Chapter 5

Damien POV 

The silence in the penthouse was different now. For four years, it had been a sterile, hollow quiet—the kind that echoed in the corners of the cavernous rooms and reminded me of everything I had traded for my seat at the top. But tonight, the air felt thick, vibrating with the presence of someone who didn't want to be here.

I stood in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water I didn't plan on drinking. I listened to the sound of Ellie’s heels clicking across the hardwood in the foyer. It was a rhythmic, hesitant sound. She was counting her steps, measuring the distance between herself and the exit she had used forty-eight hours ago.

"The bags are in the guest suite," I said, not turning around.

The clicking stopped. I could feel her standing at the edge of the kitchen, her presence a low-frequency hum against my back.

"The guest suite?" her voice was flat, devoid of the fire she’d had in the office.

"As per the contract, Ellie. Separate bedrooms. I keep the primary suite. You have the east wing. It has its own terrace and a view of the park. I thought you’d appreciate the light for your sketches."

I finally turned. She was still wearing the midnight blue dress from the press conference, but she had kicked off her heels. She looked smaller without them, standing there with her shoes dangling from one hand and her laptop bag gripped in the other. She looked like a traveler who had realized she’d booked a one-way ticket to a place she hated.

"You thought of the light," she repeated. It wasn't a question. It was a realization.

"I remember how you used to complain about the shadows in your old apartment," I said.

She flinched. It was a tiny movement, a quick dip of her chin, but I saw it. I saw everything when it came to her. I knew the way her eyebrows twitched when she was frustrated and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to cry.

"Habit," I added, my voice hardening. "Nothing more."

"Habits are hard to break, Damien. I would have thought you’d replaced mine with something more efficient by now."

She walked past me, heading toward the east wing. As she passed, the scent of her—that clean, floral soap—cut through the expensive cedar air of the penthouse. It hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

"Dinner will be delivered at eight," I called out after her.

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway. You looked like you were going to faint during the interview with the Times."

She didn't answer. A moment later, I heard the heavy thud of the guest suite door closing.

I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the marble countertop. I had spent four years convincing myself that I was fine, that I had moved on, that she was just a ghost I’d exorcised from my system. But the moment she’d walked back through that door, I knew I’d been lying to myself.

I walked toward the east wing, my footsteps silent on the rugs. I stopped outside her door. I didn't knock. I just stood there, listening. I heard the rustle of clothes, the snap of a suitcase latch, and then a long, shaky exhale.

I knew every inch of that guest suite. I had redesigned it six months ago, though I told Marcus it was for 'potential investors.' I had chosen the drafting table myself. I had ensured the lamps were the exact color temperature she preferred for evening work. I had even stocked the small kitchenette with the specific brand of Earl Grey tea she used to buy at that bodega in Brooklyn.

Small, hidden details. A quiet obsession disguised as hospitality.

I went back to my study and tried to work. The merger documents were spread across my desk, billions of dollars in assets waiting for my signature, but the words were just gray blurs. My ears were tuned to the hallway.

Around nine, I heard her door open again. I waited, counting the seconds. She didn't come to the study. She went to the kitchen.

I stood up and moved to the doorway. She was standing at the counter, her back to me. She had changed into a pair of oversized gray sweatpants and a thin white tank top. Her hair was down, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. She looked like the girl who used to steal my shirts and drink coffee on the balcony at 3:00 AM.

She was staring at the box of tea on the counter.

"I didn't think you’d still have this brand," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't turn around. She knew I was there.

"The housekeeper keeps the pantry stocked," I lied.

"The housekeeper knows I like tea from a bodega on 4th Street?" She finally turned, the box of tea in her hand. Her eyes were searching mine, looking for a crack in the armor. "Damien, why is this here?"

"It’s a common brand, Ellie. Don't read into it."

"It’s not common. They don't sell this at Whole Foods. You have to go to a specific neighborhood to find this." She set the box down with a sharp click. "Why are you doing this? The contract is signed. You have what you want. You don't have to pretend to care about my tea preferences."

"I told you, it’s a habit."

"No," she said, stepping closer. The sweatpants hung low on her hips, and the tank top showed the frantic pulse in her throat. "Habits are things you do without thinking. This was a choice. This was a detail."

I felt the familiar heat rising in my blood. The frustration, the longing, the sheer, exhausting weight of wanting someone who had spent four years trying to forget I existed.

"You want to know why it’s here?" I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. I stepped into the kitchen, closing the distance between us. "It’s here because every time I see that box, I remember the way you looked in my kitchen four years ago. I remember the way you tasted after you’d had a cup. I remember that for one brief, delusional moment, I thought I was enough for you."

She froze, her eyes widening. The air between us was electric, the tension so thick it felt like it could snap.

"You were enough," she breathed. "The world wasn't. Your world wasn't."

"My world is where you are now, Ellie. For the next twelve months, this is your reality."

I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from her cheek. I wanted to touch her so badly it was an ache in my bones. I wanted to pull her against me and remind her of exactly what she’d walked away from.

But I didn't. I pulled my hand back and curled it into a fist at my side.

"The merger will be finalized in six months," I said, my voice cold and professional again. "Until then, we play the part. If that means I have to stock your favorite tea to keep you from looking miserable in front of the staff, I’ll do it."

I turned and walked away before she could see the lie in my eyes.

I went to my room and closed the door. I sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the primary suite weighing down on me. I could hear her moving in the kitchen, the soft clink of a spoon against a mug.

She was back. She was under my roof. She was wearing my blue silk for the world and her own soft cotton for me.

But as I lay down and stared at the ceiling, I knew that the contract was a double-edged sword. I had brought her back into my world, but in doing so, I had ensured that for the next year, I would be living with a ghost.

And the worst part was, I didn't know if I’d be able to let her go a second time.

I closed my eyes and could still smell that floral soap. It was everywhere. It was in the vents, in the sheets, in the very structure of the building.

Welcome home, Ellie, I thought.

But as the clock on the nightstand ticked toward midnight, I realized that I wasn't the one who had caught her.

We were both trapped. And the cage was only going to get smaller.