Chapter 2 Daisy
Ihad been working at the antique shop for five days, slowly falling into its rhythms. Each morning felt less foreign, the routines sinking into me until I could move through them with quiet confidence.
The variety of tasks kept me sharp, and I enjoyed the work more than I’d expected.
Beatrice trained me with patience and precision—never rushing, never hesitating to explain something twice.
The inventory software had intimidated me at first, but within hours I was moving through its screens as if I’d always known how.
From the moment I stepped into the so-called treasure chamber, I knew this shop wasn’t like any other.
Beatrice had told me Mr. Miller’s reach stretched across the globe, his name whispered in museums and among private collectors.
He was known for securing pieces other dealers couldn’t touch—artifacts most people would never know existed.
The shop was a fortress disguised as a gallery, with climate controls, silent alarms, and cameras watching from above.
Everything inside was unique. Priceless. Untouchable.
By late afternoon, I carried a stack of new arrivals upstairs. The smell of aged paper clung to the air, heavy as memory, refusing to fade. I hummed under my breath, cocooned in the hush of yellowed pages and creaking shelves.
One book caught my eye—a heavy leather tome, its spine gilded but brittle.
I brushed my fingertips along the rough cover and slid it free, savoring its weight, the faint must of old ink.
The air felt different—subtle, but unmistakable, as if something unseen had stepped into the room before I noticed it.
A flicker at the edge of my vision made me pause.
I froze, the book still in my hands.
A face appeared on the other side of the shelf.
A startled sound ripped from me as I lurched back. My shoulder struck the shelf behind me, and books crashed to the floor in a storm of dust. My pulse roared in my throat.
And then he stepped forward.
Him.
Tall. Still. A presence that didn’t arrive—it broke in.
The air bent around him, as if balance itself had shifted in his wake.
He didn’t belong, he made everything else belong differently.
His beauty was undeniable, but it wasn’t beauty that unsettled me.
It was the precision of his movements. Controlled. Calculated. Too calm. Too exact.
He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled high—casual, yet nothing about him was relaxed. Ink climbed his forearms like dark warnings carved into flesh. A heavy watch gleamed on his wrist—elegant yet functional, more tool than ornament. His eyes locked on mine. And stayed.
I couldn’t look away. His gaze pierced too deep, too directly, as though he wasn’t looking at me but through me.
“Forgive me,” he said. His voice was dark, resonant—an echo caught in my chest. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was recognition—of something I couldn’t name. My body wouldn’t move. My breath came shallow, fractured. What had I just seen in his eyes?
He stepped closer, unhurried—then stooped to gather one of the fallen books.
“I… I didn’t hear you come in,” I managed, brushing a strand of hair from my face, my hand trembling despite me.
A fleeting smile ghosted across his lips—so faint I might have imagined it. Yet it changed everything.
He extended his hand.
“Damian Miller.”
His fingers closed around mine, firm, deliberate. He held on too long. Not painfully, but with a weight that pressed into me, as if he were leaving a mark beneath my skin. Assessing. Weighing. Claiming. Like he already knew I’d let him.
My pulse spiked sharp, disorienting.
“Daisy Elfhorn.”
The syllables hung between us. His eyes didn’t waver. A subtle tension worked in his jaw, and then—suddenly—he released me. The withdrawal was abrupt, as though the contact had burned. As though something in him had slipped loose, if only for a breath.
I stepped back before I realized I’d moved. My chest rose sharply, lungs demanding air.
“Beatrice has told me about you,” he said, his gaze flicking briefly around the room only to return to me. “I trust her. And her instincts.”
I nodded, my throat tight. The room felt smaller with him in it, the walls closing, the air denser.
“And how are you settling in?” he asked.
“Good,” I said quickly, forcing composure. “I’ve already built a routine.”
“Anything in particular catch your attention or spark questions?”
“Not yet. Your collection is extraordinary. I’m especially drawn to the Egyptian relics. They were my focus during my degree.”
“Excellent. Insight matters—both for understanding history and for recognizing value.” His tone sharpened slightly, testing me. “Tell me, how would you catalog an artifact whose origin was still uncertain?”
“First, I’d assess its condition and record every visible feature—size, weight, material, damage, anything distinguishing. Then I’d begin the research, drawing on academic references and scientific methods to trace its origin and place it in its proper time.”
“That sounds thorough. Most antiques I acquire come with a known provenance, period, and value, but there are always a few whose origins remain uncertain. If you’d put your eye on them, it would be a great help.”
“Of course. Where do the unknown pieces usually come from?” Curiosity cut through my voice.
“Some come from incomplete collections I’ve purchased, others are heirlooms or donations without records.
” His hand brushed over his chin—slow, thoughtful.
“And a few are from auctions that still need closer examination.” For a moment, he seemed far away, lost in calculation.
“I’ll send you the list with the documentation. ”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“I noticed some dates in the database have been updated. Every change gets flagged for me. Was that you, or Beatrice?”
“Yes, that was me. I double-check entries when I can. A few dates didn’t match up, so I corrected them.”
“I reviewed your changes. They were right.” His praise landed sharp and unreal. “Good work, Miss Elfhorn.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, barely able to keep the smile tugging at my lips. Heat rose in my cheeks—but not the kind you welcome. It burned like a warning flare, my body reacting before my mind caught up.
“This shop means a great deal to me.” His voice deepened, calm but heavier now, carrying something that pressed closer. “My parents left it to me. They valued art and history as much as I do.”
The words blurred, fading to the background. My body caught something else—an unsteady flutter in my stomach, a restless beat in my throat. My heart surged without reason.
