commitments far greater than a fleeting college romance. But this wasn't fleeting.
"But I'm not leaving you," he insisted, turning her to face him, his eyes fierce. "You are not going back to being an asterisk in my schedule. We're past that, Athena. Whatever this is now—this is everything."
She felt a rush of warmth, accepting the weight of his promise. "What is it, Damon? What are we?"
He took a slow breath, the answer seeming to cost him something, not because it was false, but because it was so true and so new. "We are two people who wasted a lot of time and have a lot of making up to do. We are messy. We are complicated. And as of today, we are completely exclusive, completely devoted, and entirely inseparable, even when we're three thousand miles apart."
He didn't just lay down terms; he established an absolute contract of the heart, the only kind of commitment he truly respected.
When his driver arrived to take Athena back to campus, Damon descended to the lobby with her, a move so uncharacteristic of his usual guarded isolation that it felt like a silent declaration to the universe.
"Call me the moment you walk through your dorm door," he instructed, his thumb brushing a final, lingering caress over her jaw. "And keep your phone on silent all night. I'll be calling you often."
"Try to focus on your meeting, Damon," she teased, though her own resolve was brittle.
"You are my focus," he corrected, his voice low, his final kiss lingering—a promise of what was to come.
As the car pulled away, Athena looked back. Damon was still standing there, unmoving, the cold, powerful titan of industry looking utterly vulnerable beneath the vast, indifferent skyline. He only lifted his hand once, a subtle, personal salute, before the car whisked her out of view.
She reached her dorm, the sapphire dress a little wrinkled, the memory of his arms a brand on her skin. She was home, but she was fundamentally changed. The girl who had been hurt by Damon DeVille was gone. In her place was a woman loved by him.
Clara was sitting on Athena's bed, flipping through a textbook, when Athena walked in. She looked up and stopped, the book sliding unnoticed to the floor.
"Whoa," Clara breathed, her eyes widening. "Did you win the lottery? You are glowing, A."
Athena forced a casual shrug, tossing her designer clutch onto her desk, but she knew her friend wasn't wrong. The anger that had lived in her shoulders for months was gone. The shadows that had often darkened her eyes had been replaced by a soft, internal light. It wasn't just physical; it was an aura of deep, profound satiety.
"It was a good day," Athena said simply, catching her own reflection in the mirror—her lips slightly swollen, her eyes bright, her skin flushed with a permanent, inner warmth. "I took a long walk and cleared my head. Sometimes, you just need a total reset."
Clara didn't look convinced. She folded her arms, her gaze sharp. "That's not a walk reset. That's a Damon DeVille reset. And the fact that you're back in those clothe is making me suspicious. Did you two... talk?"
Athena carefully avoided the word 'talk.' "We reached an understanding," she admitted, hanging the gown in her closet. "We've agreed to move past the past."
Clara stared. "Move past... the Cold Face Yama, the man who crushed your soul and then sent you a million-dollar apology bracelet? You have an 'understanding' with him?"
"Yes," Athena said, smiling faintly. She grabbed a towel. "It's complicated, but it's resolved."
"Complicated and resolved," Clara muttered, picking up the fallen textbook. "That's code for I'm in love and I'm going to make terrible choices, but my skin has never looked better."
Athena laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that hadn't left her throat in months. "Go study. I need a shower."
The shower didn't wash away the feeling. It only intensified the memory of his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body. She emerged feeling clean, but branded. As the afternoon wore on and she attempted to focus on her schoolwork, she kept glancing at her phone. She knew he was busy, locked in high-stakes meetings, yet the anticipation of his call was a constant, low-level thrum in her blood.
Three thousand miles away, in a sterile, chrome-and-glass conference room high above Manhattan, Damon DeVille was failing spectacularly to live up to his infamous nickname.
The "Cold Face Yama" was a moniker Damon had earned over two decades of merciless business dealing. It referred to his perfect, unbreakable composure; the man who could deliver a billion-dollar ultimatum without his pulse quickening, whose eyes were as clear and emotionless as glacier ice. His assistant, Elara Vance, had worked for him for seven years and had never once seen him lose his temper, cry, or, most notably, genuinely smile at a time that wasn't a PR opportunity.
But today, the Yama was distracted.
They were a half-hour into an aggressive takeover strategy review, and Elara noticed three things that caused her quiet, professional alarm:
The Smile: Damon was looking at a spreadsheet detailing capital expenditure forecasts, a document that should inspire nothing but grim focus. Instead, a faint, almost secret smile was playing on his lips. It was a private, tender thing that belonged on a pillow, not in a boardroom. He would catch himself, flatten his expression, and a moment later, it would return.
