Chapter 9 Daisy
The limousine door swung open, and a familiar hand reached for me.
“You look beautiful, Miss Daisy,” Ference murmured.
“Hey, I heard that,” Damian said, offering me his arm. “But you’re right, Ference. She looks stunning.”
In a black evening gown—delicate straps, an open back tasting the night air—I felt like someone else entirely.
The silk skimmed my curves as if it had been waiting for me.
Earlier, Damian had met someone important without me; since then, a heaviness clung to him, something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share.
By afternoon, the edge had dulled a little. We strolled the streets together, slipping past boutiques glittering with excess. I had chosen this whisper of silk and lace, wrapping around me like a promise I wasn’t sure I should make.
Damian’s eyes burned as they roamed over me.
“You look breathtaking, Daisy,” he whispered.
“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”
“Because it’s true. You leave me speechless. And hot,” he added, mouth curving.
My cheeks flamed.
The restaurant swallowed us in opulence—chandeliers dripping light over marble floors, velvet shadows cloaking the corners.
A hostess guided us to a table where an elegantly dressed man waited.
Dark brown hair streaked with silver. A sleek woman beside him, her golden curls gleaming like metal.
Next to her, a younger reflection of herself.
“Damian Miller, welcome,” the man said, rising. His eyes cut to me.
“My colleague, Daisy Elfhorn,” Damian introduced. “I mentioned her on the phone.”
“Thomas Mason.” His hand closed around mine—firm, one beat too long. Not a greeting, a claim. Something flared in his eyes—desire, unmistakable, sharp as a spark. My instincts bristled, but I smiled politely.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mason.”
He released me at last, gesturing to the women. “My wife, Felissa. And this is my daughter, Silvia. My son stayed in New York.”
Felissa gave a distracted smile, already half-turned toward her phone. Silvia, maybe mid-twenties, didn’t bother with pretense. Her gaze locked on Damian, hungry.
“You remember my daughter, don’t you?” Mason asked.
“Of course. Hello, Silvia.”
“I’m happy to see you again, Damian.”
“The pleasure’s mine.”
We sat. A waiter appeared instantly, silent as a shadow.
“How long have you been in Rome?” Mason asked.
“Five days,” Damian said.
“And what brings you here?”
“My colleague had never visited,” he lied smoothly. “I wanted to show her the Vatican Library, a few treasures. A work trip, to immerse her in artifacts. Miss Elfhorn studied art history and now works with me in the antiques shop.”
Mason’s eyes slid to me. “And how do you find Rome?”
“Overwhelming,” I admitted. “The city feels like one vast mystery, heavy with legends.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“No. Just business. Only a few days. We thought it fitting to hold our meeting here.”
Felissa lifted her empty glass at the waiter, already bored.
“I’ve finished my degree,” Silvia said, gaze fixed on Damian.
“Congratulations,” he replied evenly. “What’s next?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe travel.”
“That sounds exciting.”
I leaned toward her. “What did you study?”
“Art and history. I want to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
“That’s admirable,” I said. “Your parents must have introduced you early to the art world.”
“Yes. My father taught us so much. I only hope I’ll be as successful as he is.”
“You will,” Mason said, pride flickering sharp in his eyes.
The waiters filled the table—bread, wine, gleaming silver dishes.
“I’ve been thinking over your offer,” Mason said at last, a calculated smile ghosting his lips. “And I think we have a deal.”
“Mr. Mason, this artifact is priceless to me,” Damian said evenly. “It completes my collection. Without it, the whole thing loses its weight.”
“And if I deliver it, it will be invaluable to you.”
Damian inclined his head. “I’ll compensate you generously. But more than that—your influence stretches far beyond mine. With your backing, my name could rise higher in the art world than I’ve ever dreamed.”
Mason let the silence stretch, testing the air.
“Connections are everything,” he said at last. “I can help you acquire the artifact—and open doors you cannot open alone. But, Damian,” his eyes hardened, flashing a quiet warning, “you must understand. Balance is required. Money alone won’t be enough.”
His tone was calm yet carried unspoken authority.
“What exactly are you proposing, Mr. Mason?”
“I want exclusive rights to certain pieces from the Elhaus Collection. And I want you available to me—as a partner.”
As the men spoke and the next course arrived, Silvia’s gaze kept darting to Damian— hungry.
Persistent. At one point she leaned close, her lips brushing his ear in a whisper.
Felissa, meanwhile, dismissed me after two sentences and drifted toward the bar.
