chapter One- the man who felt nothing.....until her

The morning light cut through the penthouse like a blade. Damian Blackwell stood motionless by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private suite, his silhouette sharp against the skyline of Manhattan. The city below was already awake—rushing, roaring, alive. But inside the penthouse, silence reigned. A silence so complete it echoed.

He hadn’t slept. Not really.

He’d existed in the aftermath of the night before—his mind replaying fragments, trying to make sense of something that defied all logic.

Because last night, for the first time in ten years, he had touched another human being.

And nothing had happened.

No pain. No burning. No allergic reaction. No swelling, no inflammation, no emergency dose of epinephrine. Just... skin on skin.

And the most impossible sensation of relief.

He lifted his hand, turning it slowly in the light. His palms were smooth. Unmarked. No redness. No irritation. Nothing.

It should have been impossible.

His condition—dermatographic urticaria with extreme immunological hypersensitivity—wasn’t just rare. It was unique. A mutation, Dr. Voss called it. His body didn’t just react to touch. It attacked it. Sweat, oils, skin cells—anything foreign triggered a violent immune response. A handshake once left his hand swollen for three days. A nurse brushing his arm with a cotton swab had sent him into anaphylactic shock.

He hadn’t been touched since he was eighteen.

Until last night.

And he remembered her face.

He remembered her eyes, wide and brown, a mix of fear and confusion. He remembered the soft, full lips that parted in a silent gasp. He remembered the dark, wild curls that framed her face like a halo in the dim light. Her name… that was lost. But her face, her eyes—he saw them as clearly as he saw his own reflection.

He picked up his phone and dialed.

Two rings.

“Voss.”

“It’s me,” Damian said, his voice low, stripped of its usual control. “I need to talk.”

There was a pause. Then, “You’re not in your lab. You missed your scheduled scan.”

“I know.”

Another pause. “You had contact.”

Damian closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“How bad is it?”

“That’s the problem,” Damian said slowly. “It isn’t bad. I touched her. I… was with her. For hours. And there was no reaction. No pain. No inflammation. Nothing.”

Silence.

“Were you drunk?” Voss asked.

“I was,” Damian replied, his tone challenging the assumption. “I wondered if that’s why it didn’t work.”

“It isn’t,” Voss stated. “We’ve tested that. High blood alcohol didn’t stop the reaction. A handshake still burned. Your condition isn’t psychological. It’s physiological. Your body produces antibodies the moment it detects foreign human proteins. Sweat. Sebum. Even airborne skin cells. It doesn’t matter if you’re sober or drunk.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Then why last night?”

“I don’t know,” Voss admitted. “But if what you’re saying is true… this could be a medical anomaly. A genetic match. Someone whose biochemistry doesn’t trigger your immune system.”

“So she’s… compatible.”

“Possibly. But it could also be a one-time fluke. Stress. Hormonal fluctuation. You need to test it. Find her. See if it happens again.”

“I don’t know who she is.”

“Then find out. Run facial recognition. Check security footage. There has to be a trail.”

Damian didn’t answer.

Because the idea terrified him.

Not because he feared pain.

But because he feared wanting.

Wanting something he’d spent a decade convincing himself he didn’t need.

“I’ll keep you updated,” he said finally, and ended the call.

He set the phone down and walked to his desk.

Pressed the intercom.

“Niles.”

“Yes, Mr. Blackwell.”

“I need you to find a woman. She has dark, curly hair and brown eyes. I was with her last night. We were at the Westgate Hotel. I want you to check the security footage for the room I was in, and find out who she is. Get me everything—name, background, medical history, social media, employment, family. I want a full dossier.”

“Understood, sir.”

He cut the line.

A few hours later, a single email arrived.

From: Niles Carter

Subject: Subject Identified – Dossier Attached

Damian opened it.

The file was extensive. Photos. Reports. Articles. Social media archives. A full psychological profile.

He clicked on the first image.

And there she was.

Amara Collins.

Her face filled the screen—soft, expressive, with deep brown eyes and full lips slightly parted. Her hair was wild in the photo, cascading in tight curls. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Actress. Age 28. Rising star in indie cinema. Known for roles in “Whispers in the Dark” and “The Silent Shore.” Engaged to actor James Holloway. Scheduled to marry tomorrow.

Damian’s jaw tightened.

Engaged.

So she had been with him while committed to another man. He scrolled down, feeling a flicker of distaste.

No prior scandals. Clean public image. Known for turning down roles with nudity or explicit content. Advocates for mental health awareness. Donates 15% of earnings to women’s shelters.

His eyes narrowed.

Then why last night?

Why the reckless behavior?

He opened the attached video.

And there she was again. On a stage. Dancing. Not just dancing—performing. Her body moved with a raw, untamed energy, her face flushed, her eyes glazed. She was laughing. Smiling. But something was off. Her movements were too wild. Too uncontrolled. Like she wasn’t in her own body.

He watched as her best friend—Lila Monroe, also an actress—handed her a drink. Amara took it. Drank it.

Less than ten minutes later, she was on the pole.

Damian played the footage again. Slowed it down.

Her pupils were dilated. Her coordination was off. She stumbled once, caught by Lila, who whispered something in her ear before leading her offstage.

He opened another tab.

#SluttyBride trending on every platform.

Articles. Memes. Comments.

“Amara Collins cheats on fiancé hours before wedding.”

“Innocent actress? More like desperate whore.”

“James deserves better.”

His hands curled into fists.

She hadn’t cheated.

She’d been used.

And now the world was tearing her apart.

He scrolled through her social media.

Last post: “One day until forever. So in love. So ready.”

Posted 24 hours ago.

No replies. No likes. The account was locked.

He opened her medical file—pulled from a private clinic she’d visited two years ago.

No history of substance abuse. No mental health disorders. No allergies. No STDs.

Clean. Protected. Innocent.

And then—last night.

He thought of her beneath him.

Unconscious. Vulnerable. Taken by a stranger.

And yet… when he touched her, his body didn’t reject her.

It welcomed her.

He closed his eyes.

A memory flashed.

Her skin under his hands. Warm. Alive. Her breath hitching as he entered her. The way her body responded, even in sleep. The way his own body—his cursed, broken body—had healed.

He opened his eyes.

This wasn’t just about her.

It was about him.

She was the anomaly.

The impossible.

The cure.

And if she was being destroyed by the world…

Then he would own her.

Not out of mercy.

Not out of kindness.

But because she was his.

He picked up the phone.

“Niles.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Schedule a meeting with Amara Collins. Today. I don’t care how. Just get her here.”

“Sir… she’s currently unreachable. Her phone’s been disconnected. She’s not at her apartment. No public appearances.”

Damian’s voice dropped, cold and final.

“Then find her. Offer her money. A safe house. Protection. Tell her it’s about a role. A sponsorship. I don’t care. Just bring her to me.”

“Understood.”

He hung up.

And stared at her photo on the screen.

Amara Collins.

Broken. Betrayed. Hated.

And because she was the only woman in the world who could touch him.

And he wasn’t going to let her go.