Morning After
768 Words
I woke up to silence.
Not the cold, empty silence of my apartment. The rich kind. The kind that costs millions per square foot.
Damian’s bed was warm. He was gone.
For half a second I forgot where I was. Then I saw it: his suit jacket draped over the chair. His cufflinks on the nightstand. Smelling like cedar and control.
Rule 2: No feelings.
My chest ached anyway.
The dress from last night was folded neatly on the chair. Not tossed. Folded. Like he’d touched every inch of it again before putting it down.
On top: a note. Black card. His handwriting. Sharp, slanted.
_Breakfast downstairs. Don’t run._
No “good morning”. No “stay”. Just a command.
I should’ve ignored it. Should’ve showered, changed, walked out.
Instead I pulled the blanket tighter around me and inhaled his pillow. Cedar. Smoke. Him.
I hated that I liked it.
*Downstairs*
The penthouse was all glass and morning light. And Damian.
He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to me. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Coffee in one hand. Phone in the other. CEO even at 7am.
He didn’t turn when I stepped out. “You stayed.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Did I have a choice?” I moved to the counter. Avoided his eyes.
“Yes.” He finally turned. Grey eyes swept over me — oversized shirt of his, bare legs, no makeup.
His jaw ticked. “You chose not to run. That’s progress.”
Breakfast was already set. Not catered. Cooked. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. The way I liked it, from that one time I mentioned it 3 weeks ago.
I stared. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything you say,” he said simply. Pulled out a chair for me. “Sit.”
Rule 3: Obey him.
I sat. He pushed a plate in front of me. Then he sat across from me. Not at the head of the table. Across. Like an equal.
The silence stretched. Comfortable. Terrifying.
Finally I broke it. “Why 6 months, Damian?”
His fork paused mid-air. Then set down. Slow.
“You want the truth?” Grey eyes met mine. No mask. No CEO.
“Yes.”
“Because my father left me 51% of Black Corp. With one condition.” He leaned back. “I have to be married. For 6 months. Before I turn 30. Next month.”
My stomach dropped. “So I’m a contract. A clause.”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “You’re the woman who pulled me from fire. The only one who looked at the monster and didn’t flinch.”
“Then why 6 months?” I pushed. “Why not forever?”
He stood abruptly. Walked to the window. Hands in pockets. The distance of a CEO.
“Because,” he said, back to me, “I don’t know how to be anything except possessive and broken. And you deserve better than that.”
My heart twisted. Rule 2 screaming at me to shut up.
“Then teach me,” I whispered. “How to be yours. Without the rules. Without the countdown.”
He turned. Eyes dark. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do.” I stood too. 3 steps between us. “Last night you said you want my choice. Here it is: I choose to stay. Past 6 months. If you’ll let me.”
For a second, nothing.
Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times.
He glanced at it. Jaw clenched.
Isabella.
Text preview lit up the screen: _“We need to talk. About Ava. And the Vance deal. Unless you want the board to see last night’s security footage.”_
Damian’s hand fisted. He pocketed the phone. Looked at me like he was deciding whether to lie or burn the world.
“Finish your breakfast,” he said finally. Voice flat. CEO back on. “I have a meeting.”
“Damian—”
“Don’t.” He cut me off. But his hand brushed my cheek as he passed. Barely a touch. Everything.
“Stay here,” he murmured at the door. “Please.”
Then he was gone.
And I was left with his breakfast, his shirt, and a countdown that suddenly felt too short.
I didn’t run.
But I picked up his phone from the counter where he’d left it.
The screen was still on. Isabella’s last text glowing.
_“6 months ends when I say it does, Damian. Not when you do.”_
My blood went cold.
- Writer
