BENEATH HIS SHADOW

Episode 2 – The Second Call

POV: Serena Blake

this is the moment the change started to feel… real.

You know that thing they say about first impressions? How you either forget them completely or never forget them at all? Well, Damien Cross wasn’t the kind of man you could ever forget. I didn’t just remember what he looked like. I remembered how the air shifted when he was in the room. I remembered how my own voice sounded softer when I spoke to him, like my body knew I was in the presence of someone who could ruin me without lifting a finger.

After he left my office that day, I’d tried to go back to my normal routine — sessions with clients, emails, the never-ending paperwork that came with running a private practice. But it didn’t work. His voice kept echoing in my head, that soft, deliberate way he spoke, like every word had been chosen in advance.

Two days later, it happened again. My phone lit up with his name — Damien Cross. Not his assistant. Not an office number. His direct call.

“Miss Blake,” he said when I answered, and even through the phone, I could hear the faint hum of city traffic in the background. “I was wondering if you’re free for lunch today. There are some things I’d like to discuss about the contract.”

Lunch? That wasn’t exactly standard practice for me. My clients met me in the office. I didn’t do coffee, lunch, or dinners — not if I could help it. Boundaries were important. Still… I heard myself say, “Where?” before I’d even decided if I was saying yes.

He named a restaurant I’d only ever seen in glossy magazines — one of those places with a waiting list months long and prices that made you question your career choices.

“I’ll have a table waiting,” he said, and before I could protest, the line went dead.

The rain had cleared by midday, leaving the city washed and glistening in the sun. I arrived at the restaurant in my best work dress — navy blue, simple, knee-length — the kind of thing that says, I’m here for business, not pleasure. Still, the moment I stepped inside, I felt out of place. Crystal chandeliers dripped light from above. The air smelled faintly of white wine and money. The soft murmur of conversation floated through the room, but the sound hushed slightly when Damien stood to greet me.

He didn’t wave from across the room like most people would. No, he rose from his chair slowly, buttoning his suit jacket, and walked toward me with that same steady confidence. Heads turned. I noticed it. He didn’t.

“Serena,” he said, using my first name for the first time. His voice was lower now, like it was meant only for me. “I’m glad you could make it.”

We sat, and before I could even look at the menu, he told the waiter, “Two glasses of the Château Margaux, please.” His tone carried no hesitation, no room for disagreement. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly — more like a man who was used to making decisions for both himself and others.

We talked about the program he wanted me to design for his company — mental wellness seminars, private counseling for high-ranking executives, stress management workshops. But in between the professional talk, he asked me questions that had nothing to do with work.

“What made you become a therapist?”

“What’s the hardest part of your job?”

“What keeps you up at night?”

I was trained to notice patterns in people’s behavior, and Damien… Damien didn’t just listen. He studied me. Every tilt of my head, every pause in my answers. And the strange part? I let him.

When the food arrived — grilled salmon for me, filet mignon for him — he leaned back in his chair and said something that made my fork freeze halfway to my mouth.

“You know,” he said, “most people in my position wouldn’t hire someone like you.”

I frowned. “Someone like me?”

“You’re too independent. You don’t fawn. You don’t pretend to be impressed by things that impress everyone else.” His eyes were steady on mine. “I like that. But it’s also… dangerous.”

“Dangerous for who?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He smiled faintly. “We’ll find out.”

The lunch lasted longer than I’d expected, and when it was over, he walked me out to the curb where a black car waited. Before I could say goodbye, he opened the door for me.

“Get in,” he said simply.

I hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Now, I’m not reckless, bestie. I don’t just get into cars with men I’ve only met twice. But there was something in his tone — not forceful, but certain — that made my feet move before my brain caught up.

We drove in silence for twenty minutes until we pulled up to a tall glass building in the financial district. His building. His empire. The receptionist greeted him like royalty. The elevator ride to the top floor was quiet except for the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

When the doors opened, I saw a view of the entire city spread out beneath us. And then I realized — I wasn’t just in Damien Cross’s office. I was in his world now.

And once you step into a man like that’s world… you don’t leave unchanged.