Chapter 21
* * *
Emma
At seven-thirty sharp, I stepped out of the car in front of Damien’s building.
It was the kind of place that didn’t flaunt wealth—it breathed it. Sleek lines, black marble floors that gleamed like still water, chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings. Even the air smelled expensive—amber, cedar, and the faint metallic promise of rain before a storm.
An older woman approached at once, her deep-green wrap dress cinched neatly at the waist, low heels clicking across the polished floor. Her hair—silver threaded through ash brown—was clipped back so precisely it felt architectural.
“Hello, ma’am. Ms. Sinclair?” she asked, warmth deepening the lines at her eyes.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Yes.”
“Mr. Holt sent me down to escort you.”
“Oh.” My brain sputtered. “Right.”
“My name is Ava,” she offered, voice easy, extending a hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I managed, taking it.
She gave me that knowing look older women specialize in, before turning on her heel. “The elevators are this way.”
Her heels clicked ahead of me, her faint humming trailing through the cavernous still of the lobby as she escorted me past glass walls and curated art pieces that screamed Damien Holt’s taste. Refined. Curated. Understated.
At the elevator, she keyed in a passcode with deft fingers. The doors slid open on a chime.
“He’ll be waiting for you,” she said, eyes glinting with harmless mischief. “Enjoy your evening, Ms. Sinclair.”
My heartbeat skipped as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I looked good—or as good as an hour of frantic preparation could make me. I’d told myself I changed because my office clothes were uncomfortable, but the moment I slipped into the emerald dress, the lie shattered. The silk clung too well, the neckline too suggestive, the color too rich.
The elevator climbed in silence. My composure slipped one floor at a time, each chime tapping against my ribs like a countdown.
What the hell am I doing?
Meeting him here—his home, his space—blurred a line I hadn’t even defined. Anticipation tangled with apprehension, fluttering in the hollow of my throat.
The numbers blinked higher.
A chime, a blink, and a heartbeat later the doors parted—and there he was.
Damien leaned against a wall of dark wood and low amber light, wearing black slacks, a fitted T-shirt, and a blazer that clung to his shoulders like sin.
His posture was deceptively casual, but the moment his eyes found mine, he came alive—bright and certain, breaking through the air between us like sunlight after a storm.
He pushed off the wall.
Three long strides, and he was in front of me, arms sliding around my waist and up my back, pulling me flush against him. My lungs stuttered—then my hands fisted in the back of his blazer, dragging him impossibly closer as his cologne tangled with my perfume.
I pressed my cheek to his chest, listening as his heartbeat stuttered under my ear. Something caught in him—just once—like he couldn’t quite hide it.
A laugh escaped me, muffled against him. He was nervous, too.
“What?” he asked, the word rumbling through his chest.
“Nothing,” I murmured, peeling myself away from him. Already missing the heat of him.
His hand stayed at the small of my back as we walked deeper into his home. Brick architecture. Clean lines. Masculine. The place was striking, but what caught me wasn’t the scale—it was the bits of him scattered everywhere—lived-in edges tucked inside all the sleek lines.
Framed photos lined the shelves—snapshots of a life I didn’t expect from the man in front of me. One stopped me cold: a younger Damien, maybe eight or nine, grinning in the arms of a woman whose joy radiated through the glossy print.
“That’s Rosie,” he explained.
I studied the photo. A strange tenderness seeped into my chest, accompanied by the all too familiar twinge of pain. “You look like her.”
He chuckled. “That’s what everyone says. I hated hearing it when I was younger but now…” Something eased in his smile. “Now I take it as a compliment.”
“You should,” I said. “She’s beautiful.”
He tilted his head. “Does that mean you think I’m a beautiful man?”
I gave him an exaggerated once-over, tapping my chin like I was considering a business proposal. He went stock-still—sweat beading at his temples.
Then—with an exhale. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you were handsome,” I admitted. The tease dissolved into something raw, terrifyingly honest.
He laughed—relief dropping his shoulders. “Thank god. I was starting to think we were reenacting some corporate Beauty and the Beast situation.”
“Are you calling me a beast, Mr. Holt?”
He threw his hands up immediately, laughing harder. “Absolutely not. Never.”
Then he stepped closer, the humor thinning into something tender. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
My pulse kicked painfully. Compliments like that never fit right on my skin.
