Chapter 3

Damian woke with a splitting headache and the weight of his choices pressing on his chest.

He remembered the wedding, the whiskey, and that stranger’s voice — “Why don’t you hire a cookie?”

But it wasn’t just the alcohol talking. The idea had stuck.

He had money — more than he’d ever need — yet he couldn’t buy peace. Not love. Not closure. Maybe what he needed wasn’t comfort… maybe it was distraction.

On his phone screen, the link still glowed, he was now in the website

"Need a cookie? Adults only"

He knew what it meant he didn't hesitate. He clicked the link conciously, he was no longer the little Damian they held by the hand and directed what to do.

The CEO of Cross Holdings he knew exactly what to do and the steps he was taking.

He entered his details, chose a location — the Black Orchid Hotel — and hit confirm.

When he closed his eyes that night, he wasn’t sure if he wanted company or punishment.

***The next morning*** 

(Damian's Pov)

This morning felt different, we have just rounded a discussion with the board of directors in the company

"Sir, please this is the file you are to sign" the head of the manufacturing department said passing the file to me.

"This is it, the plan should be effected immediately we need to be ahead!" I replied passing the file to him after signing.

The board meeting was over, I walked to my glass-walled office again.

"Sir you have some calls from a sister company, they said they need some supplies for an ongoing contract" Kace replied, she is always in and out of my office, mastering every of my movement a dependable secretary indeed.

"What is the name of the company" I asked eagerly

"Rexon's Oil and Limited" She replied quickly clutching her tablet to her chest

"Rexon's Oil...." I muttered trying to recall the familiar name

"Oh.... that's my Dad's business tycoon associate"  I replied quickly 

"Kace!" I called

"Yes sir"

"Send the details to my email immediately, we'll see if Cross Holdings can strike a good contract with them"

"I'll do that immediately" She said walking out of my office quickly to resume her office dealings

I quickly turned my iMac on uploading and checkmating report sheets form all the departments of the company.

A notification buzzed on my phone. I picked my phone to see the message clearly

"Don't forget your cookie!" The message read

My thoughts flashed back at last night. I marvelled how I forgot every thing that happened

"That guy must be right" I muttered

Evans Adam, the guy at the wedding who helped me up. I didn't know who he is, but I see a fact in what he's saying. He's indeed something

After having a bunch of files, appeals, permisiion and revisons buzing into my office and mail it was finally and end to work that day.

The knock came just after nine.

I had been pacing the length of the suite, glass in hand, rehearsing all the things I wouldn’t say. When the sound reached me, sharp and certain, I froze.

“Come in,” I said, my voice lower than I expected.

The door opened.

For a moment, the world steadied. A woman stood framed in the doorway, light from the corridor spilling around her like a halo made of gold. Everything about her was deliberate—the tilt of her chin, the slow confidence in her steps, the faint scent of jasmine trailing behind her. The dress she wore caught the candlelight and clung to her shape just enough to make breathing an act of discipline.

“Mr. Cross?” she asked, voice soft but sure.

I nodded, setting the glass aside. “You’re from the agency.”

“That’s right.”

She didn’t offer a name, and I remembered what Evans had said—no names, no past, no attachments.

“You make quite an entrance,” I said.

Her lips curved. “That’s part of the job.”

I let my eyes travel—never too long, never rude, just long enough to notice the balance between elegance and danger. “They should give you a raise.”

“Flattery doesn’t change the rate, Mr. Cross.”

That made me laugh. “I wasn’t bargaining. Just admiring good presentation.”

For the first time she smiled for real, and it wasn’t practiced. It was quick, human, almost shy—and that tiny break in her mask caught me off guard.

“You’re different from the type that usually calls us,” she said.

“Maybe I called for the wrong reasons.”

She tilted her head. “There are no wrong reasons, only prices.”

I studied her again—the confidence, the professionalism, the spark of curiosity she tried to hide. Something about the contrast fascinated me. I wanted to know what she was like without the script.

“So,” I said, leaning back against the arm of the couch, “what do they call you when you’re not working?”

Her smile faded. “That’s against policy.”

“Policies bend,” I said quietly. “People don’t.”

For a heartbeat she just looked at me, and I could see the battle behind her calm expression. Then, almost in a whisper, she said, “Aria.”

The name fit her—short, musical, a secret meant to be kept.

“Aria,” I repeated, tasting the sound. “Beautiful name for someone who pretends to forget beauty.”

She looked away, pretending to straighten a candle. “Don’t read too much into it, Mr. Cross.”

“Too late,” I said.

The air between us shifted, charged with something unspoken. Outside, thunder rumbled far off—just enough to shake the windowpane. She turned toward the sound, and in that small, distracted moment I saw something flicker across her face: hesitation… or fear.

I stepped forward. “Is everything alright?”

Her eyes snapped back to mine. Whatever I’d seen was gone, hidden under a practiced calm.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

But I wasn’t sure I believed her.