Chapter 8 Daisy
The Egyptian Museum in Rome breathed secrets and shadows.
The soaring ceilings and ornate columns pressed down with their weight of history.
Footsteps echoed against the marble as we drifted past glass cases filled with relics from another world.
Statues, sarcophagi, scrolls—each one whispering fragments of the dead. I was in my world.
Would we finally uncover proof of the Phoenix pendant’s authenticity here?
“We need to search for depictions or records that might show the Phoenix pendant, or symbols tied to Ramses the Great and his reign,” Damian said, his back to me as he studied a wall painting.
I felt the distance radiating from him. Every time I tried to move closer, he shifted away, gliding to another part of the gallery as though compelled to keep space between us.
An hour slipped by like this—him speaking quietly with curators, me combing through artifacts.
Whenever I approached, he turned. Two shadows circling the same obsession, never touching.
Room after room we searched—statues, jewelry, fragments of kings—until, in a quieter gallery, we came upon a case that immediately stood apart.
“Look at the details. The craftsmanship—it’s incredible,” I said, pointing.
“It’s impressive.” The coldness in his voice hit harder than a slap. He didn’t look at me, not even in passing. Detached. Clinical. With every word, the wall between us rose higher, impossible to scale.
A knot closed in my throat, choking back the words I wanted to spill—anything to shatter this silence, this indifference.
The faint trace of his cologne clung like a ghost of last night, now nothing but an illusion.
My chest ached with a hollow, merciless question.
Was he angry at me? At himself? Was he already pushing me away before admitting there was anything real between us?
Or had there never been anything at all—only my foolish hope wearing the mask of truth?
I had thought last night meant something—an unspoken bond, a silent promise. But now it felt like I had been wrong.
The urge to close the space, to touch him, to force him to look at me, was unbearable. But I couldn’t. Because the emptiness in his eyes—no, the absence of anything at all—made me a stranger. Someone easily discarded.
Something inside me cracked, quiet and invisible. That was what hurt most: that I had been so close, and now he was farther than ever.
“Over here—it could be,” I said, gesturing to a case filled with relics and wall paintings from the reign of Ramses the Great. I leaned closer, my breath catching. “Damian,” I whispered. He stepped beside me, his gaze locking on the painting—a Phoenix pendant, identical to his.
“That must be it.”
“You’re right. That’s it. Incredible.” His praise was hollow, spoken from a distance. He pulled out his phone and snapped pictures.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Damian, what’s going on with you? Why are you so… distant?”
He exhaled, sharp and heavy. “Not now, Daisy.” Noted.
The rejection stung—cold and precise. Pressing further would only deepen the cut. I turned back to the case, swallowing the ache.
The discovery should have consumed me with triumph. Instead, the silence grew louder, thicker.
On the ride back, tension clotted the air. Damian pressed the intercom.
“Take Daisy back to the hotel. Drop me here.”
I frowned. “Wait—where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Alessandra,” he said coolly, already half-turned away as the car stopped.
“What? Why?” I followed him out, the words burning in my chest.
“Seriously? Since when do I have to tell you where I’m going?”
“You don’t have to, but—”
“We’re not a couple, Daisy.” His voice cut through me. “Alessandra’s an old friend. She asked to see me.”
He stepped closer, fingers gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his.
His mouth crashed against mine in a hard, punishing kiss.
“Last night was nice,” he murmured, the words almost a threat.
“Stay in the hotel room. Do you understand? Don’t even think about wandering Rome alone. ” He released me and turned away.
The bitter taste of him clung to my lips. The warmth of last night had frozen into something jagged and cold. I felt raw, hollow, used—and still my body ached for him. For a moment I watched him walk down the street and disappear into a nightclub.
It wasn’t that he left. It was how he left.
Without hesitation. Without looking back.
As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t spent hours watching me, kissing me, undressing me, splitting me open until I thought I’d shatter.
As if he hadn’t held me like something precious, only to discard me like something ordinary.
And I was left there. With his taste still on my tongue. With his imprint still deep inside me. With the searing, foolish belief that it had been more. Because it had felt like more. But to him, it had been nothing but a night. A body. A release.