The Gaze: He was staring out the window at the cityscape, not with his usual analytical eye, but with a dreamy, disconnected daze. He wasn't tracking market values; he looked like he was watching a memory play out behind his eyes.
The Phone: The state-of-the-art encrypted phone, which usually sat untouched in a velvet pouch, was lying beside his elbow, screen-up. He hadn't checked it, but he kept glancing at it with a nervous anticipation that was completely at odds with his entire personality.
Finally, after he failed to respond to a direct question from the CFO about leveraging bonds, Elara subtly cleared her throat.
"Mr. DeVille," she said, her voice perfectly even. "Mr. Vance asked for your thoughts on the three-year bond strategy."
Damon blinked, pulling himself back from whatever pleasant abyss he'd fallen into. He looked at Elara, and then, he did the unthinkable.
"Ah, yes," he said, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, he offered Elara the full, unfiltered version of his private smile. It wasn't the practiced PR smirk; it was radiant, open, and utterly bewildering. "Forgive me, Elara. My mind was... elsewhere."
The CFO and the General Counsel exchanged terrified glances. Elara, the unflappable machine, felt a genuine flicker of panic. It was as if the ancient, cold statue had just winked.
"Are you feeling entirely well, Mr. DeVille?" Elara ventured, breaking protocol for the first time in her career.
Damon's hand went instinctively to the phone. "I am perfectly well, Elara. In fact, I've never been better." He paused, tapping his fingers lightly on the glass table. "Let's table the bonds for twenty minutes. I need a private call."
Elara nodded, ushering the executives out. As the door closed, she heard him lift the phone, and his voice, which was usually sharp obsidian, dropped to a tone of warm, liquid velvet.
"Hello, my beautiful distraction. Did you make it home safely?"
Elara froze in the hallway. Damon DeVille, the Cold Face Yama, was in love. The world had irrevocably shifted on its axis.
Nightly Escapades and Love Calls
That night, their new reality settled into a pattern of breathless anticipation and clandestine communication.
Athena was trying to study in the library when her phone vibrated with a private number. She snatched it up and slipped out into the quiet stairwell.
"You're calling me during your board dinner, aren't you?" she whispered, leaning against the cold brick wall.
"They're discussing tax loopholes and I'm discussing how quickly I can get out of this room without raising too many flags," Damon's deep voice answered, laced with a dark amusement. "Tell me you miss me, Athena."
"Infinitely," she breathed, the word a delicious surrender. "It's hard to focus on Macroeconomics when all I can smell is your cologne on my jacket."
"Good," he growled. "I want you distracted. I want you aching. I want you to remember that the only thing getting you through the next forty-eight hours is the knowledge that I'm coming back to you."
This was their new language: possessive, urgent, and fiercely intimate. They spent the next two days stealing moments of connection. Calls came during his five-minute breaks between meetings, texts arrived while he was nominally reviewing contracts, and late-night calls stretched for hours, filled with confessions, promises, and the quiet comfort of their shared existence.
One night, the call found Athena back in her dorm. She was tucked under her covers, her face flushed with the intimacy of his voice.
"I need to know what you're wearing," he commanded softly, the sound of his voice dangerously close, despite the distance.
"The old oversized t-shirt you hate," she teased.
"Wrong answer," he said, his tone deepening. "I want to imagine the sapphire dress, still crumpled at my feet. The way the light hit your collarbone when I finally had the sense to kiss you properly." He paused, and she could hear the ragged edge of his own desire. "Tell me what you wish I was doing to you right now."
Athena closed her eyes, her imagination immediately filling with the vivid memories of their night. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as she described what she wanted, what she remembered, pushing the boundaries of their digital intimacy until they were both left breathless, their need intensifying with every word.
This nightly ritual was their lifeline, a secret bridge connecting his cold, demanding corporate world with her quiet, academic life. The rest of the world saw the Cold Face Yama—focused, intimidating, unyielding. But Athena saw the man who whispered tender promises into his phone, the man whose composure fractured with a single, urgent call.
They were building their relationship in stolen moments and fervent calls, proving that the distance and the past meant nothing against the force of their shared, explosive love. Damon's work life might be rigid, and Athena's school life might be demanding, but every morning, they woke up in their separate beds knowing one immutable truth: they were finally, irrevocably, together.