The Walls Start To Fall
1149 Words
📖 Chapter 10: The Walls Start to Fall
The invitation came in the form of a note.
No knock at her door.
No staff member to deliver it.
Just a folded slip of paper, slid neatly under her door during the late afternoon.
She’d been sitting at her little writing table, staring at the words she’d written in her journal the night before:
You don’t scare me anymore.
And then the sound of the paper moving against the carpet broke her thoughts.
---
She picked it up.
Opened it.
Two lines. Sharp. Slanted. Familiar.
> Dinner. Tonight. 8PM. Formal dining room.
Wear whatever you like. — D
---
Her first instinct was to laugh.
Of course he didn’t ask.
Of course he didn’t even bother with please.
That wasn’t Damon Stone.
But still…
she found herself standing in front of the wardrobe at 7:30, fingers hovering over dresses she hadn’t worn yet.
He said she could wear whatever she liked.
That was just like him — pretending to give her control when the entire night was already written to his script.
Still… she chose a dress anyway.
A black slip, simple but soft, clinging to her in all the right ways.
She pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck, leaving a few wisps loose to frame her face.
No makeup.
Let him see what he’d invited.
---
At exactly 8PM, she walked into the formal dining room.
And stopped.
---
The room was stunning.
A long mahogany table stretched nearly the length of the space, gleaming under the light of a massive crystal chandelier.
Fresh white flowers lined the center.
Candles flickered in silver holders.
And at the far end…
he stood.
Waiting.
---
Damon wore black.
A suit so perfectly tailored it looked like it had been stitched onto him by hand.
No tie tonight.
Top button undone.
But still every inch the cold, powerful man she’d come to know.
Except for his eyes.
Tonight, they looked… uncertain.
Like he was already regretting his own invitation.
---
“Ms. Hale,” he said simply, as she approached.
“Mr. Stone.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But something close.
He gestured to a chair opposite him.
She sat.
The chair was more comfortable than it looked, sinking slightly under her.
The table was already set — two plates, two glasses, silverware that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
He poured her wine without asking if she wanted any.
And she didn’t protest.
---
For a few minutes, the only sound was the faint clink of silverware as servers arrived with the first course.
Salad. Something delicate with figs and candied walnuts.
She picked at it.
He barely touched his.
The silence between them wasn’t tense exactly.
But it was thick.
Like neither of them knew who was supposed to speak first.
---
Finally, she set her fork down.
And said quietly:
“Why now?”
---
He looked up.
His brow furrowed faintly.
“Why what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the table. “Dinner. You. Pretending we’re…” she searched for the word, “…normal.”
---
He set his own fork down and leaned back slightly.
“Do you want honesty?”
She held his gaze.
“That would be a refreshing change.”
---
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Just watched her.
Like he was deciding if she deserved the truth.
Then:
“You’ve been here three weeks.”
She nodded slowly.
“I thought,” he continued, “if I ignored you long enough, the feeling would pass.”
Her pulse quickened.
“And did it?”
His jaw flexed.
“No.”
---
The word hung there between them.
Heavy. Real.
And she hated herself a little for how much it thrilled her.
---
The next course arrived.
Roasted chicken.
Grilled vegetables.
Some kind of herbed potato.
She barely noticed.
---
“You don’t have to feel guilty about her, you know,” she said quietly.
His head tilted slightly.
“Vivian.”
The faintest crack.
Like his armor groaned under the weight of her name.
“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand,” he said, low.
She smiled faintly.
But it was a sad smile.
“I don’t need to understand her to see what she did to you.”
---
His fingers tightened around his wine glass.
“I don’t need your sympathy, Lena.”
“Good,” she said. “Because you don’t have it.”
That surprised him.
He blinked at her.
---
She leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table.
“What I see,” she said softly, “is a man who keeps scratching her name into every surface he touches because he doesn’t know how to let her go.”
He stared at her.
And for the first time since she’d met him…
he looked wrecked.
---
The server came in just then, quietly placing dessert in front of them — a delicate chocolate tart with raspberry sauce.
Neither of them touched it.
---
He stood abruptly.
Pushed his chair back.
And walked to the window, hands in his pockets, staring out into the dark.
For a long moment, the only sound was her own heartbeat.
Then:
“You think you know everything,” he murmured.
“I don’t,” she said softly. “But I see you, Damon. More than you’d like.”
---
He didn’t turn around.
But his shoulders rose and fell on a heavy breath.
And then, quietly:
“You’re dangerous.”
---
That made her laugh.
A small, bitter sound.
“I’m dangerous? You bought me, remember?”
His head turned just slightly, enough that she caught the sharp line of his jaw in the candlelight.
“And I regret it more every day.”
---
That should have hurt.
But she just smiled faintly.
Because his voice betrayed him.
It wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
---
When he finally turned back to face her, his composure was back in place.
Almost.
He nodded once.
“This was a mistake.”
“Dinner?” she asked archly.
“Letting you matter.”
---
She stood slowly, smoothing her dress.
And walked toward him until there were only inches between them.
Then she looked up at him with quiet defiance and said:
“That’s the smartest mistake you’ve ever made.”
---
His eyes blazed.
But he didn’t touch her.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even breathe.
---
When she finally stepped back, he said nothing.
And she left him standing there — silent, still, and staring after her — as she slipped out of the dining room and into the night.
---
Later, back in her suite, she opened her journal.
And wrote:
You think you’re breaking me, Damon Stone.
But it’s you.
- Writer
