My Imperfect Mr Perfect

The Lady in Black Dress

“ But something told me…this wasn’t over.”

Damien Sinclair hadn’t planned on staying in town longer than necessary. Drop off a package. Flash a smile at his grandfather’s cranky sister, Grandaunt Lucy, and get back to L City as fast as he could.

He had only agreed to delivering the package himself because he needed a favor from his grandaunt. He needed someone to help him convince his grandfather to give him time before he settled; another arranged date wasn't going to fix his life.

Monday, 11:00 PM

He walked into a bar that quietly whispered elegance and luxury. A dimly lit bar tucked inside an upscale hotel, all marbled floors with a live jazz band humming softly in the background. It wasn't the most extravagant place he had been to, but something about tonight had him craving simplicity

.

A quiet drink. A dark corner. A moment to forget the weight of expectations and obligations. A strong drink enough to blur the pressure clamping his chest.

He was halfway through mentally calculating how long he would stay before catching his early flight the next morning.

Then he saw her.

Damien’s POV

She sat alone, tucked into the farthest corner of the bar. A woman in a simple black dress that hugged her curves like a second skin. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, strands falling loose across her face. Chin in one hand, the other tracing the rim of her glass. The look in her eyes wasn't just tired. It was defeated.

Something about her tugged at me. Maybe it was the sad look in her eyes. The kind of look people wore when they have lost everything. I've seen that look before.

I wasn’t the type of man who approached strangers. I'm Damien Sinclair. I like my encounters predictable, my boundaries firm, and my emotions in check. But tonight, something pulled me across the room like a magnet, and I didn’t think twice before approaching her.

I took the seat two stools away from her, leaving enough space not to be threatening, but close enough to be noticed.

“Rough week?” I asked in a low, almost casual voice.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she sipped from the glass slowly, keeping her gaze fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside it. It was the classic "don’t talk to me" posture.

Then came a laugh. Dry, tired, bitter.

Finally, she exhaled. “Rough life.”

I let out a soft chuckle, taken aback by her honesty.

She turned to look at me. Her eyes were glassy, but sharp. “What brings you here?”

“Family errands, boring story,” I replied with a shrug.

“You don’t look like the type who runs errands,” she muttered, half amused, half curious.

“I don't usually; today is an exception,” I let out a crooked grin. “Let me not bore you with the details,” I quickly added.

We talked after that. About everything. There were no last names, not even first names. No small talk about the weather. Just pieces of stories wrapped in half-truths and flirtations.

Her laugh was soft. Her guard slowly cracked, and for once I didn’t feel the weight of being Damien Sinclair.

At one point, my fingers brushed against hers as I reached for my drink. It was a casual touch but deliberate. A quiet test.

She didn't pull away.

“If you don't want to be alone tonight, say it,” I said quietly.

She looked at me. Really looked at me. And nodded.

I leaned in, “Come upstairs with me.”

She didn't speak. Just stood, picked up her purse, and followed.

Tuesday: 7:30 AM

The buzz of the second alarm cut through the silence like a knife. I groaned, reaching blindly towards the nightstand and silencing it with a frustrated tap.

I blinked for some seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the soft light creeping in through the hotel's curtains, golden and calm.

I turned to where she was lying. She was still asleep and she didn't look like she would wake up anytime soon. She curled on her side, tangled in the sheets like she belonged there, her dark hair splayed messily against the pillow. The curve of her cheek was barely visible, and her lips were parted slightly as she breathed. Peaceful. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

Her face was peaceful in a way it wasn't the night before. No more glassy eyes. No more trembling fingers.

I watched her in silence, unsure of what to feel. Regret? No, it was definitely not regret. Curiosity? Maybe.

I didn't want to leave. At least not until she was awake.

But my flight was in sixty minutes from now, and if I missed it, Grandfather would throw a fit and probably send another cousin in my place. And I didn't have any more energy to deal with lectures about responsibilities and legacy.

I sat up slowly, careful not to disturb her. I didn’t even know her name just her voice. Her laughter.

Her pain.

I moved quietly to avoid making a sound. I pulled on my shirt slowly, ran a hand through my hair, and paused just before leaving.

I pulled a black and sleek business card from the inside of my jacket. My name printed in bold silver letters.

It read, “Damien Sinclair. CEO - Sinclair and Co International.”

I hesitated a bit before carefully placing it on the nightstand by the bedside.

I stood for a second, watching her breathe. A part of me that I never showed secretly wished and hoped she'd wake up. Ask for my number. My name. Something.

But she didn't move. Not even a stir.

I turned and walked quietly towards the door, and I gave quiet instructions at the front desk to make sure her sleep was undisturbed until late morning.

And just like that, I walked out of the hotel and disappeared into the morning light without glancing back. Without even knowing her name. She didn't know my name either.

But something told me…this wasn’t over.