The Billionaire's Brutal Seduction

Now

"Un-freaking-believable," Chloe Carter muttered under her breath, gripping the heavy box tighter as her dignity slipped with every step. She marched down Lester Harbor's bustling sidewalk in a fitted gray dress that hugged her curves, ballet flats tapping a furious rhythm on the pavement. Sweat beaded along the nape of her neck, dampening strands of jet-black hair that spoke of a Chinese heritage she'd inherited from birth parents she'd never know.

Today sucked. Losing your job had a unique sting, especially when you'd killed yourself climbing corporate ladders, only to tumble head-first.

The afternoon sun blazed unforgivingly bright, reflecting off tinted windows and flashy cars—one in particular snagging her attention. A sleek, black Lamborghini parked at a reserved spot, broadcasting wealth and power she knew far too intimately. Her pulse tripped, memories flooding like liquid fire, sparking across her skin.

No. Not now. Not today.

Yet her traitorous gaze fixed on him. Six feet and two inches with tousled blond hair, Damian Scott stood like a king among mortals in his tailored navy suit, jacket slung over one shoulder. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms etched with subtle veins that had always driven her mad.

He was sin wrapped in sophistication—every inch the man she'd never managed to forget.

Even from here, she saw those damnable dimples crease his perfect face as he flashed an effortless grin at the pretty flower vendor arranging bouquets of roses nearby. He turned smoothly, tossing his car keys into the air. They landed back into his waiting palm, the picture of arrogant charm.

Staring cost her balance. The box slipped, spilling staplers and highlighters across the pavement.

"Craptastic," she hissed, desperation flooding her cheeks with embarrassed heat.

She dropped, reaching for pens scattered like broken dreams. A warm, muscled wall collided with her.

"You've gotta be kidding me—" she started, looking up.

Her breath lodged in her throat.

Damian knelt before her, sunlight turning his blond hair into a halo, green eyes piercing her soul. His surprise mirrored hers, but he recovered quickly, those dangerous dimples appearing again.

"Chloe Carter," he drawled, every syllable an intimate caress.

Dammit.

"Damian," she managed, heart thundering. "Didn't even recognize me, did you?"

He tilted his head, eyes locked on hers. "It's impossible to forget you."

Heat bloomed across her chest, irritation sharpening her words. "Seven years, huh? Clearly not enough."

"Still feisty, Carter?" His grin widened, arrogant and charming. "Glad some things never change."

"And you're still full of yourself." She grabbed a stapler from his outstretched hand, skin brushing his fingers, electric shocks spiraling through her veins. She pulled back. "Just like always."

His gaze softened, taking in the messy box. "Tough day?"

"Unemployment's the new trend," she quipped, shoving loose binders into place. "Didn't you hear?"

Damian reached for a pen rolling near her heel, his sleeve shifting to reveal a glinting, expensive watch. "Corporate casualties. I'm sorry. Even the best fall sometimes. If you need me..."

Chloe's jaw tightened. The audacity. He acted as though he hadn't shattered her heart and walked away once. Her fingers grazed his as she grabbed the stapler.

His eyes flickered as his lips widened into a sinful smile. "Let me help you up."

She glared at Damian's outstretched hand. "I'm fine."

He smirked and leaned in closer, voice low and teasing. "I don't bite, Chloe. Not unless you want me to."

Heat slammed into her cheeks, pride demanding she slap his hand away. But the stupid box had destroyed any shred of dignity she had left, and his intense emerald eyes watched her every move, daring her.

Screw it.

She grabbed his hand, ready to yank free the instant she stood. Electricity shot straight to her core the second his fingers curled around hers, possessive and warm,

Her breath snagged. Too dangerous.

"Thanks," she snapped, jerking her hand away, skin still burning.

He studied her with lazy amusement, like he knew the effect he still had on her—and enjoyed it immensely. "My pleasure."

God, she wanted to throw that stupid stapler right at those maddening dimples. Seven years apart, and Damian still played dirty.

Worse, her traitorous body still wanted him to.

No. He ruined me once. Never again.

His gaze drifted along her curves, lingering on her mouth before meeting her eyes. "Someone picking you up?"

"Yes," she answered. "He should be here soon."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "He?"

"Yes," she repeated, lifting her chin defiantly. "He."

Before Damian could reply, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his eyebrows furrowing above his straight nose. "I need a sec. Don't go anywhere."

She bristled. "Where would I go, Damian? You've cornered the market on escape routes."

"Two minutes," he murmured, stepping aside.

He turned away, lowering his voice, but Chloe caught enough. His tone was smooth, coaxing, meant for someone else. "Hey, Gemma. Yeah, I'm coming. Don't keep the wine waiting."

A woman's laughter answered through the phone, high and flirty, twisting like a knife.

Gemma? Girlfriend? Colleague? Someone more?

Of course, there was someone. There always would be. Damian was the man women lined up for. He left her with nothing but wreckage and still made her want.

