Chapter 5: Damien's Dilemma

I don't sleep.

Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—not the cold, powerful woman from the office, but the girl from three years ago. The one who laughed at my terrible jokes. The one who'd curl into me after we made love and trace patterns on my chest while telling me about her dreams.

The one I destroyed.

It's 3 AM and I'm in my study, laptop open, going through every document in the digital copies Aria's assistant emailed me. "A preview," Maya Chen's message said. "So you know Ms. Sterling isn't bluffing."

She's not bluffing.

Jesus Christ, she's not bluffing.

Every transaction I thought was buried. Every bribe I thought was untraceable. Every corner I cut, every law I bent, every ethical line I crossed—it's all here. Documented with the kind of thoroughness that could only come from someone with unlimited resources and unlimited motivation.

My father taught me how to hide money. How to create shell companies and offshore accounts. How to make illegal deals look legitimate on paper.

But Aria's grandfather apparently taught her how to find it all.

There's a note attached to one file—my first major deal, the one that made my reputation. The Kane Tech acquisition. Video footage of a meeting I had with a competitor. Audio of me discussing proprietary information I'd gotten from Aria. Bank records showing the payment.

And at the bottom of the document, in Aria's handwriting: This one's my favorite. You were so proud of yourself.

I close the laptop. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.

Twenty-one nights. I agreed to twenty-one nights of whatever she wants, and based on these files, she's earned the right to want my complete humiliation.

The worst part? I deserve it.

That's what's keeping me awake. Not fear of what she'll do—though that's there too—but the sick, twisted relief that someone's finally making me pay.

I've been running from this for three years. From the guilt. From the memory of Marcus Kane's obituary. From the knowledge that I'm exactly the monster my father raised me to be.

Now I can't run anymore.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

Night One. 7 PM tomorrow. Address: 432 Park Avenue, Penthouse.

I stare at the screen. That's my address. My penthouse.

How the hell does she have my address? And more importantly—

Another text: I'm already here. Sleep well, Damien.

My blood runs cold.

I'm on my feet before I even realize I'm moving, walking through my apartment like maybe I'll find her in my living room, in my kitchen, in my—

Nothing. She's not here. The doors are locked. Security didn't call.

But she was here. Or she has access. Or—

A third text: Relax. I'm not there right now. But I have your keys. Your security codes. Your passwords. I have everything, Damien. Remember that.

I sink onto my couch, heart hammering.

She's not just powerful. She's everywhere. Knows everything. I'm playing chess with someone who's already seen all my moves.

And I'm going to lose.

Victoria shows up at my office at noon without calling first. Never a good sign.

She sweeps past my assistant like she owns the place—which, technically, if we get married, she kind of will—and closes my office door with more force than necessary.

"We need to talk."

I'm exhausted. Running on coffee and dread. Not in the mood for whatever drama she's bringing. "Victoria, I'm busy—"

"Who is she?"

My stomach drops. "Who is who?"

"The woman from the engagement party. The server." Victoria's not stupid, and right now her ice-blue eyes are sharp enough to cut. "You've been different since Sunday. Distracted. Secretive. And yesterday you left the office at six and didn't answer your phone all night."

Because I was being blackmailed by the woman I destroyed. Can't exactly tell her that.

"I had a business meeting."

"Bullshit." She perches on the edge of my desk, same spot she always claims. Like she's marking territory. "I had Daddy's investigator look into her. The server. You want to know what he found?"

No. God no.

"The catering company has no record of anyone matching her description working that night. Whoever she was, she wasn't supposed to be there." Victoria leans forward. "So I'll ask again: who is she?"

I could lie. Should lie. But I'm so tired of lying.

"An old girlfriend. From before you and I met. It was a coincidence."

"Do I look stupid to you?" Her voice is dangerously quiet. "You looked at her like you'd seen a ghost. She looked at you like she wanted to kill you. That's not 'old girlfriend' energy, Damien. That's something else."

"It's complicated—"

"Then uncomplicate it." She stands. "Because my father is already having doubts about this marriage. About you. If he thinks you're weak or compromised or carrying on some sordid affair, he'll pull his investment. And without his money, your company's dead in the water. We both know it."

She's right. Everything she's saying is right.

"There's no affair," I say carefully. "She's... involved with a business competitor. I'm handling it."

"Stellar Holdings." It's not a question. Victoria did her homework. "The company that's been destroying your deals. That's her?"

I don't answer. Don't need to.

