His World, Hisles
1464 Words
Leona
I never expected to dream about him.
Not like that.
But at 3:17 a.m., I woke up tangled in sheets, heart pounding, his voice still echoing in my ears.
“You still look at people like you expect them to surprise you…”
He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a blade sliding beneath my skin.
And now, in the pitch-black silence of my apartment, I hated that he was in my head. That he could slip past all my practiced detachment with one line and leave the door open behind him.
I didn’t like being affected. That was his power—not mine.
I forced myself to sleep. But I knew the truth.
This wasn’t just a job anymore.
⸻
By morning, I had the headache that only came from overthinking. Or falling too fast.
The elevator ride to the 42nd floor felt colder than usual. Damian’s office was still dark when I arrived, but I wasn’t surprised. He had a habit of disappearing for hours and then reappearing like smoke—right when I was sure I could breathe again.
At 8:17 a.m., the black door opened.
He stepped in wearing charcoal slacks, a black dress shirt, no tie. His jacket was slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t quite decided whether the day deserved his full armor.
And he looked… tired.
Not in the physical sense. In the soul-deep way a person looks when the world has taken more than it gave.
“Good morning,” I said, standing instinctively.
“Coffee,” he said simply, brushing past me.
I followed him inside, already reaching for the tablet to pull up his schedule. “You have the strategy call with Graeme at nine, the private security review at eleven, and the debrief with legal at one. Also—”
“Cancel Graeme.”
I paused. “He’s flying in from London.”
“Then he can fly back with some free time.”
My mouth opened, then closed.
He sat down behind his desk, glancing at the screen but clearly distracted.
His hands were perfectly still. His jaw—tense.
“You slept?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked up to meet mine.
“No.”
“You look like it.”
“That’s the problem with perception,” he murmured. “It always thinks it’s right.”
There it was again—that cryptic distance. That way he had of making honesty sound like strategy.
“I can reschedule Graeme—”
“I said cancel it.”
The finality in his tone ended the conversation.
But not the tension.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on me. “You’ve been thinking about something.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re quieter this morning. Calculating. I know the look.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me, Leona.”
“It’s not a lie.”
He stood, walking slowly around the desk, stopping a few feet from me. “Then tell me what’s in your head.”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know. But because I did.
You’re in my head.
You’re messing with every line I’ve drawn.
And I don’t know what happens if I let that continue.
Instead, I said, “You asked me why I’m here. I think I finally know the real answer.”
He said nothing. Just waited.
“I think I wanted to see if someone like you could still feel anything.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“Dangerous curiosity.”
“Maybe.”
“And what do you think now?”
“I think you feel more than you want to admit. You just bury it under control.”
He stepped closer.
“Be careful, Leona. You’re not here to read me.”
“Then what am I here for?”
He stared at me so long I thought he might actually answer.
But then: “We’re leaving. In twenty minutes.”
I frowned. “Where?”
“I have a lunch meeting. And I want you there.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in the car again, him on his phone, me trying not to fidget as the tension thickened around us. When we pulled up to a private dining club on the Upper East Side, a valet opened his door before I even registered we’d stopped.
Damian turned to me before exiting.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t offer opinions. Just watch.”
I nodded.
The building was discreet, the kind of place designed for men who didn’t like being told no. Inside, it was all mahogany panels, deep leather seats, and quiet nods of recognition. Men in suits looked up as Damian entered. One stood immediately—a silver-haired man with a deep tan and a sharper smile.
“Damian,” the man said, shaking his hand. “It’s been too long.”
“Marcus,” Damian replied.
They sat. I stood just behind him like an afterthought.
For the first fifteen minutes, it was talk of markets and mutual funds, acquisition chatter layered in innuendo. I stayed silent, observing. Marcus was powerful, but something about him felt slippery—like a man who’d shake your hand and count your rings.
And he was watching me.
Too often. Too long.
Finally, he said, “You brought company this time.”
“Observation,” Damian said flatly. “Nothing more.”
Marcus turned to me. “You have a name?”
I looked at Damian. He didn’t stop me.
“Leona Hart.”
Marcus smiled. “Beautiful. And sharp, I bet.”
“She doesn’t bet,” Damian said. “She calculates.”
The conversation moved on, but the heat in my cheeks didn’t fade.
When we finally left, Damian didn’t speak until we were in the car again.
“You handled that well.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly.”
I turned to him. “Why did you want me there?”
“Because I wanted him to see that I’m not alone.”
The answer hit harder than I expected.
“And was that about power?” I asked.
“No,” he said softly. “That was about protection.”
Back at the office, he was different.
Quieter. Less guarded.
At one point, he came out and handed me a flash drive. “This doesn’t leave the building.”
“What’s on it?”
“Old ghosts.”
That night, I stayed late. I didn’t plan to, but I couldn’t seem to leave.
Around 8:00 p.m., the office was dark. Only the two of us left.
I knocked once on his open door.
“You eating tonight, or is self-destruction part of your brand?”
He looked up from his screen.
For a second, something shifted. His expression softened. Just enough.
“Are you offering to feed me, Miss Hart?”
“Maybe I’m offering to keep you human.”
He leaned back, regarding me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.
“I don’t remember the last time someone said that to me.”
“Then maybe that’s the problem.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then, slowly, he stood.
“I’ll let you buy me a coffee.”
“Wow. A whole coffee? Should I be honored?”
“You should be terrified.”
The coffee shop across the street was dimly lit and nearly empty. We sat at a small corner table, both holding paper cups like it was some kind of peace treaty.
He didn’t speak at first.
Then, out of nowhere: “My mother left when I was nine.”
I froze.
He stared into his coffee.
“No warning. No note. Just gone.”
“Damian—”
“She wasn’t built for this world. Or maybe she was, and it scared her.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything.
“That’s why I don’t let people close. They always leave. Or worse—they stay and make you wish they hadn’t.”
My throat tightened. “And me?”
He looked at me then. Really looked.
“You’re a risk I didn’t plan for.”
I swallowed hard.
“But you let me in anyway.”
“Not fully.”
“No,” I whispered. “But the door’s unlocked.”
He leaned forward, his voice low.
“You get one warning, Leona.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you fall for me, I won’t catch you.”
I stared at him.
Then, slowly, I said, “I don’t need you to catch me. Just don’t push me off.”
He sat back, eyes dark.
And for once, he didn’t argue.
- Writer
