Chapter 23
I step into the penthouse, the city lights flickering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it’s not the skyline that stops me in my tracks.
It’s Elena.
The New York skyline silhouetting her, bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier, and for the first time in a long fucking time, I forget what I was about to say.
The gown fits her to perfection, the deep-red fabric draping over her curves in a way that should be illegal.
The slit teases the line of her leg, the delicate straps exposing the smooth expanse of her shoulders, and when she turns at the sound of my footsteps, her hazel eyes catch the light, gleaming with something unreadable.
Christ.
I’ve seen beautiful women. Been with beautiful women. Women who worked hard to be perfect, poised, polished. But this? This is something else entirely.
She isn’t just beautiful.
She’s breathtaking.
I walk toward her, loosening my tie just enough to find my breath again.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. Her eyes run down my body, taking in my black tux.
I stop just short of her, my fingers itching to reach for her, to trace the delicate straps on her shoulders, to follow the curve of her spine where the fabric dips scandalously low.
“You’re impossible not to stare at,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.
Her lips part slightly, and I take advantage of the moment, reaching into my jacket pocket and pulling out the small navy-blue box.
“Before we go,” I say, flipping it open, “one last thing.”
Her gaze drops to the box, and for the first time tonight, I catch the flicker of surprise in her expression.
Nestled in the velvet are the pair of diamond earrings, set in white gold—elegant, timeless, refined.
The moment stretches between us, tension thick in the air.
“Damien…” she exhales, her voice softer than before. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I know.” I cut her off, my tone steady. “But I wanted to.”
She hesitates, her fingers twitching as if she’s unsure whether to accept or refuse.
“Elena.” I lower my voice just slightly, letting it drop into something quieter, more coaxing. “Let me.”
She presses her lips together, and I know she’s about to agree before she even says it.
Finally, she reaches out, her fingers brushing the edge of the velvet.
And just as she’s about to lift them, I snap the box shut with a quick flick of my wrist.
She jumps slightly, her head snapping up, her eyes narrowing in exasperation.
“Seriously?” she huffs, crossing her arms.
I smirk. “Couldn’t resist.”
She tries to look unimpressed, but the corner of her mouth twitches, betraying the amusement lurking just beneath.
I open the box again, this time holding it steady as she picks up the earrings, her fingers tracing over the delicate settings.
She lifts them to her ears, securing each one, and the second she turns back to me, I swear the breath leaves my lungs.
They’re perfect.
Simple but striking, luminous against the soft glow of her skin, catching the light as she tilts her head slightly.
I take her in, from the gown to the way the diamonds gleam at her ears, and something deep inside me tightens.
She doesn’t need expensive jewelry to be beautiful.
But fuck, does she wear it well.
“How do they look?” she asks, and I realize I haven’t said a damn word.
I clear my throat, steadying myself. “Stunning.”
She watches me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression, before smoothing her hands over her dress.
“Well,” she says, tilting her head. “It seems we’re not curating a list of your admirable traits after all. And there is no merger event today.” Her eyes narrow in speculation. “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
A slow smirk pulls at my lips. “You’ll see.”
She narrows her eyes further. “You’re not going to tell me?”
I offer my arm, my other hand placing the navy-blue box onto the counter. “It’s a surprise.”
She doesn’t argue this time.
With a small shake of her head, she slips her fingers around my arm, letting me lead her toward the elevator.
As the doors slide shut behind us, I steal another glance at her, watching the way the diamonds catch the light, the way she carries herself with effortless grace.
The night hasn’t even started yet, and I already know?—
No matter how this ends, I’ll never forget the way she looks right now.
T he limo pulls up to an exclusive restaurant, discreet and understated, tucked away on one of the quieter streets of Manhattan. The kind of place with no sign out front, where reservations don’t exist because only a select few even know it’s here.
I step out first and help Elena from the limo, her gaze drifting up the length of the sleek, modern facade before she turns to me, one brow arched.
“Of course,” she muses, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Let me guess—Wolfe Industries is stitched into the linens somewhere?”
I smirk, offering my arm as I guide her inside. “I like to have options.”
The ma?tre d’ greets us without a word, simply nodding before leading us toward an intimate, candlelit table near the back. The space is warm, ambient, the sound of soft jazz floating through the air.
The moment we’re seated, the tension of the day seems to bleed away.
We take our time.
There’s no rush, no formality. No pressure to perform for anyone else.
Conversation flows between us as effortlessly as breathing.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel—light.
Happy.
Like I’ve finally realized just how empty my life was before her.
Work, mergers, money—powerful, yes. But hollow.
I don’t know when I started measuring my success in bank accounts and acquisitions instead of in moments like these. The kind where laughter sneaks up on me. Where the taste of a drink lingers a little longer because I don’t feel the need to rush to the next thing.
Where a woman sits across from me, holding my gaze, my attention, and I want to stay in this moment just a little while longer.
She takes a sip of wine, and I watch the way her lips press against the glass before setting it down, licking the faint taste of red from the corner of her mouth.
“So,” I say, cutting through the lull in conversation, “your turn to tell me.”
She blinks, tilting her head. “Tell you what?”
I lean back in my chair, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “I told you about little Damien. Tell me about little Elena.”
For the first time tonight, she stiffens.
It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it.
