That One
1898 Words
Serena’s POV
By Saturday morning, I already regret everything.
Not because of Adrian.
Never because of Adrian.
That part is done.
Broken beyond repair.
But Damian Ortiz?
That man walks into my life for less than a week and suddenly I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something dangerous without fully understanding the rules.
And I hate not understanding the rules.
I stare blankly at my computer screen at work while absolutely nothing registers in my brain.
Numbers blur.
Emails pile up unanswered.
Janice notices almost immediately.
“You look possessed.”
I blink slowly. “That’s dramatic.”
“You’ve opened the same email six times.”
I glance at the screen.
Damn it.
Janice leans against my desk with narrowed eyes. “Okay. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s definitely a lie.”
I sigh quietly and rub my forehead. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired from what? You barely do anything exciting.”
Normally, I would laugh at that.
Today, I can’t.
Because technically, she’s right.
Until recently, my life was painfully predictable.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Go home.
Pretend my marriage wasn’t falling apart.
Now I’m fake dating a billionaire with control issues and unreadable eyes.
Life comes at you fast.
Janice studies me harder. “You’re being weird.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
Before I can respond, the office doors swing open.
A man in an expensive black suit walks inside carrying three large garment bags.
Every woman near the entrance immediately looks interested.
The man scans the room once before heading directly toward me.
My stomach tightens instantly.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Miss Caldwell?” he asks politely.
I stare at the garment bags. “Yes?”
“These are for you.”
The entire office goes silent.
Of course it does.
Janice’s mouth literally falls open beside me.
The man sets the bags carefully beside my desk before handing me a small cream-colored envelope.
No sender.
No explanation.
Just my name written across the front in sharp black ink.
I already know who it’s from before I even open it.
My pulse stumbles anyway.
Janice practically vibrates beside me. “Oh my God.”
I ignore her and slide my finger beneath the envelope flap.
Inside is a single card.
Nothing written except—
Damian.
That’s it.
No message.
No explanation.
Just his name.
Like that alone should be enough.
Annoyingly… it is.
Janice snatches the card from my hand before I can stop her.
Her eyes widen dramatically. “Damian? As in mysterious hot billionaire Damian?”
I grab the card back immediately. “Lower your voice.”
Her jaw drops farther. “Holy s**t, it is mysterious hot billionaire Damian.”
Several heads immediately turn toward us.
Wonderful.
Exactly what I needed.
I stand quickly. “Janice. Office. Now.”
She follows me with the enthusiasm of someone about to witness a public scandal.
The second my office door closes, she spins toward me dramatically.
“You are absolutely not going to sit there and pretend this isn’t insane.”
“I’m trying very hard to, actually.”
“You know Damian Ortiz?”
The way she says his name sounds halfway between shock and fascination.
I move toward the garment bags carefully, suddenly nervous.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Oh my God,” Janice whispers. “You slept with him.”
I choke.
“No!”
The denial comes way too fast.
Her eyes narrow instantly. “That means yes.”
Heat floods my face.
Traitorous face.
Janice stares at me like she’s witnessing a live celebrity scandal unfold.
“Serena Caldwell,” she breathes. “You disappeared for one emotional breakdown and somehow ended up involved with the most ridiculously attractive billionaire in the city?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“Because it is worse.”
I groan quietly and unzip one of the garment bags before she can interrogate me further.
Then freeze.
“Oh.”
Janice rushes over instantly.
“Oh my God.”
Inside hangs a dress so stunning my brain temporarily stops functioning.
Wine-red silk.
Elegant.
Sophisticated.
The kind of dress that belongs in expensive hotel ballrooms and private galas—not anywhere near my regular life.
My fingertips brush the fabric carefully.
It feels soft enough to melt.
There’s another knock at the office door before I can process the price tag probably attached to this thing.
A woman steps inside carrying a makeup case and styling kit.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly polished.
Perfectly intimidating.
“Miss Caldwell?” she asks smoothly.
I blink. “Yes?”
“I’m here for your fitting.”
My stomach drops.
“My what?”
The woman smiles professionally. “Mr. Ortiz instructed me to prepare you for tonight.”
Tonight.
Right.
I forgot there was apparently an actual event involved in this arrangement.
Janice makes a tiny choking sound beside me.
I close my eyes briefly.
This cannot be real life.
The stylist begins unpacking supplies with efficient movements while I stand there feeling increasingly out of place in my own office.
“You can sit here,” she says, already adjusting lighting near the mirror.
I don’t move immediately.
Something about this feels surreal.
Like I accidentally stepped into someone else’s world and nobody bothered warning me how fast it would swallow me whole.
“Miss Caldwell?”
I sit slowly.
Janice watches all of this with the exact expression people probably wear while observing train wrecks.
Fascinated horror.
“I hate you a little right now,” she whispers.
“I hate me too.”
That earns a laugh from the stylist.
