A Kiss that Changed Everything

The air between them was a living thing.

Damien was rigid, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving as if he'd run a marathon.

Asher, against the wall, could still taste the outline of Damien's mouth on his own — hot, desparate, real.

It ought to have been satisfying.

It should have given him the closure that he had longed for after weeks of cold stares and tense smiles.

But all Asher felt was fear.

Because if one kiss could destroy the armour that they had worked so hard to build.

What would they do if they surrendered completely?

Damien's head snapped away first, cursing at himself.

"This was a mistake," he spat harshly.

He turned away, raking a trembling hand through his black hair.

Asher glared at him, throat tightened, heart pounding so loudly it obliterated everything else.

He could stay quiet. Act like it never happened.

Go back to the charade they'd been acting.

Safe. Controlled.

Alone.

Or.

"Damien," Asher whispered.

The older man froze, back to Asher.

"I don't want to play games anymore," Asher said, his voice increasing with every word. "Not in public. Not here. Not with you."

Slowly, Damien turned.

His gray eyes were stormy, divided.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he snarled.

"You don't know what kind of man I am, Asher."

"Then show me," Asher panted. "Let me see."

The air between them was charged, electric.

The tension between them crackled.

In two strides, Damien stood before him again, his hands wrapped lightly but firmly around Asher's wrists against the wall, their faces inches apart.

"You think you can tame me?" Damien whispered, his voice a velvet blade. "You think you can tame the truth?"

Asher's heart leapt wildly.

"Try me," he whispered.

---

What came after wasn't a kiss.

It was a declaration.

Damien forced his lips against Asher's with bruising pressure, and Asher this time did not resist — he melted into it, greeting every ounce of anger, desire, and futile hope that had been brewing inside him since the moment he had said I do.

Their bodies contorted wildly, months — no, years — of pent-up feeling exploding all at once.

Damien's hands were all over him — in his hair, on his waist, clasping him as if Asher would disappear if he loosened his grip.

And maybe Asher would have, once.

Before this.

Before him.

But they shuffled towards the bedroom, stripping away layers of bitterness and silk fabric equally.

---

Hours later, Asher stretched out on the lavish bed, his skin cooled by a faint coating of sweat, his body buried in lavish sheets he didn't care for.

Damien was lying beside him, one arm tossed possessively around Asher's waist, breathing deep and even — almost like he was. at peace.

Asher blinked up at the ceiling, heart too full to process it all at once.

For the first time since their forced marriage, he felt something that wasn't fear or resentment.

He felt.

Hope.

A dangerous, fragile thing.

Asher shifted slightly, not wanting to wake Damien.

He didn't want this moment to end.

Did not want to face the morning, when the world would intrude again and Damien would certainly revert to his cold, guarded self.

But for now, in the borrowed quiet, Asher allowed himself to dream.

Perhaps — just perhaps — there was hope for them after all.

---

The dream shattered by morning.

When Asher woke, the bed next to him was empty.

No note.

No whispered goodbye.

No Damien.

Only a cold sheet and colder silence.

Asher stood slowly, the ache of disappointment piercing deeper than he'd expected.

Maybe last night had only been a mistake.

A momentary lapse of judgment Damien now wished he could undo.

Asher dragged himself from bed, tied a robe around himself, and padded quietly out into the penthouse.

It was immaculate.

As if nothing whatever had happened.

Except a lingering echo of Damien's cologne scent in the air betrayed the recollection of last night.

Asher had walked into the kitchen, hoping to find Damien neck-deep in work emails or claiming last night had been a dream.

Instead, he saw a stranger.

A woman sat neatly at the granite counter — long, stylish, with black sleek hair and a red business suit that screamed money and danger.

She was sipping coffee from one of Damien's mugs as if it were hers.

Asher froze.

The woman looked up — and smiled.

A calculated smile.

"You have to be Asher," she smiled sweetly, setting the mug down.

"Damien's little. project."

Asher bristled.

"Who are you?" he demanded, tightness.

She laughed — a cold, cruel sound.

"I'm Veronica Thorne," she announced, standing graciously. "Damien's ex-fiancée."

The floor had been knocked from under Asher's feet.

Ex-fiancée?

Before he could do anything, Veronica strode forward, heels clinking off the marble like gunfire.

"You didn't actually think you were special, did you?" she purred.

"Damien's playing the long game. You're just a temporary inconvenience. A stepping stone to something else."

Asher clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

"Leave," he said coldly.

Veronica tutted, moving to glide her perfectly manicured finger along his arm.

"Come on, baby," she said softly. "You're going to be heartbroken when you hear the truth."

And with that, she twirled and stormed out of the penthouse, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and poisoned words behind her.

Asher remained there, shaking.

He did not want to believe her.

But a small, poisonous voice inside him kept saying:

What if she is right?

---

Damien came home that evening.

Or, at least, he tried to.

When he finally came back, three days later, he looked exhausted — his tie untied, his eyes haunted.

Asher waited for him, perched on the edge of the couch, still wearing the same outfit he had worn for two days in a row.

"Where were you?" Asher asked, voice cracking.

Damien came to a standstill.

"You don't get to ask that," he whispered.

Asher moved towards him, closing the distance between them.

"I'm your husband," he said harshly. "Or have you forgotten?"

Damien flinched, just barely.

Asher went on.

"Veronica was here," he said, studying Damien's face intently.

A flash of something — anger? guilt? — crossed Damien's face.

"She's nothing," Damien said flatly.

"She didn't seem to think so," Asher said with acid. "She said I'm just a placeholder. That you're using me."

Silence.

Heavy. Damning.

Asher laughed, the sound empty.

"God," he whispered. "She's right, isn't she?"

Damien stepped forward, catching Asher's wrists — not hurting him, but holding on tight.

"You don't understand," he said urgently. "There are things going on you don't know about."

"Then tell me!"

Asher cried out.

"Stop shutting me out!"

Damien shook his head, jaw clenched.

"It's safer if you don't know," he growled.

Asher broke free.

"No," he said, his eyes burning with tears. "You don't get to do that anymore. You don't get to kiss me, touch me, hold me at night. and then treat me like I'm disposable the next morning."

Damien's face twisted with something like anguish.

"Asher—"

"No!" Asher roared. "Either open the door, Damien, or let me out."

The threat breathed between them, bare and feral.

Damien's lips opened — but no word came.

That was response enough.

Asher's heart shattered.

He turned on his heel and fled, not caring where he was going, only that he had to get out before he completely lost it.

Damien did not call after him.

Did not chase.

---

The elevator doors closed softly with a soft ding, removing Damien from view.

And that was it; Asher knew:

He had just fallen in love with a man who might never fall in love with him.