Damian's penthouse was silent when he returned home.
The click of the door behind him echoed off polished marble floors and tall glass walls that overlooked the glittering city skyline. A smart system turned the lights on as he stepped inside, revealing a space that was clean, modern, and utterly soulless.
Every surface gleamed. The floors were spotless. The furniture was curated and expensive — dark wood, deep leather, soft neutrals. It looked like a magazine spread.
It didn't feel like home.
It never had.
He tossed his keys on the entry table, loosened his tie, and walked straight to the kitchen, where a chilled bottle of imported scotch waited like an old habit. He poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler, didn't bother with ice, and downed the first sip before exhaling slowly.
Everything should have felt perfect. The city at his feet. The contracts signed. The empire secure.
Instead, he felt restless. Unsettled. His mind kept circling the same name.
Emily.
He ran a hand through his hair and moved toward the massive glass windows lining the living room. From up here, everything looked small. Even the hospital he'd left an hour ago.
But she didn't feel small.
She took up every inch of his thoughts.
Seeing her in that hospital room — pale under fluorescent lights, her eyes tired but grateful — had stirred something in him deeper than he expected. She hadn't tried to flatter him. Hadn't used the moment to beg or flirt or manipulate. She'd just… been herself. Kind. Humble. Strong.
Even in the middle of a crisis, she'd somehow made him feel seen.
And her grandmother?
A force of nature.
He couldn't help but smile when he remembered Irene's teasing. "Take my granddaughter to dinner next time."
He'd almost laughed. Almost. He couldn't remember the last time someone outside his inner circle spoke to him that casually — like he was just a man. Not a billionaire. Not a boss. Just… someone sitting by her granddaughter's bedside.
Someone who cared.
He walked through the penthouse slowly, scotch in hand, passing the sleek, cold lines of furniture that had never held any real meaning.
Dining table — rarely used.
Office — untouched tonight.
Bedroom — massive, pristine, and empty.
It all felt sterile. Like a life perfectly designed to keep people out.
But now, Emily had slipped into the cracks. And no matter how tightly he kept the rest of his world sealed, she was in.
He set his glass down and walked to the bookshelf, his fingers trailing over the spines of hardcovers he barely remembered buying. One of them was hers — or rather, like hers. He'd seen it in her tote bag once, dog-eared and worn. A novel she'd re-read, judging by the creased spine.
He'd bought his own copy the next day. Read it in one sitting.
Ridiculous, he thought, almost laughing at himself. I'm losing it.
But he didn't feel foolish.
He felt alive.
And maybe a little terrified of it.
Because this wasn't just lust. It wasn't a phase. Emily was nothing like the women he'd entertained in the past — the ones who were drawn to the money, the name, the suits and cars and prestige. She didn't want that from him.
She didn't want anything from him.
And that's exactly what made him want to give her everything.
Damian sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at the city he controlled — and wondering how a girl with tired eyes and a coffee-stained blouse had become the one thing he couldn't command.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
A message.
Alex: So, did you bring flowers like the grandma ordered, or did you just stare at her and brood?
He shook his head, typing back.
Damian: I showed up. That was enough.
Alex:Careful, man. You're starting to sound like a leading man in a romance novel.
Damian tossed the phone aside and leaned back, arms stretched across the sofa. His eyes traced the ceiling as he let out a slow breath.
Maybe he was.
Maybe for the first time in his life, he didn't want to be the businessman in the shadows or the untouchable CEO with a steel heart.
Maybe he just wanted to be a man.
For her.