She forced herself not to look ruined. Let him keep walking, keep charming, keep every secret. He wouldn't have one more piece of her.

She turned away, her heart racing painfully as a cherry-red Chevrolet screeched up alongside her. Her friend, Chase Miller, leaned from the window, a wicked smile lighting his handsome face, brown curls framing dark eyes that always sparked mischief.

"Hey, gorgeous," he called. "Hop in. The traffic's chaotic, and I can't park here."

"Thanks for coming," Chloe sighed, glancing back at Damian. His conversation had him running a hand through his golden hair.

"You sounded upset when you called." Chase's eyes met hers. "Trouble?"

"Shitty day," she whispered, climbing into his car. "Drive fast."

Chloe exhaled, her heart still pounding fast. Maybe she'd escaped, but Damian's hold felt tighter than ever.

And just as painful.

***

Damian thumbed his phone off, not bothering to let Gemma finish her sentence. Her voice died, clipped mid-word. He barely felt a flicker of guilt. He'd been tuning her out for half the call anyway. Whatever he felt for her couldn't compete with the way his pulse had leapt the moment he'd spotted Chloe across the street.

He turned toward the curb, searching for Chloe, hoping—God, hoping—she'd still be there. But she was gone. Only the red taillights of a red Chevrolet lingered, blurring into the violet haze of dusk. Through the rear glass, he caught a glimpse: her silhouette beside some faceless man, Chloe's jet-black hair gleaming like obsidian. It hit him square in the chest. Already, she was just a memory and a shadow.

His pulse stuttered. He couldn't move. The taste of regret and want clashed in his mouth, sharp as the first bourbon on a Friday night.

"She couldn't wait a moment?" he muttered to himself.

He raked his hair with both hands. Underneath the disappointment, something hotter roared up. Heat, sharp and physical. His cock hardened, throbbing with the raw, insistent urgency he only ever felt around her. No one else could undo him like this. Not with a look, a scent, a single careless touch.

How do you always do this to me, Chloe?

She'd collided with him on the sidewalk only moments ago, knocking him back a step. For a second, neither of them spoke. All he could register was her perfume—jasmine and ylang ylang—an enticing scent that had marked him years ago and never quite let go. That fragrance lived in his memory and his bloodstream; it was sex, secrets, and hot, slick skin against skin.

His fingers had brushed hers as he steadied her minutes ago. A minor touch, but it sent a jolt through him, pure electricity. For a heartbeat, he was in college, back in those sheets tangled around their bodies, Chloe's bare skin flushed and warm, her breath shaky in his ear, soft thighs parting beneath his rough hands, her gasps painting his name again and again until neither of them could say anything at all.

He was hard now, embarrassingly so, pressure swelling in his pants. He pressed his lips together and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

Fuck, you let her go. Again.

The words crawled up his throat, urgent, simple, impossibly difficult. He could've asked her to meet him when he had the chance.

May I buy you a cup of coffee sometime? Catch up on life after college? Reminisce over old times, like our half-drunk toasts at the old lighthouse bar after exams?

Damian needed to take that call. He didn't know if Gemma had important updates about his mother. Saira Quinn, known as Lester Harbor's Griselda Blanco, or simply the mafia queen. She was feared by everyone, even while imprisoned. Her ruthlessness had tainted more than just his childhood; it had cost him his only real shot at a love so genuine.

His father, Alistair Scott, one of the world's richest business entrepreneurs according to Forbes, taught Damian to run an empire with logic, not emotion. Now, he found himself, a billionaire, humbled by his desperate desire for a second chance.

He was a man who got what he wanted. Lester Harbor was his playground; people here bent the rules for him. But Chloe? She never bent. She never played by anyone's rules. Seeing her again made him remember how gutted he felt when he lost her years ago.

He sucked in a long breath, lungs burning with the cold, salt-stung harbor air. How do I fix this? How do I even begin again?

He missed her. He craved her with an intensity that felt dangerous, even to a man who took calculated risks. He didn't care about the guy in the car, whoever the fucker was. He wanted her back in his life. Period.

Dusk pressed close. The town kept moving, indifferent to the desire she'd left behind in him.

Then he saw it.

A rectangle of white with a frayed edge lay on the pavement. His heartbeat kicked, hope punching through. Damian crouched, fingers trembling, and picked it up.

Chloe's business card.

It felt almost too fragile in his grip, torn at one corner, her name and number scrawled in an elegant, decisive script. It was a lifeline, dropped in the dark just when he needed it most.

He stared at the card, turning it over in his palm. The weight of possibility settled over him, thick and electric.

Shit, did fate finally throw me a bone?

He slid the card into his wallet, his hands steady because he forced them to be. It was imperfect, that business card. Yet, it held everything he needed: her name. Her number.

A way back to what they might still have.

A way forward, and he dared to take it.

Her phone number.

His chance.

Don't fuck this up, Scott.