Chapter Five – Cracks in the Ice
939 Words
The following morning, Aisha padded into the penthouse’s kitchen, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The space looked more like a luxury restaurant than a home—sleek counters, polished chrome, an espresso machine that probably cost more than her old apartment’s yearly rent.
She felt out of place. Small. Temporary.
As she poured herself a glass of water, her phone buzzed with a message. Her hand trembled as she read it:
Landlord: Your things are on the curb. Don’t bother coming back.
Her chest squeezed painfully. Everything she owned—her mother’s photo albums, her worn-out notebooks, her entire life—was probably sitting on the street, waiting to be picked apart by strangers.
She pressed her hand against her stomach. Stay calm. Don’t stress the baby. But her vision was blurred.
Damian walked in, jacket slung over one arm, already on a phone call. His deep voice rolled across the room like authority itself.
“Double the shares by noon. I don’t care what it costs. Handle it.”
He hung up, his sharp gaze instantly catching the tears on her face. His brows pulled together. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, swiping at her cheeks.
“Daniels.” His voice was clipped, demanding.
Her phone slipped from her hand onto the counter, the message glowing on the screen. He picked it up before she could stop him, his jaw tightening as he read it.
“They threw your belongings out?” His tone was ice. Deadly ice.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, hugging herself. “I’ll manage.”
But the storm in Damian’s eyes said otherwise. Without a word, he pulled out his own phone, dialing someone.
“Send a team to 14th Street, apartment 3B. Collect everything with the name Daniels on it. Now.” He paused, his gaze flicking to her. “And store it here.”
Aisha’s mouth fell open. “You can’t just—”
“I can. And I did.”
Later that afternoon, against Damian’s orders, Aisha insisted on stepping out to pick up a few personal items from a nearby store. He allowed it—on one condition: a driver and a bodyguard would accompany her.
It made her feel suffocated, but she agreed. Nothing was better than pacing the penthouse like a trapped bird.
As she walked through the small store, she noticed whispers. Two women in the register giggled, one of them pointing subtly in her direction.
“That’s her, right? The girl carrying Damian Cole’s baby.”
“She’s lucky. I’d fake a pregnancy too if it meant living in a penthouse.”
The words stung like knives. Aisha clenched her fists, keeping her head down. She told herself not to react, but when one of them sneered loud enough for her to hear—“She’ll be out as soon as he gets bored”—something inside her snapped.
She turned to face them, her voice shaking but steady. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
The laughter that followed cut deeper than she expected.
“Daniels.”
The single word silenced the entire store. Damian had appeared out of nowhere, his presence consuming the space. The woman's smirks vanished as his icy gaze swept over them.
“If you have something to say about the mother of my child,” he said in a dangerously low tone, say it to me.
Neither woman could meet his eyes. They muttered apologies before scurrying out of the store.
Aisha’s heart thundered. She should have felt vindicated. Instead, she was overwhelmed by the fierce way he had claimed her—not as a woman he loved, but as his responsibility. Still, her cheeks burned.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered once they were outside.
“I won’t have anyone disrespect what’s mine,” he said coldly, guiding her toward the waiting car.
That night, Aisha tried to convince herself she wasn’t shaken. But her body told another story. The stress of eviction, humiliation, and Damian’s suffocating control crashed into her all at once.
As she walked toward her bedroom, her vision swam. The floor tilted. A sharp pain sliced through her abdomen, stealing her breath.
Her knees buckled.
“Damian—” she gasped, before collapsing.
Strong arms caught her before she hit the ground. Panic—real, raw panic—flashed in Damian’s usually composed face.
“Daniels! Stay with me.”
Her consciousness slipped in and out as he barked orders into his phone. “Get the doctor here. Now!”
The last thing she felt before darkness swallowed her was his hand gripping hers, firm and desperate.
The doctor arrived quickly, thanks to Damian’s power. After a thorough check, he assured Damian it was stress-induced exhaustion. The baby was safe, but Aisha needed rest, calm, and care.
As the doctor left, Damian stood at her bedside, fists clenched. He had faced corporate sharks, hostile takeovers, even betrayal from those closest to him—but nothing had shaken him like watching her collapse.
Why did he care this much? Why did the thought of losing her—or the child—twist something inside his chest he didn’t want to name?
He sank into the chair beside her bed, eyes fixed on her pale face. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
“You’re not supposed to matter,” he whispered, echoing his own words from the balcony. But the truth clawed at him.
She mattered more than she should.
- Writer
