Chapter 5 Daisy #2
“Another day, Herculaneum. Even more extraordinary—preserved under volcanic ash. Walking those streets, I could almost feel the lives that had once pulsed there. Then Villa Rufolo in Ravello. The gardens were breathtaking. I lost hours roaming among the flowers, studying the architecture.”
“And the National Archaeological Museum in Naples?” he asked.
“Of course. Overwhelming—in the best way. So many priceless pieces in one place.”
“I’d like to fly there with you sometime. I’ve been, but not in years. What do you say?”
“That would be wonderful.” I popped a baby carrot into my mouth. “Honestly, it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened—that he dumped me. It meant I could finally focus on what I love. And besides, he never cared for art or history.”
“Someone who doesn’t care for art or history? That should’ve been a red flag from the start.”
I laughed—because of all people, Damian was the last I expected to hear that from. He seemed to catch the irony, because a faint smile touched his lips. He leaned back, sipping his wine, his gaze drifting to the endless sea of clouds outside the window—soft and weightless. I followed his eyes.
“I once had an experience that left a mark on me,” he said quietly after a moment. “A few years ago, when I was trying to acquire an ancient collection from Greece.”
“Tell me.”
“It was a remarkable collection—artifacts from Greece’s prime. But they weren’t easy to obtain. They belonged to an older man named Kostas, who lived in a small coastal village. He’d inherited them from his father and was deeply attached.”
“Then why sell them?”
“Kostas was dying. No children, no family to pass them to. He decided to sell and donate the money to a foundation in his name.”
“That’s noble.”
“It was,” Damian agreed. “But earning his trust was the real challenge. I spent days in that village, listening to his stories. Every evening we drank ouzo together, and he spoke of his childhood, of the artifacts that defined his life. I wasn’t used to that—patience, respect.
I was the man who bulldozed through people to get what I wanted.
Yet Kostas… he was different. He had a reverence for history I couldn’t ignore.
In the end, he sold me the collection, but only after I swore to keep it safe and share its story. ”
Damian paused, his eyes shadowed with memory. “Kostas died a few months later. I kept my promise. The collection is in my penthouse now, protected, preserved. And every time I see it, I remember those nights with him—and what he taught me about the weight of heritage.”
“That’s a beautiful story. It proves you’re not just a businessman, but someone who understands the soul of what he collects.”
I had to look away, the pull in my stomach tightening, making it harder to see him as the cold man he wanted to be. A side of him that drew me in so deeply, I only wanted more.
Damian Miller, who prided himself on control and calculation, had let me glimpse something raw and human. I knew I might never see him open up like this again. That thought should have made it easier to keep my distance. Instead, it only drew me closer.
If I didn’t rein myself in, I’d fall for him completely—and then I’d be lost.
“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?” he asked, steering the conversation elsewhere.
With a sigh, I leaned back and took a slow sip of wine.
“My parents couldn’t be more different. I get along with my mom now, but it wasn’t always easy.
She was often wrapped up in herself, chasing some idea of ‘finding herself.’ She wasn’t around much.
My dad, though…” My throat tightened. “That’s another story.
He was—and still is—mixed up in crime, mostly mafia business and drugs.
And he drank heavily. Our relationship is…
complicated. But despite everything, we still talk on the phone. More often than I’d like to admit.”
Damian tilted his head, studying me. “Mafia and drugs, huh?” A crooked smile flickered. “Should I be worried about getting shot in a parking garage after this flight?”
“Only if you ditch me without dinner.”
He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I’d never dare.”
A soft giggle slipped out—maybe too much wine, or just too much Damian.
“Sometimes I wonder how I ever managed to crawl out of that chaos and build a life of my own.”
“Sometimes it’s those exact scars that make us stronger,” he said. “But it’s good you found your way.”
“Yes,” I murmured, warmth spreading through my chest.
Damian leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Why did you really leave Woodstock? They’ve got antique shops and museums there, too.”
I dropped my gaze, my hand brushing nervously over my arm. “It got… complicated.” My voice faltered. “My ex, he… he…” The words almost broke me, but I forced them out.
