Chapter Two
1002 Words
Elena
The elevator ride down from Damien Holt’s penthouse felt like an exhale she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Holy billionaire intensity.
She’d met powerful men before — controlling clients, smug investors, even a senator who once tried to “mentor” her over champagne — but Damien Holt was a different breed entirely.
He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t need to be. The air in that penthouse bent around him, like it knew who was in charge. Ice and command wrapped in an expensive suit. A man who looked like he could buy the city and still find it disappointing.
And yet, she couldn’t stop replaying the moment he’d almost — *almost* — smiled.
That slight twitch of his mouth, the flicker of warmth that had cracked through all that polished steel.
God help her, she wanted to see it again.
The elevator doors slid open at the lobby, spilling her into the quiet hum of luxury — marble floors, golden light, the faint scent of pine from the holiday garlands. When she stepped outside, the city greeted her in full sensory chaos.
Snowflakes dusted her lashes as a gust of wind tangled her curls. The air was sharp, alive, filled with the sound of car horns, laughter, and a street musician playing “Silent Night” in jazz tempo.
New York in December — messy, beautiful, impossible not to love.
If only she could scoop up all that life and warmth and dump it straight into Damien Holt’s apartment. The man’s penthouse looked like an art museum curated by grief.
*Seriously, who hates Christmas that much?*
By the time she got home to her small East Village apartment, her nose was pink, her fingers were frozen, and her mind refused to shut up.
She shrugged off her coat and boots, then collapsed on the couch — her couch, which had seen every mood she’d had this year.
Her apartment was cozy chaos: fairy lights draped around the window, candles half-burned on the coffee table, a tiny tree in the corner still waiting for its star. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and the peppermint tea she’d forgotten to finish that morning.
Her laptop blinked on the coffee table, waiting. Work always helped her untangle her thoughts, so she opened it and pulled up the file.
Client: Damien Holt.
Occupation: Tech billionaire.
Condition:Terminal case of Grinch Syndrome.
She grinned, tapping her pen against her lip. “Diagnosis confirmed.”
But joking aside, this job was serious. Her first project in months that could really change things for her. Landing someone with Holt’s reputation could put her on the design map — if she didn’t blow it.
After what Matt had done — stealing her designs, her clients, and that naïve version of herself who trusted too easily — she wasn’t just working to rebuild her career. She was rebuilding her confidence.
She shut that thought down before it could sting too much. No more letting ghosts take up space.
Elena flipped through her inspiration boards, each image a small rebellion against Damien’s emotional winter. Velvet greens, brushed gold, warm lighting that hugged instead of glared. Subtle, elegant, the kind of beauty that whispered *hope* instead of shouting *holiday cheer.*
It would be perfect — if he let her.
Her phone buzzed beside her. She glanced at the screen and groaned.
Nina: How’s Mr. Frostbite?
Elena: Still frozen. But handsome. Like, sinfully handsome.
Nina: Girl. Don’t mix business with melt-your-underwear energy.
Elena: Please. I’m immune.
Nina: You’re not. You just like fixing broken things.
Elena huffed a laugh and tossed her phone onto the couch. “You’re impossible, Nina.”
Still, the words hit home more than she wanted to admit. Maybe she did have a weakness for the unreachable ones — the ones who looked like they’d forgotten how to smile. She always told herself she was just curious about people, about what made them tick. But maybe it was more than that.
Maybe she just wanted to remind people — herself included — that joy could still exist, even after disappointment.
Her thoughts drifted back to Damien. The way he’d said joy is overrated like he was talking about something that had personally betrayed him. The sharp intelligence in his eyes, the quiet sadness beneath it.
And that voice — smooth, deep, threaded with control. The kind that stayed in your head long after you’d left the room.
Elena groaned and ran both hands through her hair. “Nope. Not doing this.”
She grabbed her sketchpad, flipping to a blank page, and began to draw. Lines turned into shapes, shapes into spaces. A fireplace adorned with gold-trimmed garland. Black marble softened by warm light. Shadows balanced by color.
A space that looked like him — refined, strong — but felt like the version of him he didn’t let anyone see.
She didn’t know why that mattered so much. Maybe because she’d seen men like Damien before — people who mistook control for peace. Who thought stillness was safety when really it was just loneliness dressed up in nice clothes.
By the time she looked up, it was past midnight. Snow drifted past her window, thick and slow, painting the world white. Her sketchpad was full, her mind clearer — except for the one thought she couldn’t shake.
What happened to him?
Whatever it was, it had left its mark. She’d seen it in the way he avoided the word joy like it was dangerous. The way he carried silence like a second skin.
Tomorrow, she’d see him again.
She’d bring her designs, her confidence, and her best professional smile.
She’d turn that cold, unwelcoming penthouse into something stunning — something alive.
And she’d do it without melting under Damien Holt’s stare.
No matter how much it made her heartbeat forget its rhythm.
She is bringing her A game to the table.Some thawing processes have to be initiated.This is the perfect definition of “too cold for comfort “.
- Writer