The slight way she tenses, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.
I know that look.
It’s the look of someone deciding whether to let a secret slip or to bury it deeper.
I’m about to brush it off, tell her to forget it, when she exhales softly and lifts her gaze to meet mine.
“Well,” she starts, voice even but quiet, “there’s not much to tell.”
She pauses.
“Mostly because I don’t remember much of anything.”
Something in my chest tightens.
She hesitates, and I know—whatever she’s about to say, it’s significant.
“When I was seven years old,” she continues, voice softer now, “I was found on the steps of St. James Orphanage with a note that said my name was Elena.”
For the second time tonight—I’m speechless.
I stare at her, my grip tightening around my glass, the warmth of the whiskey suddenly meaningless.
She says it so simply. Like it’s just a fact. Something ordinary.
But there’s nothing ordinary about being abandoned.
Nothing ordinary about being seven years old with no past. No family. No home.
Elena keeps her expression smooth, controlled, but I see it now—the way she holds herself together like she’s used to keeping this story locked away, like she’s practiced saying it in a way that makes it sound like it doesn’t matter.
But it does.
It matters.
The way she said seven years old rattles something inside me.
I was twelve when my own world fell apart. Fourteen when I had to start raising myself because no one else would.
But—fuck. Seven.
Too damn young to be left with nothing.
I set my glass down carefully, pressing my elbows onto the table, studying her. “That’s all you know?”
Her lips twitch like she’s considering a smile, but it never fully forms. Instead, she just lifts one shoulder in a shrug.
“That’s all anyone knows.”
There’s a note of finality in her tone, but I don’t miss the way her fingers toy with the stem of her wine glass, restless, like the weight of what she just said is pressing down on her more than she wants to admit.
“The nuns tried to place me in foster homes, but you can imagine, I had separation issues. None of them lasted long.”
She’s opening up the darker parts of herself. Likely the parts that should stay hidden when she’s on the job.
Elena is paid to be what her contract wants. Never herself.
It stirs something in me, thinking I may be the only one she’s given this side of herself to. That it makes me different from the others.
“The older children get, the less likely adoption is for them.”
My heart keeps breaking, thinking about the small girl, the teenager who called an orphanage home. Alone. With no one but strangers to look after her.
“When I turned eighteen, I aged out, and that was that.”
I watch her closely as she rolls the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, her gaze drifting somewhere distant. Somewhere I can’t follow.
“When I was little,” she says, voice even but quiet, “I thought I’d been abandoned. That whoever left me on those steps didn’t love me enough to keep me.”
She exhales softly, shaking her head. “But as I got older, I started thinking… maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe leaving me there was the only thing they could do to save me. Maybe wherever I came from, whoever left me… there was nothing left. And that was their way of giving me a shot. The only shot they had to give.”
She meets my eyes then, something deep and searching in her expression, as if she’s measuring whether I understand.
And fuck, do I understand.
Most people wouldn’t see it that way. Most people wouldn’t have the strength to look at their past and find something more in it—something beyond the pain. But she does. And it’s just another thing that makes her different. That makes her special.
“So if someone did that to save me,” she continues, tilting her head slightly, “they had to care about me. And I wasn’t going to waste it.”
A small, sad smile plays on her lips, her voice softer now. “Maybe someone out there is wondering what happened. If I made it. If I survived.”
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, studying her. When I set my glass down, my voice is quiet, firm. “I’d say you’ve done more than survive.”
She watches me carefully.
“You’ve thrived.”
Her brows lift just a fraction, lips parting like she wasn’t expecting that.
For a moment, we just sit there, the city humming softly around us, the world narrowing to this conversation, to this moment.
Then, I raise my glass, tilting it toward her.
“To thriving.”
Her lips curve—not the full, teasing smiles I’ve pulled from her before, but something real. Something that makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
She lifts her own glass, clinking it softly against mine before taking a slow sip.
I see the sadness still lingering in her eyes, the weight of a past that has shaped her but never broken her. And I know it’s time to move on.
I set my glass down and push back from the table, rising to my feet before extending a hand toward her.
She eyes me warily. “What now?”
I smirk. “You’ll see.”
She places her hand in mine, her touch fleeting, barely there before I lead her through the restaurant, out into the night.
The city is quieter now, the distant hum of traffic muted by the stillness between us. I open the car door, watching as she slips inside, the soft rustle of silk against leather filling the space.
I slide in beside her, the limo gliding smoothly into motion, the glow of the skyline flickering against the tinted windows.
Neither of us speaks.
Her hand drifts down to the seat between us, resting lightly against the leather. I don’t move mine, but I don’t pull it away either.
Our pinkies are so close they could touch.
Almost.
I feel the warmth of her skin, just within reach. It would take nothing to close the distance, to slide my hand over hers, to offer her something—reassurance, comfort, a tether to the present instead of the past she just let me see.
I want to. Fuck, do I want to.
But I don’t.
Instead, I sit in the quiet, letting it stretch, letting it settle.
Letting her know she doesn’t have to fill the silence with anything at all.
And maybe that’s the real difference between us.
I spent my whole life clawing for control, for power, for something to hold onto.
She learned how to exist in the spaces between.
So I let her have this one.
Let her sit in the stillness.
Let her breathe.
And for the first time in a long fucking time, I do the same.