“Please,” I muttered, color climbing my neck.
He reached out, gentle fingers catching a curl and twirling it once around his finger. The air shifted—like spiderwebs whispering against my skin, a tingling awareness sparking down my arms.
“I’m not joking,” he said. “Remember? I was a psycho from the beginning—obsessed with a woman I didn’t even know.
Your intelligence pulled me in. But your looks…
” He exhaled slow, eyes dragging over me like confession.
“That’s what turned me into a madman. And once I started talking to you?
” His head shook, helpless. “I was gone.”
Heat surfaced across my chest, my throat, my face—every rational thought dissolving into a hazy, helpless fog. I dipped my head, though warmth tugged insistently at my lips.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” I said, attention still on my feet.
“Are you kidding me?” he balked. “You’re the third person who’s said that to me this week. I’m starting to think it’s a personality issue.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yes!” he said, wide-eyed. “My mom said it on Saturday, and Lucio said it earlier today.”
I stared. “You ate at Lucio’s today? After eating it last night?”
“What can I say? I’m a man of habit.” He grinned, sheepish and annoyingly charming.
I huffed, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “With an undiagnosed personality disorder,” I muttered.
“That’s it,” he announced dramatically, already pulling out his phone. “I’m making an appointment immediately.”
I laughed, nudging his phone back down with my fingertips.
Something passed between us—light layered over something heavier in my chest. Truths finally laid out between us, and the knowledge there were still more waiting in the wings made the air shift, sparking with anticipation.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, taking a step back like the ground had tilted under him. “Wine? Water? I’ve got a pinot noir open.”
“Wine sounds good.”
“Perfect. I’ll—uh—be right back.”
He practically jogged down the hall.
I watched him go, caught somewhere between disbelief and satisfaction. He stumbled slightly, and I bit back a smile. Good. Suffer with me. The thought gentled something still buzzing in my veins.
The realization slid through me like warm syrup, settling some of the nerves still sparking beneath my skin.
I looked around: snapshots tucked between sleek frames, art that belonged here, whiskey catching the light. The space felt deliberate but not sterile. Structured but warm.
This was his world.
“Wine,” Damien said softly as he reappeared, two glasses in hand. The deep red shimmered between us as he crossed the space and offered me one.
“Thank you,” I said, fingers sliding along the cool stem.
He shifted his weight, nerves still buzzing lightly around him. “I thought we could sit on the terrace,” he said, nodding toward the glass doors. “It’s too beautiful a night not to.”
“That sounds wonderful.” And it truly did.
“Good,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Just this way.”
He hesitated one breath before moving, and that pause told me the truth: He was just as rattled. Then his hand grazed the small of my back—barely a touch, more intention than contact—and warmth unfurled through my stomach in a slow, disorienting sweep.
I let him guide me. Past the couch. Across polished floors. Through the open terrace doors—and straight into a dream.
Fairy lights scattered overhead like flecks of gold.
Vines curled along the railing, weaving around lanterns until the city blurred into a watercolor of lights beyond.
A small table waited at the center—candles flickering low, their glow mirrored in crystal glassware.
A single white daffodil stood in a vase, luminous as moonlight.
“It’s beautiful.” The words caught in my throat. “You did all this for…”
“You.” Simple. Certain.
The word trembled in the warm air between us. A shaky exhale followed, almost self-conscious. “I hoped you’d like it.”
An unguarded smile tugged at my mouth, blooming from something deeper than politeness. Something tender. Something dangerous.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” Color rose at the base of his throat. “But you deserve it.”
The words landed delicate and devastating, unsettling something I’d worked hard to keep still. My lips parted around a response I couldn’t form. I didn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness.
“Allow me.” He eased my chair out, and I lowered myself into it. The night air stirred my hair, cool and impossibly fresh—no exhaust, no grit, nothing familiar.
He settled across from me. Candlelight flickered between us, and for a moment, nothing else existed.
The world had narrowed to this terrace.
This table.
This impossible man.
“This is… much different than I was expecting,” I admitted, fingers tightening around the stem of my glass.
His brows lifted, faint amusement easing the sharp line of his features. “What were you expecting?”
“Something…” I looked away, candlelight catching my glass. “Less romantic.”