It wasn’t thought. It was instinct. A reaction to him.
He moved closer. Slowly. Deliberately. With each step, the air thickened. There was something in the way he carried himself—unhurried, assured. Not threatening. Not kind. A man who’d never needed permission. Someone who came to take.
His gaze found mine and held. Not curious. Not warm. Just still. Too still. It pressed down on me like invisible fingers at my throat. I told myself it couldn’t be, but I felt it all the same. Dark. Unnamable. Indelible.
Then his hand lifted. Slowly, purposefully. I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t. His fingers passed before my face, close enough to stir the air against my skin. The faintest whisper of movement—and it still sent a shiver racing down my spine.
For one heartbeat, I thought he would touch me. Worse—I realized how much I wanted him to.
God. I had known this man for barely ten minutes.
Instead, he pulled a book from the shelf.
“For example, this one,” he said quietly. His voice wasn’t just heard—it was felt, reverberating low in my chest. He opened the book, fingers gliding over the pages, his jaw tightening as if something heavy coiled inside him.
“It was a gift from my parents. The last one before…” The words faltered, unfinished. Too costly to release.
Almost ceremoniously, he closed the book and stepped back. I exhaled, as if for the first time, though tension lingered. His nearness had stirred something inside me—like a fire that didn’t burn but reshaped.
What the hell was wrong with me?
He slid the book into its place. Said nothing more. Didn’t look at me. But the silence was enough—I knew something had shifted, and nothing would return to what it had been.
“Ms. Stonfeld will be leaving us in the middle of next week,” he said coolly.
“That’s right,” I answered softly.
“I’ll leave you a card with my email and phone number in case questions come up. I can’t always reply quickly, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”
“Do you have Ms. Stonfeld’s company email?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need to check it often. For urgent matters, my assistants will call you first. Would you prefer to use the company phone or your own?”
“For quick notifications, I’d rather use my personal number. Easier than carrying two phones.”
“That’s fine. If you change your mind, just email me. Any other questions?”
I shook my head. “Ms. Stonfeld already covered the important things.”
“Good,” he said softly. “Then I wish you a pleasant day.”
“And you as well, Mr. Miller.”
For an instant, the shadow of a smile touched his lips. It never reached his eyes. He turned toward the stairs, then glanced back once.
“Welcome to my world, Miss Elfhorn.”
After I swallowed the last bite of my sandwich with a gulp of cola, I collapsed onto the couch and dialed my best friend. She picked up on the third ring.
“Yeah.”
“Can you talk?”
“Just got home.”
“I met my boss today.”
“And?”
“He looks even better in person than in the pictures.”
“I Googled him. He’s loaded.”
“Pretty much figured that.”
“He used to date Tiffany Benz.”
“The supermodel with the dark hair?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s top-tier.”
“Good for him.”
“I still don’t get why a man like that would keep some junk shop.”
“Jenn, if you don’t want me climbing through this phone to strangle you, take that back right now. Do you have any idea what treasures are in there?”
“I’m sure they’re not worth as much as what he has in the bank.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about history.”
“Fine, I’m sorry. You know I love old things as much as you do.”
“I know. How’s Mike?”
“He’s making dinner.”
“What’s on the menu?”
“Some kind of tortellini. Mike, not so much salt this time!” she yelled away from the phone. “Last batch was inedible. Sorry, Daisy. Oh—by the way, I saw Adam. He’s with Emelie now.”
“He can go to hell.”
“He asked where you’re living.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“What do you take me for? Of course not. That bastard gets nothing from me.”
“Thanks.”
“I could visit the weekend after next. I’m finally free of exams. We could do New York together.”
“That would be amazing.”
“So how’s the job? Boring as hell?”
“I love it, actually.”
“Well, at least there’s that. Really good to hear. And what about Damian Miller? Will you be seeing him often?”
“Not really. He’s based in New York. Even if I bring things in, I doubt I’ll run into him.”
“Too bad.”
“Oh, Jenn. First of all, he’s my boss. And second, men like him don’t notice women like me unless we’re running their shops.”
“Shut up, Daisy. You’re gorgeous. Prettier than any of those models.”
I sighed. “You only say that because you’re my friend. The ones who notice me are always the freaks.”
“Come on. None of us could’ve known Adam was such a sick bastard.”
“And Ben?”
“Even I would’ve fallen for Ben. He was too damn charming. That kind of charm blinds you to the lies.”
“I’m done with it. Ever since I’ve been single, my head feels clearer. Lighter.”
“That’s because you always went for the wrong men. Speaking of wrong men, have you heard from your dad?”
“We exchanged a couple of messages. He wanted to know if I got the job, if I’m doing okay, and if I’ll visit in the summer.”
“At least he checks in. I haven’t heard from mine in three years.”
“I’m sorry. Your dad’s an asshole. How’s your mom?”
“Stable. They moved her out of ICU to the step-down unit. The doctors are hopeful.”
“That’s a relief.”
“For me too.”
“Tell her I said hi, and that she better fight through this so she can bake us her lemon cake again.”
“I’ll tell her,” Jenn said, stifling a yawn.
“How was your exam, by the way?” I asked.
“Passed.”
“I’m proud of you. You’re going to make an amazing vet.”
“I’m proud of you too, Daisy. I wish you’d come back.”
“Maybe someday. We’ll talk in a few days?”
“We will. Talk soon.”
“Talk soon.”
When I finally hung up, I sent Mom a quick text, stripped down, and stepped under the shower.
But Damian Miller’s face stayed.
Through the steam.
Through the dark.
All the way into the night.
And in the quiet between dreams, I swore I heard his voice again.