Chapter 9 Daisy #2
“With your mind, you could achieve much more. Yet you remain somewhere that barely appreciates you.”
I forced a polite smile, my stomach knotting as it twisted painfully.
“Damian is my boss,” I said evenly. “And I enjoy working in that shop.”
Mason let his gaze crawl over me—slow, deliberate, appraising.
“Beauty and intelligence together are rare. You are exceptional, Daisy. Have you ever considered how far you could go with the right man at your side?”
My heartbeat quickened. I swallowed, trying to bury the nervous flutter in my throat.
“I manage just fine on my own. But of course, it’s always good to have useful contacts.”
Mason laughed, low and throaty. The sound sent a shiver through me.
“Contacts, yes. But I’m talking about something deeper. Something personal. Imagine I could open doors you didn’t even know existed.”
I forced my voice steady.
“I’m sure your support would be valuable in many areas, Mr. Mason. But I prefer to keep professional relationships defined.”
He set a hand on my arm, fingers brushing my skin. A chill spread through me.
“Professional, of course. But sometimes the lines blur, don’t they? Especially when the chemistry is right.”
I pulled my arm back, holding my composure.
“I believe clear boundaries lead to the best results—professionally and personally.”
Mason leaned back, his eyes glinting with amusement, challenge, calculation.
“But with Miller, you seem to forget those boundaries. I hope you’ll make wiser decisions in the future.”
He leaned forward, his glance flicking toward the staircase, then back to me.
“Just as I can give Damian Miller everything, I can also take everything away from him.”
His tone stayed calm, almost casual, but the weight of it pressed into the space between us. He raised an eyebrow, a faint smile curling at his lips.
“But we wouldn’t want that, would we? I’m sure we’ll see each other again in New York, Miss Elfhorn.”
His eyes sharpened, darkened. The threat beneath his words was unmistakable.
“I don’t need Damian’s consent when it comes to winning someone over. Should I make you an offer you refuse…” His words hung unfinished. His glance slid again to the staircase, where Damian appeared with Silvia. “Well, there are always other ways to secure your… support, Miss Elfhorn.”
He winked. Slow. Deliberate. Another shiver cut through me. He wanted me to feel his power.
Damian returned to the table, face unreadable. Silvia, by contrast, smiled with quiet triumph.
“Did my daughter tell you what she wants?” Mason asked, voice even, eyes fixed on Damian.
A flicker crossed Damian’s face—gone as quickly as it came.
“And when would that be?” Mason pressed, his authority measured. “Since all the important matters have been discussed, you can go with Silvia immediately.”
Mason rose, his tone leaving no space for refusal.
“You know I can’t deny my daughter anything. If she wants to spend the evening with you, Damian, I suggest you allow it. I’d hate to see our deal fall through because she is heartbroken. She hasn’t stopped talking about you for days.”
A silence stretched taut. Damian nodded, detachment sliding into place like armor. My chest tightened, as if the ground had dropped from beneath me.
“All right,” he said. His voice gave nothing away.
“Daisy, I’ll take you to the driver. He’ll return you to the hotel.”
I rose slowly, meeting his gaze with a cool look I didn’t feel.
“Of course. Mr. Mason, Silvia—it was a pleasure,” I said, forcing civility, and followed Damian from the restaurant.
The air between us was thick, suffocating with what neither of us said. The car waited outside, gleaming under the streetlights. Damian opened the door.
I turned to him once more before slipping inside.
“You do know your priorities. Enjoy your evening.”
I sank into the seat as Ference climbed in beside me. Damian lingered at the door, face masked, hand gripping the frame.
“I will,” he snarled, slamming it shut. Two dull knocks struck the roof.
I flinched. The car pulled away.
Moments later, I yanked open the mini-fridge, searching for the strongest drink I could find. My fingers wrapped around a bottle of whiskey. I twisted it open, pressed it to my lips, and swallowed deep. The burn seared my throat. Tears followed. Humiliation. Hurt. Loneliness that felt unbearable.
Ference sat steady, watchful. He handed me a handkerchief.
“You shouldn’t do that, Miss Daisy.”
