Eleven
1224 Words
Tof already had two women clinging to each of his arms when I arrived. He grinned wide, flashing his teeth, and jerked his chin toward a brunette hovering near our table—my “designated entertainment,” apparently. Everything about tonight is exactly how my nights usually go: party invite, strobe lights blasting, alcohol heavy in the air, perfume and sweat mixing, women trying too hard to catch my attention—
And I feel nothing.
My eyes drifted over the dance floor, over the bodies swaying, over the bright neon lights slicing the dark. Nothing. No spark. No thrill. No hunger.
My mind keeps drifting back to her.
Her voice.
Her damn stubbornness.
Her scent.
The way she pushes me away every chance she gets.
I try burying the thoughts, shoving them deep in the back of my head, drowning them with whiskey and the blonde woman who immediately loops her arm through mine like she owns me.
“What’s your name, baby—”
The word feels wrong on my tongue. Like poison. I used to say it a hundred times a night without blinking.
“Janice,” she purrs, batting her lashes. “They were right—you look phenomenal, Damien.”
I don’t answer like I used to.
A month ago I would’ve said, “You look stunning too, baby,” then leaned in, whispered in her ear, “They were right about me in bed too.”
She would’ve blushed and clung tighter, begging for the night to go exactly the way she hoped. Whispering my name over and over.
Damien. Damien—
“Damien?”
My vision snaps back. Janice is staring at me like she’s waiting for a cue.
“Yeah. Sure.” I mutter, not even knowing what I’m agreeing to.
She inches closer, lips brushing mine. She smiles like she already knows the script of my night. “God, I just know you’ll be heaven too.”
Her lips press against mine.
I don’t move.
I try. I f*****g try. But something in me won’t let me respond. It feels wrong. Off. Like I’d be lying to myself.
I pull back immediately. “Sorry. I have to be somewhere.”
Her face twists, voice rising as I walk away. I don’t bother looking back. I bump into Tof on my way out, ignoring his drunk confusion.
When I finally reach my car, I slam my fists against the steering wheel. The whole vehicle shudders with the impact.
“What the f**k is wrong with me?!”
I blast music loud enough to rattle my skull, desperate to drown everything out. It works—for ten minutes. Then I park in the driveway, turn off the engine, and every thought I buried comes crashing back. Hard. Violent. Like a damn tsunami.
Before I can stop myself, I dial her number.
It rings. Once. Twice.
Her constant avoidance is supposed to piss me off.
Instead, it draws me in. Pulls me closer.
Why?
Why the hell do I want someone who keeps pushing me away?
The ringing stops.
I inhale sharply and call again.
If she doesn’t answer this time—
“What?”
My lips twitch. She already sounds annoyed. Already frustrated.
Only with me.
I say nothing. Just listen to her breathing—sharp, soft, real. The first real thing I’ve heard all night.
“Hello?”
Her voice softens, just a little. Almost concerned.
Finally I say, “Did you know you’re the only person who makes me call twice?”
Silence.
“The only one who snaps at me,” I add quietly.
I want to ask why she talks to me like that. How she dares. How she gets away with it. I’m not going to ask her to stop. She can act like a brat all she wants around me.
“So?”
Her voice wavers. She’s flustered. I can hear it.
“I like it.”
There’s a beat. Then, barely breathing:
“Good night, Damien.”
Before she can hang up, I murmur, “Good night, Grace.”
And, stupidly, ridiculously—because of that one-minute conversation with a woman who swears she hates me—
My night feels lighter.
I smile to myself as I step out of the car.
Morning chaos begins before the sun fully rises.
“Too dangerous,” I say immediately, standing. “Have her take one of the drivers.”
Both Grace and Madam Eve start to protest—of course they do—but I’m already walking away. I don’t have the patience this morning. Not when every cell in my body is still replaying her voice saying good night.
In my office, my secretary rushes behind me.
“All documents that need signing are on your desk, sir. Mr. Tof is… not here today, so—”
Of course he’s not.
“I don’t care. Message him: ‘Come in or you’re fired.’ Word for word.”
“O-okay, sir.”
I drown myself in work—calls, Zoom meetings, contract signings, reviewing my Nonno’s Island Report. It’s relentless, but it’s the only thing that pushes her out of my head.
Well—mostly out. She’s still there, lingering behind every thought.
Her voice.
Her fire.
Her submissive moments that I crave too much.
Without thinking, I dial her number again.
She answers on the first ring.
Her soft, “Hello?” immediately unclenches something in my chest.
“Well,” I exhale, leaning back in my chair. “This is new.”
“What is?”
“You answering the first time.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
I can practically feel her rolling her eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
There’s a pause.
She’s choosing her lie. I can tell.
“I’m at a bar.”
I stare at the wall, unimpressed. “That’s too quiet for a bar.”
“Their VIP room is really good.”
I know she’s lying. I should call her out on it. I should rip through the lie and demand the truth—like I do with everyone else.
But something about her pretending…
Something about her trying to push back…
It does something to me.
And the thought of her actually being at a bar—somewhere loud, somewhere dark, somewhere with men?
It makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.
“Grace,” I say slowly, steadying my voice, “you’re not at a bar.”
She doesn’t answer.
I smile a little.
She’s stubborn. But she’s terrible at lying.
“Where are you really?”
Another pause. Then she murmurs, “Outside. At the gate. Waiting.”
Waiting?
A surge of something warm and dangerous crawls up my spine.
“For what?” I ask quietly.
“…For the driver.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. I don’t know why that affects me. It shouldn’t. But the fact she actually listened—took the driver like I said—it hits differently.
“Where are you going?"
"To a bar."
My jaw clenches, “Grace."
"Stop caring Dame."
Just tell me how.
"I don't know how long you'll play your game, Grace."
“What do you mean?"
"I know it you."
And then I hung up.
- Writer