Damian’s jaw tightened. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not directly.” The memory pressed heavy on my shoulders. “He drugged me. I was helpless, and he… wanted to hand me over to his friends.”
Silence. Damian’s face hardened. “And where is he now?”
“I left because his apartment was on the same street as mine. I just needed to get out. Far away.”
“Will you tell me his name?”
“No. I don’t want to give him space in my head anymore.” I forced the spotlight away. “What about your parents? Did they pass suddenly?”
“They were already old. First my father, then my mother. But they weren’t my biological parents.”
“Oh.”
“I was adopted,” he said simply. “The Millers raised me. I owe them everything. Without them, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”
“And why were you adopted?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pausing as if sifting through words. “My biological parents abandoned me on the street. I wasn’t even five years old. They never came back.”
My chest ached for him—a man who had survived so much and built himself into something unshakable.
“I’m so sorry, Damian.”
“Don’t waste pity on me. You don’t know me, Daisy. You think you do—but you have no idea what lives inside me.”
He set his wineglass down with deliberate calm.
“If you knew the things I’ve done, you’d look at me differently.
I’m a cold-blooded businessman. In my world, you survive by sacrificing—and I’ve sacrificed plenty.
Women included. Every relationship I’ve had was just a means to an end.
I’ve used women either to achieve my goals or to satisfy my urges. ”
My throat went dry. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to know the truth. I’m not the man you think I am just because we’ve shared a few hours of conversation.” He poured more wine, his gaze sharp, unflinching—like a blade already marked for a cut. “So let me be brutally honest. More honest than I’ve ever been with anyone.”
A heavy silence fell between us.
“When I first saw you, I didn’t think about how pretty you were.
Or how clever. I thought: How long until she’s mine?
How fast can I reprogram her until she breathes me like air?
I wanted to break you. Own you. Not just your body—your mind.
Your will. I wanted to bind you so tightly you’d give me everything you are—willingly.
And believe me, I can. This isn’t my first time. ”
He leaned in, close enough that I felt his presence settle cold against my skin. “I’m not the man you should fall in love with. I’m the man you should fear. The man who lets you love him—just to watch you shatter.”
He’d said it. Without hesitation. Without a mask. And I just sat there—numb. He didn’t want to win me. He wanted to break me. Not love me—own me. This wasn’t a confession. It was a sentence.
My heart pounded so violently I was sure he heard it. Maybe he did. Maybe he liked it. The urge to run, to lock myself away in the sleeping cabin, flashed hot and fast—but my body stayed frozen. My stomach twisted as if it had swallowed his words whole and couldn’t spit them back out.
Why wasn’t I screaming? Why wasn’t I telling him how sick this was? Why wasn’t I on my feet, shoving the words down his throat and saving myself?
Because I couldn’t. Because I sat there like a print in freshly fallen snow. And he was the storm that could sweep me away. Because part of me wanted to know what it would feel like if I really fell.
Finally, I understood what this was. Not a boss–employee fling. Not a dangerous flirt laced with power imbalance. No—this was something else. Another league entirely. He was the devil who kissed you as you fell—and smiled while doing it.
And me? I stayed, frozen in fear and, damn it, in desire. Because I’d already tasted it—that addiction. That bottomless, merciless addiction to him. He was my high. My poison. And I was already drunk on his darkness.
Any woman with sense would have stood up by now.
But I didn’t. I sat there, wanting him, even knowing better.
How broken was that? How broken was I? Maybe I’d never been searching for safety.
Maybe I’d only ever been searching for someone who could touch me so deeply I’d be forced to piece myself back together.
And now he sat across from me—with that destructive smile, with a love that promised nothing but pain. And I knew: I would take it. Open-armed. Hoping that when it was over, there would still be something of me left.
I forced myself not to let anything show. I picked up my wineglass, leaned back, mirrored his posture, and met his gaze over the rim.
“And yet,” I said, my eyes daring him, “I’ve bewitched you enough that you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
Damian’s lips curved in amusement. “So much confidence, Miss Elfhorn?”
“I’m not like the women you usually deal with.” I sipped and set the glass down.
“What makes you so sure? Every woman I’ve been with swore she was different—special—one of a kind. None of them were.”