At least someone’s enjoying this.
The next hour becomes a blur of fabric, makeup brushes, and professional efficiency.
The stylist barely asks my opinion on anything.
She simply works.
Like this has all already been decided.
At one point, she holds the wine-red dress against me while studying my reflection critically.
“This one,” she murmurs mostly to herself.
I stare at my reflection in silence.
The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me.
Or maybe she looks too much like me.
Just… polished into someone more dangerous.
The deep red fabric makes my skin look softer. Warmer.
My bruises are almost invisible beneath the makeup now.
Almost.
I touch the scarf still wrapped loosely around my neck.
The stylist notices immediately.
“We’ll remove that later.”
I tense slightly. “It stays on for now.”
She doesn’t argue.
But I catch the brief flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
Of course she noticed.
Everyone notices eventually.
I stare at the dress again while she adjusts the fabric against my body carefully.
A strange emptiness settles inside my chest.
This isn’t about me.
None of this is.
Not the dress.
Not the styling.
Not tonight.
I’m not Serena anymore.
I’m an accessory.
A prop Damian Ortiz intends to place on his arm for whatever performance tonight requires.
The realization should upset me more than it does.
Instead, it mostly makes me tired.
Because maybe being someone’s prop is easier than being someone’s wife.
At least props don’t expect love.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
The stylist steps back slightly, studying her work.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “Definitely this one.”
I barely hear her.
I’m too busy staring at the woman in the mirror wondering when exactly my life stopped feeling like mine.
Then the office door opens.
No knock.
No warning.
The entire room shifts instantly.
I don’t even need to look up to know who it is.
My pulse reacts before my brain does.
Damian leans casually against the doorway like he belongs there.
Like he belongs everywhere.
Dark suit again.
No tie this time.
The top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to feel intentional.
His gaze lands on me immediately.
And stays there.
The stylist straightens almost instantly. “Mr. Ortiz.”
The change in her voice annoys me immediately.
Professional becomes attentive.
Attentive becomes almost eager.
Like his approval matters more than the actual person standing here wearing the dress.
My jaw tightens.
Damian says nothing at first.
He just watches.
Calm.
Unreadable.
His eyes move over me slowly and something sharp twists low in my stomach under the weight of that attention.
Not because he’s openly staring.
Because he isn’t.
Damian looks at people like he’s collecting information they didn’t mean to give him.
The stylist turns toward him fully. “I was thinking the red—”
She stops when Damian pushes away from the doorway.
Every nerve in my body suddenly becomes hyperaware.
He walks toward us slowly.
Controlled.
Confident.
Dangerous.
The stylist immediately hands him the dress without hesitation.
Like his opinion outranks everyone else’s.
Including mine.
Again, annoying.
Damian takes the dress from her hands easily.
Then he stops directly in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
The air changes instantly.
My heartbeat turns uneven.
Without saying a word, he lifts the dress himself and holds it against me.
The silk brushes softly against my skin.
But I barely notice it.
Because Damian isn’t looking at the dress.
He’s looking at me.
His eyes move slowly across my face.
Studying.
Assessing.
Lingering.
My throat suddenly feels dry.
I force myself not to look away.
Not to fidget.
Not to react at all.
The silence stretches.
The stylist waits expectantly beside us.
I can practically feel Janice dying somewhere in the background.
But Damian only keeps looking at me like he’s trying to decide something.
And somehow, that feels far more intimate than if he had touched me.
Finally, he says quietly—
“That one.”
His voice is calm.
Certain.
Like there was never another option.
The stylist nods immediately. “Excellent choice.”
Choice.
Right.
Because apparently I’m not part of the decision-making process anymore.
I should say something sarcastic.
Sharp.
Instead, I stay completely still while Damian lowers the dress slightly.
Then his hand brushes my shoulder.
Bare skin.
Warm fingers.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
The touch is brief.
Barely anything.
But his fingers linger one second longer than necessary.
Just enough for me to feel it.
Just enough for heat to spread beneath my skin.
My pulse stumbles hard.
And the worst part?
I’m not entirely sure he did it accidentally.
Damian’s eyes flick briefly toward my mouth.
Then back to my eyes again.
The tension in the room thickens instantly.
Nobody speaks.
For one strange suspended second, it feels like the rest of the room disappears completely.
Then Damian steps back smoothly.
Just like that, the moment ends.
The stylist immediately starts packing everything up with rushed efficiency.
Like his decision finalized something permanent.
I barely notice her moving around the room.
I’m too focused on Damian turning toward the door again.
He doesn’t say goodbye.
Doesn’t explain anything.
Doesn’t even look back.
He simply walks out of the office.
And somehow the room feels emptier the second he leaves.
I stare after him silently.
Then slowly look down at my shoulder.
At the exact spot where his fingers touched me.
The heat is still there.
Small.
Lingering.
Like a burn I can’t shake no matter how hard I try.
- Writer
