he walls of Blackthorne Villa held a different kind of silence—less curated than the Langley estate, more like a breath held mid-laugh. Damien sat on the edge of his bed, one arm propped on his knee, the glow from his phone screen casting thin shadows across the sharp lines of his face.
He was smiling.
Not the fake one—the bored, smug half-smirk he wore to deflect attention. No. This one had teeth. Subtle. Real. The kind of grin born not from malice, but from amusement soaked in undertone.
Victoria Langley had messaged him.
And not just once.
She'd chased the thread. Bit it. Tried to tug it loose like it hadn't been looped around her neck from the start.
Damien scrolled lazily through the chat again, letting the words dance beneath his fingers.
"A genius, huh?"
"What kind of genius needs someone else's notes?"
