How I met my forbidden fruit.

Claire's POV

I am not going to sleep again. I might as well stay up, as I need to go to work early today. Yes, I am working at Whitfield Incorporated. Damon has changed my life for the better. I have a better job now. A job I wanted my whole life since I finished university. I was in a dead-end job at Green and Partners. I was one of the attorneys there, but this is a small town, and the court cases are mostly divorce cases. It was boring. However, we did get the bigger cases, people suing bigger companies, etc. However, although I did all the preparations and everything for Mike, he always took the credit. They never wanted me to handle the bigger cases. Now, I am the legal advisor for Whifield Incorporated. I smile as I think back to the night that changed my life for the better. 

*Flashback*

Two months after my divorce, fate, or maybe irony, decided to intervene. I had no job and no money, so I could not move out of town. My apartment was at least paid for, and my neighbour, a sweet older lady, took care of me while I was trying to find a job in this stupid town to get money to move. The town’s Community Centre was holding a fundraiser, something about restoring the old library wing. I volunteered half out of obligation, half to prove to myself that I could still show my face in public. I was setting out donation envelopes at the check-in table when a deep voice interrupted.

“You’re Claire Green, aren’t you?” The voice asked. I looked up and froze.

The man standing before me was tall, broad-shouldered, with streaks of silver in his dark hair. His eyes, a sharp grey-blue, studied me with an intensity that made my pulse skip. He looked older than Mark, older than me. However, there was something about him. Something dangerous. Something that intrigued me. 

“Claire Johnson, not Green anymore,” I said cautiously.

“Damon Whitfield,” He said and extended a hand.  The name hit me like a slap. Whitfield.

“You’re ...” My voice was breaking. 

“Sienna’s uncle,” He finished for me, his lips curving wryly.

“Of course. Figures.” I say, my stomach turned.

"Figures?” He asked his brown lifting. 

“You’re all the same. Arrogant, entitled, and blind to the destruction your precious niece causes.” I said, crossed my arms, refusing to take his hand. Something flickered in his expression, amusement, maybe even approval.

“Ah. So you’ve met Sienna," He said. I blinked, thrown off balance. 

“Met her? She stole my husband.” I said. Damon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then I owe you an apology. For the blood we unfortunately share.” He said. I stared at him, startled into silence. Damon inclined his head, his voice lower now.

“Believe me, Miss Johnson, I’ve spent years wishing I wasn’t related to her either.” He smiled bitterly. For the first time in months, I felt a spark of something I hadn’t expected. Not pity. Not grief. Something else. Something dangerous. I had been right about one thing: life enjoyed humiliating me. I spent the rest of the fundraiser trying to avoid Damon Whitfield, weaving through the crowded hall like a hunted animal. Every time I caught sight of him, broad shoulders, deliberate stride, the kind of presence that made people instinctively move aside, my stomach twisted. It wasn’t just that he was Sienna’s uncle. It was that he carried himself with the same effortless confidence, the same aura of someone who expected the world to bend for him. And yet there had been something in his eyes when he spoke of Sienna. Something bitter. Something sharp. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I hated myself for caring.

By the end of the night, I were exhausted, ready to retreat to the quiet safety of my apartment, the only thing I got out of the divorce. But as I stepped into the cool night air, with arms full of leftover donation envelopes, a voice stopped me. 

“Leaving already?” Damon asked. I turned sharply. Damon leaned against the brick wall, hands in his pockets, watching me with those piercing grey eyes. My heart lurched, though I told myself it was annoyance, not anything else.

“Some of us actually work at these things. We don’t just show up to drink wine and network.” I said sharply. One corner of his mouth curved upward.

“Touché. Though in my defence, I did donate," Damon said. 

“Good for you,” I muttered, brushing past him. But he fell into step beside me, too close, his stride easy and unhurried.

“You know you don’t have to treat me like the enemy. I can assure you, Sienna and I have nothing in common," He said, his tone deceptively casual. I let out a short, sharp laugh.

“Except blood," I said. His jaw tightened, just for a second, before his expression smoothed again.

“Blood doesn’t mean loyalty, not when it’s poison,” He said quietly.  That stopped me in my tracks. I glanced up at him, startled. There was no mockery in his face, no condescension, just a tired kind of truth. For a heartbeat, I didn’t know what to say. Then I shook her head.

“Maybe. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t jump at the chance to trust you," I said.  Damon inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point.

“Fair enough,” He said. I expected him to leave then, but instead he shifted, his eyes softening.

“I know what she did to you, and I’m sorry.” He said. I blinked. The words were simple, but they carried a weight I hadn’t expected. Nobody in Sienna’s orbit had ever acknowledged the damage she’d caused. They’d all brushed it aside, dismissed it as gossip, or worse, treated me like the pathetic ex-wife who couldn’t keep her husband. But Daniel wasn’t pitying me. He wasn’t excusing Sienna. He was simply… acknowledging it. I hated the way my throat tightened, the way heat prickled behind my eyes. I hated that his voice could slip past my defences like that. I turned away quickly, hugging the envelopes tighter to my chest. 

“Don’t pretend you care.” My voice cracked more than I wanted.

“I’m not pretending,” Damon said. The quiet conviction in his tone rattled her more than Sienna’s cruellest insults ever had. I spun on her heel, desperate to put distance between us.

"Stay out of my life, Mr. Whirfield," I shouted over my shoulder. He didn’t follow this time. 

"Some things are harder to stay out of than you think.” He shouted back. His voice reached me before I could disappear into the night. Later, that night, lying in bed, I tried to convince myself I hated him. He was infuriating. Arrogant. A reminder of everything I despised. And yet, against my will, his words replayed in her mind. The way his voice had dipped when he said he was sorry. The way he looked at me, not like I was broken, not like I was a cautionary tale, but like I was seen.  Some part of me, the reckless, wounded part that still burned for justice, for something to fill the emptiness, whispered that maybe, just maybe, Damon was dangerous in a way that didn’t scare me.  Dangerous in a way I wanted. 

*End of flashback.*