5

As I reach his table, Damian rises to his feet, ever the picture of control and composure. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored navy suit that hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to his lean waist. The crisp white shirt beneath his jacket and the subtle glint of his cufflinks scream wealth and power. His presence dominates the space, drawing the attention of everyone around us, yet his gaze remains firmly fixed on me.

“Daisy-Belle ,” he greets, his voice smooth but laced with an edge I can’t quite place. He gestures to the chair opposite him, a silent command to sit.

“Damian ,” I reply with equal coolness, ignoring the flicker of irritation in his eyes at my tone. I take the seat he offers, crossing my legs and leaning back casually, letting him see that I’m not here to bow to his authority.

A waiter appears almost immediately, offering me the drinks menu. Before I can speak, Damian waves the waiter off. “She’ll have a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc,” he says, as though he knows exactly what I want.

My lips twitch, part amused and part annoyed. “Actually, I’ll have a mojito,” I correct, glancing up at the waiter with a warm smile. “Extra mint, please.”

The waiter nods and retreats, leaving behind a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Damian ’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he picks up his glass and takes a slow sip, studying me over the rim.

“I see you’re making a statement,” he finally says, gesturing to my outfit with a pointed glance.

I shrug, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not a statement. It’s just who I am. But I suppose that’s hard to understand when your wardrobe is fifty shades of beige and navy.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly hides it. “Touché,” he mutters, swirling the liquid in his glass.

The silence stretches between us, weighted with unspoken words. I let it linger, refusing to be the first to break it. Finally, Damian sets his glass down with a soft clink, his gaze hardening as he leans forward.

“We need to talk,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

“I gathered as much,” I reply, folding my hands neatly in my lap. “What’s this about, Damian ? Another reminder of the contract? Another warning to behave myself in public?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “No. This isn’t about the contract. It’s about us.”

I arch a brow, genuinely surprised. “Us?”

“Yes, us,” he says firmly. “Whether you like it or not, Daisy-Belle , we’re getting married. That means we need to figure out how to make this work.”

I scoff, unable to hold it back. “Make this work? Damian , this isn’t a real marriage. It’s a business transaction. Let’s not pretend it’s anything more.”

His expression darkens, and for a moment, I see a flash of something raw and unguarded in his eyes. “It might have started as a transaction, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

I blink, caught off guard by his words. Before I can respond, the waiter returns with my drink, placing it carefully in front of me. I take a sip, using the moment to gather my thoughts.

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask finally, setting the glass down.

“I’m saying I want more than just a contract,” he says, his voice low but intense. “I want us to at least try. To be something more than two people stuck in a deal.”

I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You’ve made it abundantly clear that love and emotions aren’t your thing, Damian . So why the sudden change of heart?”

“It’s not about love,” he says quickly, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that makes me wonder if he’s lying. “It’s about…respect. Partnership. We don’t have to like each other, but we can at least try to coexist without making each other miserable.”

I lean back in my chair, studying him carefully. His words sound reasonable, even logical, but there’s something about his tone, the intensity in his gaze, that makes me wary. This isn’t just about respect or partnership. There’s something more to his sudden desire to “make this work,” and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more about control than compromise.

“You want respect?” I say finally, tilting my head. “Then here’s a start: stop trying to control everything I do. Let me be who I am without constantly trying to mold me into your idea of a perfect wife.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods slowly. “Fair enough. But it goes both ways, Daisy-Belle . You can’t keep pushing me away every time I try to meet you halfway.”

I sip my drink, considering his words. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point. If we’re going to survive this marriage, we’ll both need to make compromises. But trusting Damian Gunn? That feels like a gamble I’m not ready to take.

“Fine,” I say after a long pause. “We’ll try. But don’t expect me to make it easy for you, Damian .”

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the game between us begins again, the stakes higher than ever.

Damian is on his feet in an instant, his commanding presence silencing the onlookers with a single sharp glance. “Get a towel,” he barks at the waiter, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The young man stammers out an apology before scurrying away. I sit frozen, mortified as the bright liquid spreads further across my blouse. The room feels stifling under the weight of all the prying eyes.

“Daisy-Belle ,” Damian says, his voice softer now. He crouches slightly to meet my gaze, pulling a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, let me help.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, brushing him off. I snatch the handkerchief from his hand, dabbing at the stain in a futile attempt to salvage my outfit. The gesture is more out of frustration than any real hope of fixing the damage.

“Stop,” Damian says, his tone firm but not unkind. He gently takes the handkerchief back, his fingers brushing mine in the process. “Let me.”

Before I can protest, he leans closer and starts blotting at the stain with careful, deliberate movements. The proximity makes my breath hitch, and I hate how his attention—focused entirely on me—sends a shiver down my spine.

“Damian , it’s just a shirt,” I mutter, trying to downplay the situation. “I’ll change when I get home.”

He glances up at me, his piercing eyes locking onto mine. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. Not here, not now.” His words, though simple, carry a weight I don’t know how to interpret.

The waiter returns with a towel and an offer of a replacement drink, but Damian waves him off with a curt “It’s fine.” He hands me the towel instead, his focus unwavering.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” I say, more to myself than to him, as I take the towel and dab at my blouse. My voice wavers, betraying the vulnerability I’ve tried so hard to hide.

“I know you’re not,” Damian replies, his tone quieter now. He sits back down, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. “You’re stronger than most people I know. But even the strongest people need someone in their corner.”

I stop mid-motion, his words cutting through my defenses. For a moment, I want to believe him—to believe that he genuinely cares. But I can’t afford to let my guard down. Not with him.

“And you think you’re that someone?” I ask, my voice laced with skepticism.

“I could be,” he says without hesitation, his gaze steady. “If you’d let me.”

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard, leaving me momentarily speechless. But before I can respond, a cold breeze sweeps through the room as the front door opens, and someone enters. The noise of conversations dims for a split second, and I instinctively turn to see who it is.

A tall man in a sharp black suit strides into the lounge, his expression unreadable but commanding. His eyes sweep across the room before landing on Damian and me. There’s something about his presence that makes my stomach twist—a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Damian ’s expression shifts instantly. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. He mutters a curse under his breath, low enough that I barely catch it.

“Who is that?” I ask, leaning closer, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damian doesn’t answer immediately. His hand clenches around the glass in front of him, the tension in his frame palpable. Finally, he leans toward me, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the room.

“That,” he says, his tone clipped, “is someone I hoped I’d never see again.”