CHAPTER TEN - DAMIEN

London had always suited me.

 Even at night, the city pulsed with quiet purpose—headlights cutting through rain-slicked streets, people slipping into taxis like the day was just beginning.

The conference wrapped exactly as planned.

Numbers aligned. Promises made. Hands shaken.

 No wasted time.

I should have been satisfied.

Victoria Hart found me at the hotel bar before I ordered my second drink.

She slid onto the stool beside me like she’d done it a hundred times before—because she had. Same confidence. Same knowing smile. Same calculated elegance wrapped in black silk and expensive heels.

“Damien Lockewood,” she said lightly. “Still pretending sleep is optional?”

“Still pretending coincidence exists?” I replied.

She smiled wider. “I heard you were in London. Thought I’d say hello.”

Victoria didn’t say hello. She reappeared.

We’d had an arrangement once. Clean. Predictable. Mutually beneficial. No illusions on either side. She’d known what I wanted—and more importantly—what I didn’t.

I finished my drink. “How have you been?”

“Busy,” she said. “Successful. Still bored.”

Her gaze flicked over me. Assessing. Familiar. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

“You look the same,” she added. “Like nothing ever rattles you.”

I signaled the bartender. “That’s because most things don’t.”

She laughed softly, leaning closer. “Still arrogant.”

“Still honest.”

She studied me for a moment, then stood. “Walk me upstairs.”

It wasn’t a question.

I should have declined.

I didn’t.

The elevator ride was silent, broken only by the hum of machinery and the faint scent of her perfume—something warm and floral, carefully chosen to linger. She didn’t touch me. Didn’t need to. The anticipation did enough work on its own.

Her suite was exactly what I expected. Spacious. Minimal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city like it belonged to her.

She kicked off her heels and turned to face me. “Drink?”

“No.”

She arched a brow. “Still all business.”

“Always.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the faint crease at the corner of her mouth. Time hadn’t touched her much—but it had touched us.

“You didn’t come all this way just to talk,” she said.

“No,” I agreed.

Her fingers brushed my jacket as she reached for the buttons, slow and deliberate. Familiar territory. Well-practiced. Her touch sparked something low and physical—automatic, instinctive.

But not consuming.

She leaned in, lips parting slightly, breath warm against my mouth.

And that was when it hit me.

Not desire.

Comparison.

The wrong one.

I saw sharp eyes instead of polished ones.

Sarcasm instead of seduction.

A woman who didn’t ask permission before challenging me.

Tanya Reed.

I stepped back.

Victoria blinked. “What?”

I adjusted my cuffs, the movement controlled. “This isn’t happening.”

Her expression shifted—surprise first, then irritation. “You walked me up here.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t seem conflicted two minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t.”

She crossed her arms. “Then what changed?”

The question irritated me more than it should have.

“Nothing,” I said coolly. “I changed my mind.”

She scoffed. “That’s new.”

“Get used to it.”

She searched my face, looking for something—hesitation, regret, explanation.

She found none.

“This about someone else?” she asked.

“No.”

It wasn’t a lie.

“It’s about familiarity,” I added, after a beat.

Her jaw tightened. “So I’m boring now.”

“You’re predictable.”

That landed harder than I intended. She straightened, pride flaring. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”

“I’ve already had you,” I said plainly.

Silence filled the room.

I picked up my coat. “Goodnight, Victoria.”

She didn’t stop me.

I left the suite and took the stairs instead of the elevator. Needed the movement. Needed the air. The night hit my face like a reset.

This wasn’t about sex.

I hadn’t lost the appetite.

I hadn’t lost the edge.

If anything, I was sharper than ever.

I just didn’t want something I’d already conquered.

Back in my room, I poured a drink I didn’t finish and stood by the window, watching the city stretch endlessly below.

Victoria wasn’t the problem.

She was a reminder.

Of repetition.

Of comfort.

Of things that no longer challenged me.

If this was about release, I could solve that easily.

But this wasn’t about release.

This was about stimulation.

And apparently… I needed something new.

Someone new.

I turned away from the window and shut off the lights.

London hadn’t cured anything.

It had only confirmed it.

And that realization?

That was far more dangerous than sex.