Nine
1045 Words
Damien had spent the entire morning pacing his study, pretending to read emails he wasn’t actually absorbing. His mind wasn’t on work. It wasn’t even on the deals his grandfather wanted him to sign.
It was on her.
Grace.
And the worst part? The two pieces finally snapped together so cleanly in his head that it annoyed him he hadn’t seen it earlier.
Her voice.
Her face.
The way she stiffened whenever he got too close.
The way she moaned over the phone—his phone—in the exact same breathy cadence as that night.
She was the girl from the bar.
She was the best night of his life.
And she was… chopping onions in his kitchen.
But she pretended not to know him. Pretended he was nothing but her employer. Pretended that night never existed.
It confused him. It pissed him off. It intrigued him.
And—most annoyingly—it made him hesitate.
He had no idea whether to confront her or let her keep playing her little game.
Damien Valentini never hesitated. He always knew his move.
Except with her.
Where the hell is she?
Three hours earlier, he noticed something was off.
The villa staff greeted him like usual, but… no Grace. Not in his room. Not in the hallway. Not cleaning his car. Not hovering around Madam Eve like she always did.
He tried not to make it obvious when he asked, “Where’s the other girl? The one who came with us to the island?”
Kate popped out behind the kitchen door, looking personally offended.
“Oh, she left me,” she complained dramatically, pointing at her chest. “Just abandoned me with that snotty replacement. She won’t even help me fold sheets properly! She keeps talking about how handsome you are. I think she wants your number.”
Damien raised a brow.
Kate huffed. “I don’t like her. Get rid of her.”
“That’s enough,” Madam Eve scolded as she passed. “Grace requested a transfer.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “To where?”
“The kitchen. And sometimes the garden. She said she prefers to work… farther away from you.”
He didn’t respond—because he couldn’t.
Farther away from him.
Yeah, that sounded exactly like the girl who ran from his hands like he was going to eat her alive.
Grace stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, water dripping from her hands as she scrubbed the last batch of dishes. Her shoulders were still pink from the sunburn, but cleaner-looking now, smoother. The aloe had worked.
Well—he worked.
She washed faster when Madam Eve stepped inside.
“There you are, dear. Dry your hands for a moment.”
Grace obeyed, though nervously. “Is something wrong, Ma’am?”
“No, darling. Something is right.”
Eve held out a folder and a small, timid smile. “Mr. Fidele was impressed with you. So was I. We talked about your request… you want to study again?”
Grace’s breath hitched. She nodded quietly.
“Well, we’d like to sponsor it.”
Grace blinked. “S–Sponsor? Like…?”
“A proper university. Tuition, books, everything.”
Grace nearly dropped the towel.
“The only condition,” Eve continued, “is that once you graduate, you work under one of the Valentini companies for five years. You’ll have a guaranteed position. A stable one.”
Grace swallowed the thickness in her throat.
Five years? She’d work ten if it meant she could finish school.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Ma’am. I’d… I’d be very grateful.”
“Good.” Eve squeezed her shoulder. “You have potential. Don’t waste it.”
Grace lowered her head to hide the tear she quickly wiped away.
She returned to washing the remaining dishes with trembling hands—this time not from fear but from overwhelming relief.
A future. A real one.
The sun had dipped low when Grace escaped to the garden, tending to the herb bed with a small trowel. Gardening was peaceful. Quiet. Safe.
She thought she was alone until a shadow fell over her hands.
She froze.
Damien leaned against the stone pillar beside the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, hair slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times.
He was alone.
No woman hanging on his arm.
No flirtation dripping from his voice.
Just him.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said casually.
Grace pretended to dig harder. “I’ve been transferred, Sir. I work here now.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
She swallowed. “Maybe I just like plants, Sir.”
He snorted—and actually smiled. “You don’t even know the name of the one you’re stabbing.”
Her head snapped up, offended. “Yes, I do!”
He crossed his arms. “What is it?”
Grace stared at the green leaves.
Her confidence wilted.
“M-Mint?”
“It’s basil.”
She glared. “It looks minty.”
His smile widened into something dangerously close to fond amusement.
“And there it is,” he said.
“There what is?” she muttered.
“The real you. The bratty one.”
Grace choked on her own breath. “I—I’m not— bratty.”
“Mm.” He tilted his head. “Sure.”
She tried to stand, but he moved aside to let her pass—no teasing, no cornering, no intimidation. Just… space.
Which was somehow worse.
“You can keep pretending,” he said quietly, hands slipping into his pockets. “If that’s the game you want.”
Her heart stopped.
Game.
He knew.
He knew.
But he wasn’t confronting her.
He wasn’t demanding answers.
He wasn’t forcing her to admit anything.
He was letting her play.
That was the strangest thing Damien Valentini had ever done.
Grace looked away, gripping her trowel so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Goodnight, Sir,” she said—soft, careful.
Damien’s eyes followed her as she walked past him, fleeing again.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he murmured.
And for the first time, his voice didn’t sound like a command.
It sounded like a promise.
- Writer
