Chapter 8
689 Words
The room was tense the moment she stepped in.
It wasn’t unusual anymore. Rhea had grown used to the weight of Damian Cole’s stare. Sharp. Cold. Like he was trying to figure her out—or crush her if he couldn't.
She didn’t flinch when his eyes followed her. Not today. Not after everything she’d built within herself to stand here. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floors as she walked past the conference table to her seat, placing her files down with a quiet confidence.
He didn’t greet her. Of course not.
“Next time you’re late by even a second, don’t bother showing up,” Damian said, flipping through papers without lifting his gaze.
She wasn’t late.
Rhea blinked. Her heart stung, but she didn’t show it. She glanced at the clock on the wall—8:59 a.m.
“I wasn’t late,” she said evenly, sitting down and opening her notepad.
“You’re speaking back now?” he snapped, finally raising his head.
His voice carried an edge that scraped against her nerves, but more than that, it chipped away at the armor she wore. A few of the others in the room shifted awkwardly in their seats, avoiding eye contact. No one ever spoke back to Damian. No one except her.
Rhea’s throat tightened, but she kept her chin up. “I was here on time.”
Damian leaned back, arms folded, expression unreadable. “Then maybe you should be here five minutes early. That’s what professionals do.”
The jab wasn't about punctuality. It never was.
He was trying to remind her that no matter how well she performed, she didn’t belong. Not in his empire. Not in his world. Not beside him.
And for a second—just one second—it almost worked.
The humiliation pooled in her chest, her vision blurring ever so slightly. She could feel her composure slipping. Her fingers tightened around her pen.
But then she remembered.
This wasn’t about her ego. It wasn’t about the stares or the small humiliations. It was about justice. For her parents. For everything she had lost.
She inhaled quietly and steadied herself.
“I understand,” she said with a small nod, her voice smooth, almost detached.
Damian looked almost disappointed. Maybe he expected her to cry. Maybe he wanted her to.
But Rhea Carter didn’t break—not here.
---
The day crawled after that. Damian barely acknowledged her during the meetings. He shot down her suggestions. Interrupted her twice. Even when she made a strong point, he redirected credit to someone else.
She kept quiet.
But her silence wasn’t weakness—it was calculation.
---
Later that evening, the office had cleared out. Rhea sat at her desk, typing up a report with steady hands, trying to ignore the tired ache behind her eyes. She could hear the soft hum of the elevator, the occasional footsteps echoing from down the hall.
She didn’t expect him to stop at her desk. But he did.
Damian stood in front of her, arms crossed again, jaw tight. The overhead lights cast shadows over his face, making him look even more guarded than usual.
“You didn’t cry,” he said bluntly.
Rhea looked up, startled.
“I thought you would,” he added, tone unreadable.
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Disappointed?”
A pause. Then, he looked away. “No.”
There was something else in his eyes this time. Something softer. Confused, maybe. As if he wasn’t sure what to do with someone like her—someone who could take his worst and still look him in the eye.
She stared at him for a moment, letting silence settle between them.
“You think being cruel gives you control,” she said, voice quiet but sure. “But it just shows you’re afraid of what you can’t understand.”
Damian blinked. For once, he didn’t have a response.
Rhea stood, grabbing her coat. “Goodnight, Mr. Cole.”
She walked past him with calm grace. And this time, it was he who turned to watch her leave.
- Writer