Mason and Damian were locked in negotiations, but Silvia made no effort to draw me in, no matter how many times I tried.
Instead, she tugged Damian into her own conversation, her voice syrup-sweet, while Mason’s eyes turned on me—deliberate, probing.
“So, Miss…” Mason paused, as though daring me to fill the silence.
“Elfhorn,” I said evenly.
“Ah, yes. Miss Elfhorn. You work for Damian in his antiques shop, correct? But that hardly explains why he spoke of you with such admiration. You studied art history, if I recall?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “With a focus on ancient manuscripts. I’ve also trained in identifying forgeries and restoring documents. That allows me to understand objects more fully—to recognize their true worth.”
Mason tilted his head, interest flickering. “That does explain much. But Damian mentioned something else—your uncanny ability to identify an era at a single glance. Not everyone possesses such an eye.”
I gave a faint smile. “It isn’t really a glance. It’s experience. Attention to detail. The smallest signs—the style of an inscription, the material, even the decay. They reveal themselves if you know how to look.”
“A trained eye and a sharp memory. Remarkable,” Mason said, his gaze glinting. “I imagine you’ve solved quite a few puzzles in Mr. Miller’s shop?”
“A few,” I said with a shrug.
“So you have a gift for noticing what others overlook?”
“You could put it that way,” Damian cut in, his tone slicing through Silvia’s murmurs. “Daisy has an extraordinary instinct for the hidden. She’s uncovered truths that stumped seasoned dealers. Her eye digs deeper.”
Before Mason could respond, Silvia reclaimed Damian with a coy smile. “That’s impressive,” she purred, ignoring me entirely. “But Damian, what about my proposal for our joint project?”
Mason leaned back, studying me with an appraising gleam. “A rare gift, Miss Elfhorn. Most stop at the obvious. Few dig beneath the surface. Tell me—what do you make of this?”
He withdrew a black leather bag, producing a bronze amulet etched with intricate engravings. He set it before me. Out of the corner of my eye, Damian watched—silent, expectant.
I lifted it carefully. To most, it would look like a reproduction. But the surface whispered its secrets beneath my fingertips.
“Interesting,” I murmured. “At first glance you’d call it medieval. But the engraving tells another story. The lines are older—likely Byzantine. See here? Fine, restless strokes. Precision in its infancy. Early, before refinement.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed, following every word.
“Very well observed. The piece dates to the sixth century.”
I met his gaze. His approving smile carried no warmth—it was calculated. I had earned his respect, though I wasn’t sure I wanted it. He slipped the amulet back into his bag.
“Damian didn’t exaggerate your talent,” Mason said, folding his arms. His smile curled dark. “A woman who sees what others miss. Perhaps I should consider what it would take to win you over, Miss Elfhorn.”
The air went cold. My stomach tightened. Beneath his mockery coiled a threat.
Damian shifted beside me, jaw locked, voice dropping to ice.
“Daisy is not to be courted. She’s part of my team. That will never change.”
Mason raised both hands, amusement tugging his mouth. He was enjoying it.
“Of course, Damian. Only a joke. And who could blame you?”
But his eyes told another story. He wasn’t joking at all.
Later, between dessert and the final round of drinks, I excused myself. When I returned, Silvia’s hand rested lightly on Damian’s shoulder. My chest tightened. I forced a smile.
“Damian, may I speak with you in private?” Silvia’s voice was soft, deceptively sweet.
Damian hesitated.
“Just a few minutes.” She gestured toward the stone staircase leading to the rooftop terrace. “The view is especially beautiful from up there.”
“Now?” His voice was calm, yet steel laced the edges.
“My daughter doesn’t take no for an answer,” Mason said smoothly.
“Of course not,” Damian replied, cold and controlled.
I watched them ascend the steps, Mason’s gaze settling on me like a weight. He leaned forward, lips curling into a self-assured smile.
“Is he fucking you?” he asked, shameless. The words landed like a slap.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His tone deepened, deliberate. “I want to know if Damian Miller is fucking you.”
“That’s none of your business.” I said, voice steady despite the chill crawling through me.
Mason’s eyes glittered with calculated interest. “You know, Daisy, I admire women with sharp minds and strong wills. You strike me as that type. So I wonder… what are you doing with a man like Miller? He owns everything and everyone, yet true connection is something he avoids. Emotions poured into him are wasted. In business, he’s ruthless.
I enjoy doing business with him, but it’s a shame to see a clever woman like you wasting yourself in an antiques shop. ”
His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, dissecting me.