When Damian had first mentioned renting an apartment down her street, Alina had envisioned something functional—perhaps a sleek, sterile high-rise unit that felt more like a hotel than a home. She should have known better.
As the Rolls Royce purred to a stop, she realized Damian Thorn didn't do "basic."
The building was a charming, self-contained residence with a sophisticated gray exterior and sharp white lining along the window sills. A small, meticulously maintained garden bed sat at the front, bursting with deep purple lavender and white roses.
It was understated for a man of his stature, yet undeniably high-end. It was a "showy" version of modesty, a place that whispered of wealth rather than screaming it.
"You good?" Damian asked, his voice a low rumble. He reached over, his large hand patting her hair dotingly.
