Kissed Like a Mistake, Felt Like a Memory

Elliott’s POV

I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

Not over one kiss. Not over a job that wasn’t real. And definitely not over a man like Damien Whitlock. But my body hadn’t gotten the memo.

Two days had passed since the gala. Since the kiss. Since Celeste disappeared from the ballroom without a word, like her fury had burned out in silence. And me? I hadn’t spoken to Damien since. 

Not beyond polite greetings. Not beyond fake smiles and business-like nods. We moved like strangers who remembered too much, each word clipped, each glance loaded with unspoken things neither of us wanted to name.

I needed to get out.

The walls of the penthouse felt tighter every hour. The luxurious room Damien insisted I stay in no longer felt generous—it felt like a cage. 

Not because it wasn’t comfortable, but because it was starting to feel... too much like home. The soft sheets, the perfect view of the city, the way my toothbrush sat next to his—it all whispered different thoughts. 

Familiarity. 

Dangerous things for someone like me, whose entire presence here was a performance. And I couldn’t afford to get comfortable.

I stood in the kitchen that morning with a note already written in my jacket pocket. Two lines. No dramatic goodbye. 

Just the truth: I can’t do this anymore. That was all. That was enough. Or it should’ve been. Until he walked in. Damien’s steps were clipped, his coat draped over one shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. 

His jaw was tight, his tone sharper than usual. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other line was saying, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“No. Shut it down. I don’t care how long they’ve been an investor.” He paused, pacing as his fingers flexed around the phone. 

“You heard me. If they can’t respect my personal life, they have no place in my professional one.” He ended the call with a brutal swipe of his finger. 

When he looked up, our eyes met—and for a split second, I saw something flicker.

Raw. Unfiltered. Wounded.

But then it was gone, replaced by the cool indifference he wore like a tailored suit. He was back to being Damien Whitlock: composed, untouchable, unreadable. 

“I have a meeting,” he said flatly, brushing past me. I followed. “Damien, we need to talk.” He didn’t stop.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he snapped, turning so fast I flinched. 

“But I don’t have time for second thoughts today, Elliott.”

Second thoughts?

I clenched my fists. “This was never supposed to be a forever thing.” He walked to his office door and opened it without looking at me.

“Exactly. So don’t make it into one.”

I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I followed him in and shut the door behind me, the click echoing louder than it should’ve. He stood by his desk, hands gripping its edge like he was holding back from flipping it. 

His shoulders were drawn tight, his neck rigid. He looked like a man on the verge of shattering something—or someone.

“What is this to you?” I asked. “Is this a game? A PR stunt? Or... or are you actually feeling something you’re too proud to name?”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “You kissed me, Damien. That wasn’t part of the deal. And don’t say you did it for Celeste. Because you didn’t even look at her.”

And then he exhaled, low and ragged. It sounded like he’d been holding it in for days. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice quieter now, but edged with something dangerous. 

“You’re in my space, my world. And in this world, people like us don’t get happy endings. They get headlines. Scandals. Threats.”

He finally turned, eyes cold but burning underneath. “I’ve spent my whole life building something untouchable. You think I can afford to let a single crack show?”

My throat tightened. “Then why ask me to be your crack?” His expression shifted—barely. A soft shadow behind the steel.

“Because,” he said, “for once, I wanted to feel something real. Even if it had to be fake.” The words landed somewhere between confession and curse. My breath caught in my chest. 

He didn’t say it like a man relieved to speak the truth. He said it like someone who hated himself for needing it. I stepped closer, almost without realizing it. “You’re ruthless,” I whispered. 

“Everyone says it. You ruin people’s lives with a phone call. You freeze rooms with a stare.” He tilted his head, almost amused. “And yet you’re still here.”

I didn’t know who moved first.

One second there was space between us. The next, his mouth was crashing into mine again—this time harder, desperate, not for the cameras or the board or anyone else watching.

This was behind closed doors.

This was forbidden.

This was terrifying.

Because this time, I kissed him back like I wanted to. Like I meant it. Like I didn’t care who Damien Whitlock was or what the world thought about two men behind locked office doors. 

My hands tangled in his jacket, pulling him closer as if the distance between us had become unbearable. We kissed like we were both drowning, and the other was the only breath left.

When we broke apart, I didn’t step back. But he did.

And just like that, the cold mask returned. “You should go now,” he said, straightening his jacket, avoiding my eyes. 

“Before someone sees.”

“Right,” I said, bitter in my throat. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your empire.” I stormed out, my note still burning a hole in my pocket. My chest heaved. 

My hands were shaking. And my heart…my stupid, traitorous heart…was still beating like it believed he’d come after me. But I didn’t get far.

Because just outside his office, standing by the glass hallway with a tablet in her hands... was Celeste.

Her smile was sharp as a knife. Her voice is sweet and low.

“You two really should check the cameras next time.”