Victoria laughs. It's not a nice sound. "Oh, this is rich. You pissed off someone powerful enough to come after you professionally. What did you do, Damien? Steal from her? Sleep with her and ghost her?"

Close enough.

"I'm fixing it," I say.

"How?"

"I'm meeting with her. Negotiating. It'll be resolved."

"When?"

"Soon."

She studies me for a long moment. I can see her doing the math, weighing her options. Victoria's not in love with me any more than I'm in love with her, but she wants this marriage. Needs it for her own reasons.

Finally: "My father wants me to marry someone powerful. Someone who can expand his empire, not drag it down." She picks up her purse. "You have two weeks to prove you're still that person. Fix whatever mess you've created with this woman. Or the engagement's off."

She leaves without kissing me goodbye. Again.

I slump in my chair and resist the urge to put my fist through something.

Two weeks from Victoria. Two weeks from my board. Twenty-one nights with Aria.

The math doesn't work. Something's going to break before this is over.

Probably me.

By 6:45 PM, I'm standing outside my own building, feeling insane.

I live here. I can just go up. She can't actually keep me out of my own home.

Except she has my keys. My codes. And somehow I know—with the kind of certainty that lives in your gut—that if I go up there before seven, if I break her rules on the very first night, she'll release everything and I'll lose it all.

So I wait.

Stand on the sidewalk like an idiot, watching other residents come and go, wondering what the doorman thinks of the building's owner loitering outside.

My phone buzzes at 6:58.

You can come up now.

I take the elevator to the penthouse. My hands are shaking. I can't remember the last time I was this nervous. Maybe never. I've always been the one in control, the one with the power.

Not anymore.

The elevator opens directly into my apartment—one of the perks of buying the penthouse. Private access. Total security.

Or what used to be total security.

The lights are on. Soft jazz playing from my sound system. And there's a bottle of wine open on the counter—my wine, from my collection.

"You're late."

I spin around.

Aria's sitting in my favorite chair—the leather one by the window that looks out over Central Park. She's changed since yesterday. Gone is the severe business suit. Now she's wearing black jeans, a simple silk blouse, heels that could kill a man. Her hair's down, loose around her shoulders.

She looks beautiful. Dangerous. Comfortable.

Like she belongs here more than I do.

"It's 7:01," she says, checking her watch. "I said seven."

"The elevator—"

"Excuses already?" She stands. Walks toward me with the kind of confidence that comes from holding all the cards. "We're going to have to work on that. When I give you an instruction, you follow it. Exactly."

I should be angry. Should be asserting dominance, taking back my space, reminding her that this is my home, my territory.

But I can't. Because we both know the truth.

This isn't my territory anymore. Nothing is.

She's taken everything.

"How did you get in?" I manage.

"I bought the building." She says it casually, like she's talking about buying coffee. "Well, technically Stellar Holdings bought it. Three days ago. Closed yesterday. Your lease is now with me." She smiles. "Surprise."

The room tilts. "You bought my building."

"I bought all your buildings." She's close now, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something different than what she used to wear. More expensive. "The penthouse. Your office building. That beach house in the Hamptons you think is secret. I own them all, Damien. Which means I own you."

I can't breathe. Can't think. The walls are closing in and she's just standing there, watching me with those green eyes that used to look at me with love and now look at me with something darker.

"Why?" My voice comes out rough. "Why not just destroy me? Why this?"

"Because destruction is too fast." She reaches up, touches my tie. Straightens it. The gesture is intimate and threatening all at once. "I want you to feel it. Every night. For twenty-one nights. I want you to understand what it's like to have someone control every aspect of your life."

Her hand's still on my chest. I can feel my heart hammering against her palm.

"You're insane," I whisper.

"No." She looks up at me. "I'm rich. There's a difference. Rich people don't go crazy. We just get even."

She steps back. Walks to the bar. Pours herself a glass of my wine.

"Here's how tonight works," she says. "You're going to give me a tour of your home. Every room. You're going to tell me everything—where you sleep, where you hide things, where you go when you want to be alone. And you're going to do it knowing that there are no secrets anymore. No privacy. No control."

"And if I refuse?"

She pulls out her phone. Shows me the screen. It's an email, already typed, addressed to the SEC. All she has to do is hit send.

"Then we're done. And so are you."

I stare at the email. At her. At my life crumbling in real time.

"Where do you want to start?" I ask quietly.

Her smile is triumphant. Terrible. Beautiful.

"The bedroom," she says. "I want to see where you sleep. Where you dream. Where you pretend you're not the monster you've become."

And just like that, Night One begins.