The Muse He Never Saw

Episode 7

"Vivian's our design director," Damian said, already halfway back toward the elevator, toned flat in a way that suggested the introduction was a formality he resented having to make. "So she's in charge of your day-to-day. Play nice, you two."

Elena caught the warning under it — aimed less at her than at Vivian, who had rearranged her face into something almost pleasant by the time Damian glanced back. It wasn't lost on Elena how fast her stepsister could perform sincerity for an audience of one.

"Thank you," Elena said, to no one in particular, and turned to find Damian already studying her again, that same placeable focus in his eyes.

"I should be the one thanking you," he said, quieter now, the crowd of designers drifting back to their desks giving them something close to privacy. "For earlier." In the alley. I'm sorry you had to see me like that."

"You looked like a man being chased," Elena said. "I didn't need an explanation."

Something in his expression shifted — surprise, maybe, that she hadn't asked for one anyway. "You're very talented," he said instead, nodding toward the swatch still sitting on the table between them. "I can't wait to see what you do here."

"Thank you, Mr...."

"Damian. Call me Damian."

He said it like an afterthought, already turning to leave, but the word landed somewhere in Elena's chest anyway, unwelcome and warm. She watched him go, telling herself the reaction meant nothing — that six years of careful distance from men who looked at her too closely hadn't just cracked over the space of one crooked, unfair morning.

He found his assistant twenty minutes later, still replaying the interview in his head against his better judgment. "I need you to wire that girl half of my quarterly bonus," he said. "The one from the alley. She saved me from getting my head caved in for real this time."

"That's generous, sir. Unusual, but generous."

"Just do it," Damian said, already moving on to the next fire on his list, refusing to examine too closely why it mattered so much that she be paid properly for four seconds of courage she hadn't owed him at all.

Elena found Milo exactly where she'd left him hours earlier — except now he was crouched by the design floor's coffee station, negotiating with a stranger over a toy robot he'd apparently smuggled into his backpack against every rule Marisol had promised to enforce.

"Sorry about that," Elena said, scooping the toy out of a tall man's hands before her son could finish his sales pitch. "Here, take this one back." I have a bigger one at home, anyway." She turned to Milo, lowering her voice. "Manners. Say thank you."

"Thank you," Milo said obediently, then immediately ruined it by grinning up at the stranger like they were already friends. "This is your mom's new boss," Elena added, mortified. "Milo, where is your—"

But Milo had already wandered off toward the elevators, small and fearless the way he was always in new places, chattering something about hacking a vending machine. Damian, drawn by the commotion, appeared at the end of the hall in time to watch the boy plant himself directly in front of him.

"Maybe I could help you find her," Damian said, crouching slightly, amused despite himself by the sheer confidence of a child who clearly didn't understand who he was talking to.

"Lucas," someone called — Elena, rounding the corner at a near-run, breathless. "Milo."

"Mom?" Milo said, delighted, like he'd solved a puzzle. "Oh. There you are."

"I hope he wasn't bothering you, sir." Elena's face had gone carefully, professionally blank, the way it did whenever she needed a room not to see her panic. "Okay — yeah — come on, Milo" Should we go get burgers?"

Damian didn't answer right away. He was still crouched at Milo's height, and something about the angle of the boy's jaw, the particular tilt of his eyebrows when he was pleased with himself, snagged at a thought Damian couldn't quite finish forming.

His assistant found him there a minute later, watching mother and son disappear into the elevator.

"It's uncanny," the assistant said mildly, following his gaze. "He looks just like you did at that age. I've seen the old photo albums your father keeps."

Damian straightened slowly, the comment landing somewhere he hadn't braced for. "You think so?"

"Want me to investigate?" A pause, careful, testing the weight of the offer. "I could order a DNA test."

Damian said nothing. He stood in the empty hallway long after the elevator doors had closed, doing math he didn't want to be doing — six years, a hotel room, a boy who couldn't be older than five — and felt the first real c***k open in the careful, controlled life he'd built to survive without ever asking the questions that mattered.