CHAPTER SIX

I barely remember getting out of the car. The exhaustion is bone-deep, clinging to me like a second skin. Damon doesn't rush me. He doesn't speak, either. He just walks beside me, steady, quiet.

As we step inside, I register the grand entryway in passing—dark marble floors, a glittering chandelier overhead, the scent of something rich and expensive lingering in the air. It's suffocating.

By the time we reach a bedroom—large, minimally decorated, with sheets that look absurdly soft—I'm already shutting down. "You need to sleep," Damon says. It's not a suggestion.

I should fight, should argue, but when I feel the bed dip beneath me, everything else fades. My eyes close before I can even think about how dangerous it is to fall asleep in Damon Baas' home.

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, disoriented and groggy, I forget where I am. Then I see the room—its clean, calculated perfection—and it all comes back. Damon. Last night. The sheer exhaustion that knocked me out cold.

I sit up, rubbing my face. My hair is a mess, my bikini slightly wrinkled. Before I can dwell on it, there's a knock. "Miss, breakfast is ready," a voice calls from behind the door. "Mr. Baas requests your presence in the dining hall."

I blink. Right. Damon.

I push the covers off, rushing to the bathroom, flipping on the light. A sleek vanity mirror reflects my face—full lips, high cheekbones, dark, upturned eyes that always hold a bit of pain in them. The kind of beauty that unsettles people. A beauty I've long since learned to wield like a weapon.

I scowl at my reflection and turn on the sink, splashing cold water on my face before grabbing a toothbrush from the neatly arranged counter. It's new. Waiting for me, like he'd anticipated I'd need it. The thought makes my stomach twist.

I scrub my teeth aggressively, then step into the glass-enclosed shower, letting the warm water wash away the remnants of sleep. The idea that Damon had carried me in here last night, put me to bed, makes my chest feel tight. But it's not that he was being kind. No, Damon Baas never does anything without a reason.

I step out, towel-drying my skin before heading toward the massive walk-in closet. And stop. It's stocked with women's clothing. Not just a few items, not just spare pieces—an entire wardrobe. Dresses, blouses, heels, lingerie in delicate lace and silk.

My fingers skim over the fabric, my jaw tightening. How many women has he brought here? How many has he dressed up, played with, thrown away?

The anger bubbles up before I can stop it. I shouldn't care. This isn't new. Damon has always been this way. The type to collect things—expensive cars, rare cigars, beautiful women.

And yet, knowing that doesn't stop the irritation from burning under my skin. I grab a simple white silk dress, slipping it on. It's a short halter neck, falling mid-thigh, the fabric free falling on my curves like it was made for me. The thought infuriates me further.

Fine. He wants me in his clothes? Then I'll wear them. But I'm not playing his game.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and step out of the room. The dining hall is absurdly large for just one person. A long polished table that could sit no less than two dozens stretches across the room, but Damon sits at the head, casual in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, one hand lazily twirling a fork. A fresh cup of coffee sits next to him.

The moment I step inside, he looks up. I expect a simple acknowledgment. Maybe even an insult. Instead, his eyes sweep over me, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth lifts.

"Well. That's unfair."

"What?" I snap.

"You. Looking like that. In the morning." He tilts his head. "It's cruel, really."

I ignore the heat creeping up my spine and walk past him, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table, yet even this far away from him, I can’t shake the feel of his eyes following me. A plate is already waiting for me—fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, golden brown toast, a bowl of fresh fruit on the side.

My stomach clenches. I haven't had food that looks this good in… I don't even know how long.

Damon watches as I pick up my fork, a smirk still playing on his lips. "You used to eat faster than that. What happened?"

"I learned patience," I mutter, cutting into the eggs.

He leans back, sipping his coffee. "Patience doesn't suit you."

"And running away doesn't suit you," I shoot back.

His smirk falters, just slightly. For a moment, there's only the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain. Then, voice light, he says, "I don't run. I make strategic exits."

I set my fork down and ask calmly. "Why did you leave?"

Damon leans back, stretching his arms out over the chair. "That's a loaded question for breakfast."

"I don't care."

He exhales slowly, swirling his coffee. "Sonia—"

"No." I grip the edge of the table, my civility slipping. "You don't get to say my name like that. Like you didn't abandon me. Like you didn't leave me to deal with everything alone."

His gaze darkens, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't waver, but something flickers in his expression. Something guarded.

My heart pounds. "Do you know what it's like to have nothing?" I press, voice unwavering now, sharpened by years of anger. "To sell yourself just to keep a roof over your head? To let a man like Roman own you because the alternative is starving in the street?"

Damon's grip tightens around his coffee cup. Just barely.

I laugh again, but there's no humor in it. "Of course you don't. You're Damon Baas. You have butlers, chauffeurs, a fucking walk-in closet filled with women's clothes, like we're just another one of your expensive toys."

His jaw clenches, but he still says nothing.

I lean forward. "So tell me, Damon. What excuse do you have? Why did you disappear the night my father died? Why did you leave me when I needed you the most?"

His expression smooths out, effortless. The perfect mask.

"You really think it's that simple?"

"Yes."

A slow exhale. He leans back, eyes sweeping over me, his usual indifference sliding into place.

"You always did like easy answers."

I fist my hands so tightly I break the flesh of my palms. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Deflect. Twist things around. I'm not one of your women, Damon. I'm not a game you get to play."

His smirk returns, a little crooked this time.

"No," he says. "You're much worse."

I open my mouth to argue, to tear into him again, but the frustration is unbearable. He won't give me what I want. He never does.

My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand abruptly. "Sonia." 

"No." I shake my head. "I'm done with this."

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You haven't even finished your breakfast."

"Fuck breakfast," I snap, storming past him.

Damon doesn't stop me. Not immediately. But just as I reach the hallway, I hear the chair scrape back, the sound of fast, purposeful footsteps behind me.

I don't slow. Neither does he.

Then suddenly—his hand wraps around my wrist.

I spin, fury crackling through my veins. "Let go."

He doesn't. He just stares at me, dark eyes unreadable. “You want the truth?” His voice is quieter now, but it holds weight. “Fine.”

I hold my breath.

“I left because I had to. I left because staying would have been worse.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and for the first time, there’s no amusement, no teasing lilt to his tone. Just something raw. “And I didn’t come back because I knew what I’d done to you. And I knew you’d never forgive me.”

My nails dig into my palms. “That’s not good enough.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

I snarled.

"You're angry."

"Of course, I'm fucking angry."

He tilts his head, considering me. Then, with that same insufferable smirk, he says, "Good."

Before I can snap at him, he tugs me closer, his grip firm but careful. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of expensive cologne on his skin.

I glare up at him, breath unsteady. "You're enjoying this."

"Only a little."

The tension is suffocating, electric. I hate that my pulse betrays me, that I feel anything other than rage in this moment.

I jerk my wrist free. Damon lets me go, but his smirk never fades.

"Go ahead," he says, voice impossibly smooth. "Run again."

I don't move. And he knows I won't. Not this time.

Because I'm not done with him yet.