Cold War
395 Words
Damian’s POV
Control.
It was always about control.
That was the lesson my father carved into me, the creed etched into every deal, every war, every woman who thought she could walk away.
And Calla?
Calla was the one mistake I had never been able to erase.
I sat in the back of the black car, the city lights bleeding across the tinted windows like veins of fire. My men kept their eyes forward, silent as stone, but I could feel their unease. They had seen the look in my eyes when I left her apartment. They knew better than to speak when that look was there.
She thought she could keep me at arm’s length. Hide behind locked doors. Pretend I didn’t exist.
But I had seen it—the tremor in her hands, the way her pulse hammered at her throat when I leaned close. Fear. Desire. Both tangled together in a way that belonged only to me.
She hadn’t changed, not really. She was still mine.
And her son—
My jaw clenched.
Lucas.
The boy had her eyes. That same stubborn fire. That was what burned me most. Calla had built an entire world around him, and in doing so, she had stolen what should have been mine.
The image of him asleep in that little room, so close I could almost hear his breathing—it lodged itself in my mind, gnawing at me. He was the key. Whether she admitted it or not, her life revolved around him.
And that made him my weapon.
I didn’t need to drag her back in chains. I didn’t need to force her to kneel. All I needed to do was touch what she loved most, and she’d come crawling on her own.
A slow smile tugged at my mouth.
The game had only just begun.
“Boss?” One of my men finally spoke, hesitant. “Do we… keep watching the place?”
I turned my gaze toward the city sprawling beneath us, cold and endless.
“No,” I said. “She already knows I’m watching. That’s enough for now.”
Fear festers best in silence.
But soon, I would return.
Not as a shadow at her door.
Not as a ghost from her past.
Next time, I’d walk straight through the front—and Calla Monroe would open it herself.
- Writer
