Chapter 3: The Devil in a Perfect Suit

There are men born to lead, and then there was Damon Damien Alejandro—a man carved from control itself.

He represented perfection in motion.

Six-foot-two, with broad shoulders built like armor and a jawline that could cut glass. Every feature on his face seemed to have been chiseled with obsessive precision—high cheekbones, sharp nose, a slight cleft in his chin that softened just enough of the severity in his expression. His skin was smooth and pale under the golden lights, as if sunlight barely touched him. Eyes like polished obsidian—dark, unreadable, and always watching. And when he looked at you, truly looked at you—it felt like he saw everything.

His hair, raven black, was always immaculately styled—never a strand out of place. His voice, deep and deliberate, held the kind of weight that made people stop mid-sentence. He didn’t need to raise it. He was the type of man people listened to simply because silence was worse than whatever he might say.

Women stared. Men stepped aside. Doors opened for him without being touched.

He dressed the way he moved—sharp, precise, and dangerous. Italian suits tailored to his frame like second skin. Rolex heavy on his wrist. Always in black, gray, or navy. No color. No softness. Just shadows.

To the world, Damon Alejandro was a striking billionaire businessman—enigmatic, private, and untouchable.

But what the world didn’t see, what they weren’t meant to see, was the truth.

Behind the tailored suits and cold charm… was blood.

Damon wasn’t just powerful—he was lethal.

He was the hidden king of a criminal empire that spanned continents. Arms deals in Eastern Europe. Offshore laundering in Singapore. Disappearances in Manila. If someone crossed him, they didn’t get a second chance. They just disappeared.

He had built his empire with ruthless precision. No mercy. No second thoughts. His heart had frozen over long ago, ever since the day he watched it all burn—his family, his innocence, his belief that the world could ever be fair. Since then, he learned: Power doesn’t beg. It takes.

Everyone who stood in his way either kneeled or vanished.

Damon never flinched at death. He had given the order countless times. A nod here. A whisper there. No fingerprints. No bodies. No questions.

They called him many names in the shadows:
Il Diavolo. The Ice King. Mr. No Mistakes.

But never out loud. Never to his face.

And yet, despite the darkness he ruled… something about Rhian Monteclara had managed to pierce through.

She was chaos where he was control. Color where he was monochrome. A storm wrapped in glitter and perfume. He should’ve ignored her that night—left her to cry into her drink and disappear like everyone else.

But she had said it. “You’re handsome. You smell good. You didn’t leave me like the others… That’s husband material.”

She didn’t know what she was offering.

And when she pinky-swore it, when she reached out in her drunken haze and touched him as if he were something real, something human—something inside him shifted. Just a crack. Just enough.

He told himself it was a joke. But then he kept her card. He read her name every night. He remembered the exact curve of her lips when she called him “husband material.”

He never allowed himself to want things. But he wanted her.

And Damon Alejandro did not take without intention. When he claimed something, it was for keeps. And he always got what he wanted.

Still, he knew he couldn’t show her this world yet. Couldn’t reveal the monster beneath the suit. Not until she was already his.

Because once you marry the devil… you don’t get to walk away.

The day after Rhian left the room, Damon ordered his men to dig into her background. It took only seconds before the details landed in his hands. As he read through the report, a slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“You can’t run from me,” Damon muttered, his gaze locked on the card she left behind. He dragged his fingers across his lips, slow and deliberate, as if marking a promise he fully intended to keep and reminiscing gentle kisses they shared. Only she had the audacity to kiss him like that—fearless, reckless, like she owned a part of him.

The glass doors of Glam Perfume swung open, and silence rippled through the lobby like a chill. Damon arrived at Rhian’s company without warning, his presence sending a chill through the room. He didn’t ask—he commanded. With a sharp glance at the front desk.

“Bring Rhian Monteclara,” he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. “Now.”

“Y-yes, sir. I—I’ll call her right away,” Cathy stammered, her voice barely above a whisper and didn't dare to ask questions why he needed their director and owner of the company. Her hands were trembling as she dialed Rhian's number and waited until it rings.

Cathy swallowed hard, trying to keep her composure as Damon’s presence loomed like a stormcloud. Without saying a word, she gave Lydia a quick, nervous glance and subtly gestured for her to handle it.“P-please, sir,” Cathy said, voice tight. “Lydia will escort you to the waiting area while we notify Ms. Monteclara.”

Lydia hesitated for half a second, her expression stiff, but nodded and stepped forward.“R-right this way, sir,” she said, forcing a polite tone as she led him to the lounge, every step feeling like she was walking beside a lion.

“Is everything okay?” Rhian asked, noticing her staff nervous face.

“Ma’am, we… we have a walk-in client,” Cathy began, cautiously.

Rhian raised a brow. “And? That’s not new.” 

“Well…” Cathy hesitated. “He specifically requested you. He said only you can craft the scent he wants.”

Rhian’s expression flattened, her tone dry. “And why exactly couldn’t you handle that?”

Cathy shrank slightly. “Because… he refused anyone else. He said, he didn't like waiting—and you better meet him now."

Rhian became interested and follows Cathy's lead, "who is this man?"

"He is... Mr. Damon Damien Alejandro," she mentioned fearfully, the chill in her spine remains.

“Da—mon?” she echoed, the name barely leaving her lips. She saw him...

Through the glass wall of the waiting area, he stood like he belonged there—like he owned the place. His posture relaxed, suit flawless, and eyes already fixed in her direction.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Too fast. Too loud. Panic wrapped around her ribs like a vice.

"What is he doing here? Did he... follow me? She couldn't look away, she swallowed hard, trying to gather herself, but it felt like the ground had shifted beneath her feet.