“Do what? Drink?”
He shook his head.
“Cry because of him.” His voice was quiet, and the weight of compassion in it made my throat tighten.
I gave a bitter snort and drank again.
“It’s my fault. He warned me more than once.”
“Mr. Miller is a complicated man,” Ference murmured.
I swallowed hard and turned to the window, the city lights streaking past. Another swallow.
My forehead rested against the cool glass.
Tears wouldn’t stop. The ride to the hotel felt endless, every second filled with the truth: I had fallen in love with a man who might never love—or respect—me in return.
Hours later, I was slumped in a shadowed corner of the hotel bar, half-collapsed on the couch.
Ference stayed with me while the other two bodyguards returned to Damian.
I told him more than once he could leave, but he refused—silent and steady by the door.
Likely Miller’s orders. So he stood there for hours, watching while I drank myself toward oblivion.
Empty glasses scattered across the table—evidence of a long, lonely night of self-destruction. My head sagged heavy, the room spinning. Muted music and the hum of other guests drifted past, distant and shapeless.
A voice cut through the haze. Familiar. Commanding.
“Where is she?”
Damian’s tone sliced through the room. He found me fast—anger in his eyes, and something I didn’t want to name.
“Damn it, Daisy, how much have you had?” He sniffed a glass, then slammed it down. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Why do you even care?” My words slurred. “Go away. You’re nothing but a shadow.”
He gathered my shoes, then lifted me—unyielding, yet careful. Moonlight spilled across the room as he laid me on the bed and pulled a cover over me. The last thing I saw was concern and regret ghosting his face.
Dazed, I woke heavy, head pounding. Light streamed through thin curtains, stabbing my eyes. It took seconds to realize I wasn’t in my own room.
A hangover clawed at my skull. I pushed upright, careful, still wearing last night’s dress—wrinkled, twisted. Memory seeped back in fragments. Voices murmured nearby. I swayed to the adjoining door and eased it open.
Damian stood by the window, phone to his ear, voice low.
“I don’t know why she didn’t tell you we were here, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”
A breakfast spread waited on the table: fruit, pastries, juice. Coffee scented the air.
“Of course I took care of that. I also had three cloud files created,” he said. His eyes caught mine, then slid away. “I understand. And when?” His face was stone. “Good. And how long will that take him?”
I slipped out, closing the door softly behind me. In the hallway, I realized my keycard was gone.
“Damn it.” My voice cracked. Exhaustion pressed down until I sank against the wall, knees to my chest. Tears stung and broke loose—the night before pressing down, merciless. Locked out, stripped bare, inside and out.
“Perfect,” I whispered, burying my face in my hands.
A click. A door opening. I lifted my head. Damian. His eyes, usually impenetrable, showed something else. Concern.
He came toward me without sound—deliberate, careful.
From his pocket he pulled a card, slid it through, opened my door.
But he didn’t leave. He knelt in front of me, close enough I caught the sharp, familiar scent of him.
His fingers brushed my hair back, light as breath, as if he could erase everything with that one touch.
“I want to fly back.” My voice broke, raw plea.
He held my gaze. Silent. Then he nodded once. No argument. He lifted me into his arms and carried me inside.
The bathroom filled with steam as water ran.
I peeled out of the wrinkled dress, his presence behind me steady—too gentle for the man I thought I knew.
Each touch careful. Almost painful in its tenderness.
I closed my eyes, heat surrounding me, his silence both unbearable and soothing.
The pain inside didn’t vanish, but his patience loosened something in the knot that had been strangling me all night.
In his cabin on the plane, I stared at the clouds drifting endless outside. I had no strength left; exhaustion wrapped me like lead. Most of the flight I spent in that bed. A flight attendant came and went, but Damian stayed buried in his work elsewhere.
A soft click broke the quiet. Without a word, he lay down beside me. He took the remote, switched on The Wolf of Wall Street, then pulled me against him. My head rested on his chest. His warmth pressed close. His tenderness burned as much as it soothed.
Once again, he healed wounds he’d carved himself. Damian Miller was a master of manipulation.