Chapter 15 Daisy
That Wednesday morning, Damian entered the antique shop with an unusual calm.
He had cleared his entire day to turn the shop upside down with me, determined to track down every piece of the collection.
Since that dinner, we hadn’t spoken a word about what had happened, and I wasn’t about to bring it up.
I greeted him with a smile. His eyes lingered on me a moment too long, and I swore I caught a flicker of affection in them.
“Good morning, Mr. Miller,” I breathed, deliberately soft.
“Good morning, Miss Elfhorn. Ready for a day steeped in history?”
“Always.”
Damian followed me into the treasure room, and we set to work. One by one, we opened and closed boxes, checking each against the list.
“I don’t get why Beatrice didn’t keep the collection together but scattered each piece across the shelves,” I muttered.
“Because she didn’t know it was a collection. Even I only realized it recently.”
“We’ve already found three of the seven pieces.”
Damian lifted an ancient Greek bowl from its crate. “Here’s the fourth.” He set it carefully on the table. “Now we just need the statue and the jewelry.”
I pulled a small case from a nearby shelf. “And Mason will deliver the seventh piece?”
“If he agrees to the deal. He hasn’t signed yet.”
I held up the case. “Could this be it?”
Damian came over, took the golden bracelet from me, and examined it closely.
“Where’s the collection from?” I asked.
“Long story. Too much blood and very rich men. But yes, this is it.” He turned back to the shelves. “Now we just need the statue. It has to be here somewhere.”
We kept searching until he pulled out a small box and compared the number on the lid with his notes.
“This is it.”
“Perfect.”
“Now let’s hope Mason keeps his word.”
My stomach tightened at the sound of that name. Damian noticed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just Mason. I hate you doing business with a man like him.”
“I know he’s sleazy, but—”
“He hit on me, Damian.”
His expression hardened. “He did what?”
I exhaled. “First, he directly asked me if you fuck me.”
“That’s exactly what he said?”
“Word for word.”
“Then he’s already owed a debt.” Damian closed the distance between us. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he’s important to you. He’s got leverage over you.”
“That’s true, to an extent. But I still wouldn’t have let him get anywhere near you. Thomas Mason could destroy me if he wanted, but he has no reason to.”
“I just find him disgusting, and I don’t like how close you let him stand to you—to your company.”
“I know what I’m doing, Daisy. But thank you for worrying. Did he say anything else?”
“He made more passes. Said he couldn’t understand why I’d waste myself on someone like you, that he could give me more.”
“That bastard,” Damian muttered, his voice low with fury. “If he weren’t so dangerous, I’d tear him apart for that.” He wrapped me in his arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Next time, you come straight to me.”
“Why is Mason so dangerous? Why let him hold that kind of power over you? You have your own company—you don’t need to dance to his tune.”
Damian stepped back. “It’s not that simple. Mason isn’t just another rich businessman. His reach goes deeper than you realize.”
“But you’re successful on your own. What could he possibly do to you?”
“Mason controls more than money. He has ties everywhere—museums, auction houses, lawyers, even regulators. If he wanted to, he could dismantle me and my company piece by piece. He could even have me thrown in prison.”
A chill slid down my spine. “Prison? What did you do?”
“What didn’t I do would be the better question.”
The words sliced through me. In that instant, I was reminded—painfully—that I knew far less about him than I wanted to believe.
“He could ruin my reputation overnight. In our business, trust is everything. If Mason so much as spread a rumor that I’d acquired artifacts illegally, no one would stand by me. One whisper, and I’m finished. And it wouldn’t matter if it was true.”
“But you haven’t done anything illegal, right?” My voice wasn’t asking—it was accusing.
“Yes. But truth doesn’t matter. All it takes is the right people believing the wrong story.
Mason could bribe, forge, or drag me into lawsuits that would drain me for years.
By the time I cleared my name, the damage would already be done.
And he wouldn’t stop there. He could lock me out of auctions, cut me off from the best artifacts.
Without access, my business is dead. Mason could end me without lifting a finger. And he knows it.”
“Why? What’s in it for him?”
“He doesn’t need a reason. He only needs a desire. And right now, his interest is fixed on me and…” He hesitated, then looked me dead in the eye. “…on you. I should never have taken you to that dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Damian.”
“It’s not your fault. I’ll handle him.”
He kissed my forehead again. “Do you want to spend the evening with me?” he asked suddenly.
“At your place?”
He nodded, though his shoulders tightened slightly, as if he’d surprised himself by asking. Something in his face turned quieter, more guarded. I leaned into him. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, then slowly draped his arm around me.
“I’d love to.”
And even as I soaked in the warmth of his closeness, I felt the subtle war he was fighting within himself.
Damian’s penthouse mirrored his character—elegant, modern, complex, and full of stories.
I walked to the window. “The view over the skyline is breathtaking.”
In the corner, a large glass display case gleamed, filled with artifacts.
“This is where I keep my favorites,” he explained. “Pieces from different eras and cultures.”
I moved closer, my gaze catching on an ancient Greek statue. “Is this the Kosta collection you told me about on the plane?”
“It is.”
“Tell me about it again.”
He stood beside me, speaking as I examined the shelves. On another, I discovered a collection of antique books and manuscripts.
“This collection ranges from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance. Some of them are first editions.”
Carefully, I slid an old book free and flipped through the yellowed pages. “It’s amazing how well they’ve been preserved.”