Now he was gone, off to another woman. As if I had never existed.
I hated myself for every second I’d believed I meant anything to him. I hated my trembling, my longing, my damn heart. Most of all, I hated myself for still wanting him.
A soft knock came at my door. I glanced at the clock — already 11:30 a.m. No word from Damian.
Still wrapped in my bathrobe, unshowered, I’d eaten a late breakfast and wasted most of the morning trying to shake off the sleepless night.
I had spent those hours wide awake, talking through every detail with Jenn.
I’d never hidden anything from her. She’d half-joked she’d fly to Rome and kick Miller’s ass herself.
As soon as I was back in New York: a weekend with her.
I needed that grounding — her laughter and blunt honesty.
When I opened the door, Ference stood there.
“Mr. Miller requests that you meet him in the hotel restaurant in one hour,” he said in his usual measured tone.
My brows rose. “And he can’t tell me that himself?”
Ference hesitated for the briefest moment. “He’s in a business meeting. A partner called him last minute.”
An uncomfortable pull spread through my chest. “I see,” I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat, masking the turmoil. “Thank you, Ference.”
I closed the door softly and headed for the shower. Today I would go in with my head high. Today I would show him I didn’t care, no matter how false that felt inside.
I chose a playsuit with shorts and a matching vest. My makeup was subtle, my hair left loose.
I knew my look carried a dangerous pull; every detail adjusted as if I were arming myself.
I stood at the mirror longer than I should have — fixing, smoothing, perfecting — as though beauty could be a shield.
When I finally walked into the restaurant, nothing happened.
He didn’t even look up. I didn’t know what I had expected, but his disinterest hit me like a blow.
I stopped mid-step — too long — my hands clenching at the seam of my playsuit.
It was as if an invisible wall had stopped me, one I’d slammed into.
Time slowed as I searched his face for any flicker of reaction. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I was pathetic. Why doesn’t he see me? The question drilled into my head, over and over, a painful echo I couldn’t shake. Why do I even try? Why do I care so much about someone who can’t lift his head to look at me?
The answer was terrible and simple. Because I wanted him to.
Because I wanted to be seen, wanted to be wanted, so that all this effort, all this restless hunger, hadn’t been for nothing.
Now I felt naked and ridiculous, stripped down to something raw and laughable.
The silence pressed in on me, deafening.
My chest burned with the slow, pounding weight of rejection — not the kind that shatters all at once, but the kind that seeps under your skin, eats at you, and stays.
Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I never had been, for anyone.
The thought rose so easily it might as well have been carved into me.
I should have turned and walked away. Isn’t that what a confident woman would do?
Isn’t that strength? But my feet refused.
I shrank smaller with every second of his silence, every heartbeat that screamed how invisible I was to him.
So this is what it felt like — to be invisible to someone.
I forced myself forward and sat across from him. Damian was still bent over his phone, so focused it was as if I didn’t exist.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked, appearing beside the table as if out of nowhere. She laid a place setting in front of me, set down the glasses with practiced ease, and lifted her notepad.
“A coffee and water,” I said.
Finally, he looked up. He set his phone on the table, leaned back in his chair, and let his gaze move slowly across my face, then down over my outfit. A sly smile tugged at his mouth.
“Did you dress up, Daisy?”
His words sliced through me, and for a heartbeat I felt exposed, like a child caught stealing.
“Have a nice evening?” I asked, clipped.
“I can’t complain.”
My hand tightened around the fork, gripping it like a weapon.
He smiled again. “Planning to stab me with that?” His tone was maddeningly casual, confident — like a man who owned the world. “So, tell me, do you hate me now? Or are you just hurt?”
A tremor ripped through me, sharp and silent. I couldn’t hold it back. With a sudden scrape, I pushed my chair back, half rising, desperate to move, to escape.
But Damian was faster. He rose, stepped around the table, and clamped his hand around my arm with a cold precision more dangerous than pain.
“Where are you going?” His voice was quiet.
“Away from you,” I forced through my teeth. My throat burned as if I’d been screaming, though the words barely carried.
“You’re going to sit down. Now.”
“Let me go, Damian.”