Chapter 26
* * *
Emma
Morning light spilled across the room, pale and golden, tracing the sheets tangled around our legs.
We’d ended up here in the early hours of the morning, when the birds woke and the first Saturday noises drifted up from the street.
I’d shuffled into his room barefoot and wrapped in a blanket, Damien following behind—comfortable in his skin in a way only a Greek god could get away with.
He’d pulled me close when we finally collapsed into bed, both of us barely conscious, exhaustion tugging at our eyelids. And now, his arm lay heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Good morning, handsome.” I wiggled closer, brushing against him.
He let out a low, lazy laugh. “If you keep that up, neither of us will make it out of this bed.”
“And what if we didn’t?” I teased.
He angled his head, lips brushing my ear. “Want to find out?”
A smile tugged at me. “Is that a warning?”
“Only if you’d rather not end up sorer than you already are.”
“Hmm.” I pretended to consider it. “I’m actually not that sore.”
His mouth curved against my shoulder, wicked and pleased. “Not that sore, huh?”
Before I could answer, his hand dragged me backward, rolling me beneath him in one fluid motion. I squeaked—actually squeaked—as he caged me in with his body.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, lips grazing mine, “I can fix that.”
My laugh dissolved into a gasp as he kissed me again—slow, deep, devastating—pulling me under until thought scattered and the light blurred into gold.
* * *
Two hours later, I was sitting at Damien’s kitchen table while Ava wreaked cheerful havoc a few feet away. The two of us scrolled through last night’s emails like nothing world-altering had happened on the terrace—or in bed—or in the shower.
Damien’s chin tipped toward the egg currently welding itself to the pan. “I think something’s burning.”
He’d warned me: Ava was a phenomenal baker and an objectively terrible cook. He’d tried to ban her from the stove; she’d staged a rebellion.
“Just pretend you like it,” he muttered, leaning closer. “We’ll order lunch. Early. Very early.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Ava chided, flapping smoke away like it was perfume.
Damien sighed—long and resigned. “Please don’t burn the house down.”
“Come now,” I said, lifting my mug. “It’s an egg, not candy.”
He set his phone on the table. “Really? We were having such a good morning.”
“What?” I asked, all innocence.
“You know exactly what.”
Ava snorted loudly enough to startle the smoke alarm. “I meant to tell you. The birds were all over the patio this morning. Drinking out of the wine glasses.”
Damien pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ava…”
“I think I saw one trip,” she said solemnly.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. Wings everywhere.”
Damien pressed his forehead to the table. “Unbelievable.”
“You mean the one with the long tail?” I asked.
“Birds don’t have ta—”
Ava whipped toward me. “You saw it, too?”
I bit back a laugh. “Oh yeah. Tragic.”
Damien looked between us like we’d formed a two-woman strike team. A soft chuckle drifted from the stove.
“She’s a quick one, Damien,” Ava said, tossing me a wink. “You should bring her to dinner tonight. Rosie would love to meet her.”
The blood drained from my face.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he said—then threw me a lifeline. “But it’s too early for that.”
“No, it isn’t.” Ava scoffed, waving him off as she served our plates. “You two are little lovebirds. Just like our drunk crow friend.”
My chuckle died when I saw my plate. The toast resembled charred building material, the egg a small crime scene, and… mustard greens?
Damien took a heroic bite. “Thank you, Ava. Delicious, as always.”
“Anytime, hun,” she said, drifting away. “And let me know if you change your mind. I’ll text your mom.”
“I have her number, too, Ava.”
“Yeah, but you never use it,” she quipped, already walking down the hall.
“She’s a liar!” Damien yelled after her. “I call her at least once a day—sometimes twice!”
“So you hate your mom, huh?” I deadpanned.
“I love my mom,” he exclaimed. Offended. “You know that.”
I did know that. One of the few truths I never questioned.
I smiled as he discreetly covered his ruined breakfast with a napkin.
“So… what do you want to do today?” He reached for his coffee.
“I’m not sure. We can’t really go anywhere. People might see us.”
“I’m always good to Netflix and chill a little more,” he offered, smirking.
I winced, adjusting in my chair—my lower half loudly objecting. “Yeah… I’m gonna have to pass this time.”
“Come on,” he coaxed. “You were really getting the hang of it.”
“What do you mean, getting the hang of it?” I demanded.
His grin turned wolfish. “I don’t like to toot my own horn or anything…”
I flicked mustard greens at him.
He caught it in his mouth with that infuriatingly pleased look of his.
“You’re such a weirdo.”
“But I’m your weirdo,” he shot back, swallowing grimly.
“You are, huh?”
His expression gentled. “I have been since the beginning, Emma. Whether you claim me is another thing.”
I folded my arms. “Claim you?”
“Yes.” Simple. Certain. “Claim me.”
“As what?”
“Whatever you decide,” he murmured. “I’m not in a rush. I just want you to know I’m here.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll still show up begging for food like an abandoned dog. Eventually you’ll crack.”
I laughed, startled and warm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you two forming a support group for that bird isn’t?”
“It fell into a wine glass, Damien. That bird had a harder night than both of us.”
He brandished his fork like a prosecutor. “That bird was drunk off my expensive cabernet. And did it thank me? No.”
“It’s a bird, Damien.”
“An entitled one!”
We carried on like this—past breakfast and an extremely early lunch. Past Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
Me slipping into his building after work like a secret I couldn’t stop touching. Him walking me out at dawn, always a few steps behind or ahead so the doormen wouldn’t talk. Staggered exits. Separate cars. Pretending we hadn’t spent the night wrapped around each other.
And through it all, we floated in something dangerously close to domestic bliss—shared coffees, half-burnt eggs, emails from his kitchen table. Nights falling asleep on his terrace or tangled in his sheets, the city humming below us like a secret.
For nearly four days, real life stayed politely at the door.
* * *
Then Thursday morning shattered it.
A ping. Nothing dramatic.
Subject: Reminder—Elion Preliminary Audit Package Due
From: Gregory Davidson
My stomach dropped.
The preview glowed like a warning flare:
Emma, I’m formally requesting a preliminary audit of Elion’s financials. Please send by end of day tomorrow.
“Asshole,” I whispered.
“What’s up?” Damien asked, reaching for his toothbrush.
“Davidson just emailed me asking for the audit packet. Deadline tomorrow.”
“Fucker. Good thing Margaret gave you a heads up.”
“Yup,” I snapped, sharper than intended, setting my phone down and turning to the mirror.
Damien paused mid-stroke, toothbrush stilled. He watched me in the reflection, concern flickering in the corner of his eye.
I ignored it.
I gathered my curls into a ponytail, fingers clumsy. A few strands slipped free. Before I could shove them back, his hand appeared behind me catching the missed curls and holding them in place.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
He didn’t answer.
Just held the strands steady while I fastened the claw clip—grounded in the places I suddenly wasn’t.
The rest of the morning blurred past. On Sunday, we’d stopped by my apartment to grab clothes, and he’d laid out outfits for me every morning since—a ritual I pretended not to love.
Today, a plum dress waited on the bed.
I reached for it… and something small slipped off the hanger.
“Really?” I lifted the minuscule G-string. “I can’t wear this to work.”
“It’s not meant for work,” he said, glancing at the clock. “We still have thirty minutes…”
I threw it at him. “Absolutely not.”
He caught it one-handed, lifted it, sniffed dramatically, and sighed.
“Yeah. Definitely needs… further research.”
“Damien.”
“What?” He shrugged. “Science.”