Story 2: Unfinished Business

I saw him before he saw me.

The hotel ballroom was packed—crystal lights, expensive perfume, the low hum of money and champagne. I was only there because my firm insisted someone from the legal team attend the charity gala. Black dress. Heels that already hurt. Smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

Then Damien walked in.

Four years. That was how long it had been since he walked out of our apartment at 2 a.m. with a single duffel bag and the words “I can’t do this anymore” still hanging in the air. No fight. No dramatic goodbye. Just the quiet sound of the door closing and the sudden, brutal silence that followed.

He looked better than memory had any right to allow.

Taller somehow. Broader in the shoulders. The black tuxedo fit like it had been cut for him alone. Dark hair slightly longer than he used to keep it. The same sharp jaw. The same mouth that once knew every sound I made when I came.

Our eyes locked across the room.

For three full seconds neither of us moved.

Then he started walking toward me.

My pulse slammed so hard I felt dizzy. I turned away, grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray, and pretended to study the ice sculpture like it held the secrets of the universe. It didn’t help. I could feel him getting closer. The air changed.

“Lila.”

His voice was lower than I remembered. Rougher.

I turned slowly.

Up close he was worse. The years had carved new lines at the corners of his eyes, but they only made him look more dangerous. His gaze moved over me once—dress, bare shoulders, the way the fabric clung to my hips—then settled on my face with an intensity that made my thighs press together on instinct.

“Damien.” I kept my voice steady. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here either.” A small pause. “You look good.”

“You look the same.”

A faint, almost private smile touched his mouth. “Liar.”

The word landed low in my stomach. He used to say it exactly like that—soft, knowing—right before he pinned my wrists and made me admit what I wanted.

Someone laughed too loudly nearby. A waiter passed between us. The spell cracked just enough for me to step back.

“I should mingle,” I said.

“Stay.”

It wasn’t a request.

I stayed.

We ended up near the tall windows overlooking the city, far enough from the crowd that the music softened. Damien took a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving mine.

“You still hate me?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think about you enough to hate you.”

Another lie. He knew it. The corner of his mouth lifted again.

“I’ve thought about you,” he said. “More than I should.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I looked away, out at the skyline, but I could still feel the weight of his stare.

“What do you want, Damien?”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne—the same one he used to wear when he fucked me against the kitchen counter on Sunday mornings.

“I want to know if you still make that sound,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear, “when someone bites the inside of your thigh.”

My breath left me in a soft, involuntary exhale.

He didn’t smile this time. He just watched the way the words landed, calm and patient, like he already knew the answer.

I set my glass down on the windowsill because my hands had started to shake.

“You’re engaged,” I said. I’d seen the photos months ago. Some polished blonde with perfect teeth and a trust fund.

“Was.” His voice stayed even. “It ended six weeks ago.”

I hated the small, traitorous flicker of relief that moved through me.

Damien’s gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to the pulse I could feel beating in my throat. “I’m in the penthouse suite upstairs. 1801. The door will be unlocked until midnight.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Then don’t come.” He stepped back, giving me space, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. “But if you do… wear the dress. I want to take it off you myself.”

He walked away without another word.

I stood there for a long time after he disappeared into the crowd, champagne forgotten, heart slamming against my ribs. Every nerve ending felt too close to the surface. I could still hear the exact way he’d said that sound. I could still remember the precise pressure of his teeth on the soft skin of my inner thigh and the way I’d come apart under it.

I told myself I wouldn’t go.

I told myself four years was long enough to be over him.

Then I looked at the time.

10:47 p.m.

And I already knew I was going to be at his door before midnight.