บททั้งหมดของ Damien's Willing Captive : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Damien’s POV I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. Because the woman standing in front of me… was her. Cleo fucking Richmond. My ex-fiancée. The girl who once carved her name into my chest with love—and damn near carved out my heart with betrayal. She should’ve been halfway across the globe, sulking in someone else’s penthouse, licking her wounds with some rich rebound. She shouldn’t be here, in my boardroom, dressed like she’d stepped out of a fantasy I didn’t ask for. Her bubble-blonde curls tumbled around her shoulders, glossy and wild, as if she hadn’t aged a day—but her eyes… They were different. Sharper. Hungrier. What the hell is she doing here? Mr. Davidson cleared his throat. “Mr Voss, this is the specialist I was telling you about. Ms. Richmond. Cybersecurity and legal counterintelligence. She’s—” “Qualified,” Cleo interrupted, sauntering forward like she owned the damn place. “Top of my class at Cambridge. Ran ops with Interpol. Consulted for two F

Damien's POV The city blurred around me in streaks of neon and dusk as I tore through traffic like a man possessed. My foot was a weight on the gas, but it was nothing compared to the chaos in my head. Every piece of the puzzle twisted in my mind like a knife. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not like this. Cleo had played it perfectly. Used protocol, bureaucracy, and timing like a scalpel. And the worst part? She wasn’t bluffing. The agency she worked under didn’t tolerate breaches. No broken deals. No complaints. If I pushed her out now—especially without a legitimate reason—they’d pull every contract I had with them. I’d be blacklisted across half the sector before sunrise. That couldn’t happen. Not now. Not with Osmond breathing down my neck like a rabid dog, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Cleo knew that. She knew everything. And now she was moving into my penthouse—into my world again—like a godda

Isabella’s POV The door slammed down the hall, rattling the walls with its finality. I stood frozen in the living room, the blanket slipping from my shoulders. Every nerve in my body was wired tight, humming with adrenaline and anger. I could still feel her — the ex fiancée — like a stain in the air, her perfume clinging to the furniture, her venom burning in my veins. My hands balled into fists. I turned to Damien, whose eyes hadn't left me once since she disappeared. "Next time," I said coolly, voice dripping with fury I barely recognized as my own, "put your dog on a leash. Why do I have to be barked at?” His jaw twitched, but he said nothing, only watched as I tossed the blanket onto the couch and stormed past him. I didn’t bother looking back. The penthouse seemed to stretch endlessly as I walked down the hall, every footstep a battle against the instinct screaming at me to run. I found a bedroom and climbed onto the massive bed, crawling to the farthest edge.

Cleo moved fast—heels clicking against the marble floor as she raced into the elevator and slid in beside Damien before the doors could shut. “Morning, Damie,” she cooed, batting her lashes like a deranged Disney villain. “Hope you don’t mind me tagging along.” Damien didn’t answer. Not even a twitch. The silence was his rejection, his armor. But of course, Cleo was persistent. She trailed after him like a shadow to his car, slipping into the passenger seat without being invited. Buckling her seatbelt with a sharp click, she turned toward him with a saccharine smile that barely masked her irritation. “So…” she began, crossing her legs slowly. “Who is she really? That girl back there. Ariana or… whatever name she goes by. Is she someone you hired to get my attention?” Her voice was mocking, but behind it lurked something wounded. Damien didn’t glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on the road, jaw tight. “I’m not doing this with you, Cleo,” he muttered, flat and cold.

Damien’s POV I returned to the meeting with a blank expression, smoothing the mask back over my face like slipping into a finely tailored coat. The mayor was droning on about zoning conflicts and the new investor gala. I nodded, leaned back, and let my mind concentrate. I said all the right things. Gave a compelling breakdown of the new offshore fund, disarmed the governor’s opposition with a single raised brow, and promised the mayor the zoning permits for his “legacy project” would be delivered before the next election cycle. And yet—I wasn’t really there. A few more minutes passed before something new cut through the meeting. Perfume. Too repulsive. Too familiar. I felt her before I saw her. She sashayed in without shame, hips swaying in a rhythm only desperation could birth, platinum blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders. One of the call girls I used to keep around in my darker, lonelier hours—Sienna, I think. Or was it Star? Simone? They all blended. "Mr Vos