“I take good care of them,” Damian said, gently taking the book from me and returning it to its place. Then he reached for my hand and pulled me down onto the couch—onto his lap.
“What do you think about ordering some food and watching the new documentary on Tutankhamun? It came out yesterday. I’ve been waiting to see it; the latest findings are supposed to be groundbreaking.”
“I can’t imagine anything better right now.”
Over dinner, we talked about the stories behind his favorite artifacts. With every passing minute, I felt myself slipping further into Damian’s world—and deeper into his heart.
“A few years ago, I was part of an excavation in Greece.”
“Where exactly?”
“Knossos. It was unbearably hot but thrilling—grueling work, but worth every drop of sweat. We dug for days and found mostly fragments. Still, piecing together those fragments felt like solving the puzzle of history.”
I beamed with excitement. Damian studied me, admiration flickering in his eyes.
“You really understand,” he said. “Most people see only broken junk. You see the beauty, the meaning. You look deeper—for the stories behind them.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s rare. I’ve never shared this side of myself with a woman I was also… intimate with.”
“I think that’s what connects us. Our love for the past.”
He released my hand, lifting his glass for a slow sip of wine. “We can watch the film in bed. There’s a TV in my room.”
“That sounds tempting, but I’d like to take a shower first.”
He stood, lifting me effortlessly in one swift motion. I squealed, laughing. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you to the shower.”
He set me down in the large glass stall, his eyes locked on mine. Slowly, he slid my skirt down, his hands tracing up my legs. I lifted my arms as he pulled my top over my head.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, tugging his shirt off in the next breath. He leaned forward, reached past me, and turned on the water. Then he slid my panties down and kicked off his pants.
A blue light filled the stall. Water poured from above. It hit his chest. Drops slid down, tracing every hard line of muscle.
Alive.
Too alive.
My fingers twitched. The urge to touch him was unbearable.
“Damian…” I began, but the word died under the intensity in his gaze.
He turned me. Lather. Warm hands. Too gentle. Too sure.
Possession disguised as care.
His hands were everywhere, and the pull low in my belly grew sharp and urgent. I wanted him inside me.
“Put your hands on the glass,” he ordered.
I obeyed.
“Good. Now spread your legs.” He leaned in, his cock hard against me. “Do you want me inside you?” he whispered, rubbing himself against my ass.
“Yes.”
The word had barely left my mouth before he pushed into me—greedily, without hesitation. I moaned, full and taken. He thrust hard, paused, then drove deeper again, pinning me to the glass. Every movement was brutal, relentless, deliberate.
“Do you like that? Do you like it when I fuck you slow and hard?”
“Yes—” I gasped, breaking on his rhythm. Every thrust tore another sound from me.
Damian grabbed the shower head and aimed the stream at my clit. The shock of heat ripped through me, instant and consuming. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, as if he meant to claim me from the inside out.
“Come for me, baby,” he whispered, voice rough in my ear.
And I shattered. Heat and water—his fingers on my hip, his voice like a command carved into my body—I broke apart.
My back arched, my muscles clenched around him, my body convulsed as I came, hard, shameless, wrecked.
Wave after wave, drowning me in fire and dark water.
And through it all, there was only him. Damian. My downfall. My home.
“Shit, Daisy,” he groaned, jerking as he spilled deep inside me. His forehead dropped to my neck, breath ragged.
Slowly, he pulled out. No word. No kiss.
I turned, searching for his face. But it was wrong—tight, frayed, close to breaking. I reached for him. He recoiled as if burned. Something inside me splintered.
Then he moved. Too fast. Too close. His hands shot forward, gripping my wrists hard, shoving them away. “I don’t want to need you like this.”
He meant it—and somehow, that was worse. The words hit like a blade. I don’t want to need you like this. Raw. Unfiltered. It stole my breath.
Finally—something real.
No control. No mask. Just him. His fear. His truth. A man fighting something bigger than himself. Rejecting not me, but the part of himself I had forced open.
And maybe that’s why it hurt so much—I couldn’t tell if he was rejecting me or himself.
With a sudden, violent movement, he yanked me against him, kissed me hard, then spun me and pressed me into the cold glass. His hand clamped around my throat, his breath scorching my ear.
“You make me weak. Damn it, I’m not that man. I’m not the man who loves.” He spat each word like poison.
“Damian,” I croaked, lungs clawing for air as his grip tightened. Panic spiked. I clawed at his hands, fighting for space.
“It would be so easy,” he whispered. “Just one moment.”
His hold wasn’t strangling me—it was strangling what I brought out of him. My heart hammered. His hands shook, but his grip lingered too long. One thought cut through the haze: He’s serious.
Then, as if burned, he tore away.
I stood trembling under water that suddenly felt like ice. His fingerprints burned on my neck like shadows. My hands flew there, trying to rub them off, but the ache wasn’t outside—it was in me.
I’d thought I could see through him, behind the mask. But this wasn’t an outburst. It was a glimpse of what lived deep inside. And still, I wanted to follow.
What was wrong with me? Why did his darkness pull me closer instead of pushing me away?
He could have killed me. Just like that. And for one terrifying heartbeat, I knew he wanted to—not from hate, but from madness. From despair.
I leaned against the shower wall, gasping for air, my heart pounding so hard it screamed: Run. Now. Before it’s too late.
But my feet didn’t move. Because another voice whispered: Stay. Maybe he loves you. Just… differently.