Chapter 5

The penthouse was silent when Aara returned, the sprawling city lights outside the glass walls feeling more like a distant galaxy than a neighborhood. She stripped off the silver silk dress, her skin cold where Damian’s hands had lingered earlier that evening.

Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dark, hungry look in Damian’s eyes on the balcony.

Thirsty and restless, she slipped on the cream silk robe and padded softly toward the kitchen. As she passed the heavy oak doors of Damian’s private study, she noticed a sliver of light spilling onto the marble floor. The door was slightly ajar.

She should have kept walking. Rule number four echoed in her head: The husband retains the right to request the wife’s presence at any time. But curiosity, a trait that had always gotten her into trouble, pulled her toward the light.

She peered inside. The room was a mess of leather-bound books and glowing computer monitors. Damian wasn't at his desk. He was sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace, his head leaning back against the stone, an empty crystal glass dangling from his fingers.

He looked… human. The midnight-blue tuxedo jacket was gone, and his white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He looked exhausted, the sharp, predatory edge he wore like a suit of armor finally dulled by the late hour.

"I told you I hate locks, Aara. I didn't say I invited spies," he said, his voice raspy and low. He didn't even open his eyes.

Aara froze. I was just getting water. I didn't mean to intrude.

"Liars make for boring wives," he murmured, finally opening his eyes. They weren't icy tonight; they were bloodshot and weary. He gestured to the floor across from him. "Sit. Since you’re so intent on watching me, you might as well do it comfortably."

Aara hesitated, then sank onto the plush rug a few feet away. Between them sat an old, weathered photograph that didn't fit the luxury of the room. It was a picture of a small, dusty printing press one even older than her father’s.

Is that...? she started.

"My grandfather’s," Damian interrupted. "Before the Thorne name meant skyscrapers and mergers, it meant ink-stained hands and broken machines. My grandmother hates this photo. She wants the world to believe we were born from gold. But the truth is, we were born from the same dirt you were."

Aara looked from the photo to the man she thought was her enemy. Then why? Why destroy my father’s press if you know what it means?

Damian’s jaw tightened. "Because sentiment doesn't pay for the medicine that keeps your father breathing, Aara. I had to become the vulture so that no one could ever make me the prey again."

He reached out, his fingers grazing hers as he picked up the glass. For the first time, there was no command in his touch. Just a silent, heavy recognition.

Go to bed, Aara, he whispered. Before I forget that this is just a contract.

Aara stood up, her heart hammering a rhythm she couldn't control. As she walked to the door, she realized the "Vulture of Wall Street" had a heart it was just buried under a mountain of ice. And for the first time, she wondered if she was the one meant to melt it.