Chapter Three
1254 Words
Elena
The next morning, the doorman greeted her with a knowing smile as she stepped through the glass doors, a coffee tray balanced in one hand and her portfolio under her arm.
“Back to thaw out Mr. Holt’s penthouse, Miss Cruz?”
“Someone has to save him from living in grayscale,” she said with a grin.
The man chuckled. “Good luck with that. He’s been like that since before Christmas existed.”
“Then I guess it’s time for a miracle,” she murmured, pressing the elevator button.
As the doors slid shut, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. Curls tamed (mostly), lipstick subtle, nerves slightly less obvious than she felt. She’d promised herself this morning that she’d keep things professional—no flirty smiles, no letting his impossible jawline or that quiet authority distract her.
Just color palettes, lighting plans, and flawless execution.
Nothing else.
The elevator hummed softly as it rose. She adjusted her scarf and took a long, steadying breath. Easy. Calm. Professional.
When the doors opened, that composure shattered a little.
Damien Holt was already there.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, the skyline stretched out behind him like something he owned. And knowing him, he probably did.
“Good morning,” she said, forcing brightness into her tone.
“You’re early.” His voice was rougher this morning, low and faintly sleep-worn.
“I’m efficient,” she replied, lifting the coffee tray. “Besides, the Christmas spirit doesn’t wait for anyone.”
His eyes flicked to the cups. “One of those for me?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to glare at me for using red cups.”
Something close to amusement touched his mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close enough to count.
She handed him one of the cups. Their fingers brushed—barely—and a pulse of awareness zipped up her arm. She told herself it was caffeine anticipation. Definitely not attraction.
He took a sip, studying her over the rim of the cup. “You’re braver than most people who walk in here before I’ve had coffee.”
“That explains your reputation,” she said sweetly.
“Reputation?”
“For being mildly terrifying.”
That earned her a faint smirk—victory number one.
She set her portfolio on the table and opened her tablet, trying not to notice the way his voice seemed to fill the entire room even when he barely spoke.
“So,” she said briskly, “I want to start with warm lighting. You’ve got great structure here, but the place feels like it’s allergic to life.”
He arched a brow. “It’s called minimalism.”
“It’s called depression with a credit card.”
Damien choked on his coffee, coughing once before letting out a short, rough laugh. It startled her—deep, genuine, and gone too soon.
Elena froze, a smile tugging at her lips. That sound. She wanted to hear it again.
When he finally looked at her, there was something different in his gaze. Not sharp or distant this time—curious, almost disarmed. “You’re not intimidated by me.”
“Should I be?” she asked, moving around the table to spread out fabric swatches.
“Most people are.”
“I’m not most people.”
That seemed to interest him. His silence wasn’t cold this time; it was thoughtful, maybe even…respectful.
For the next hour, Elena moved through the penthouse with steady confidence, her mind half on the designs, half on the man watching her. She directed delivery men with ease, measured spaces, rearranged the living area, and resisted—barely—the urge to look over her shoulder.
But she could feel him. Watching her.
The awareness was constant, electric. The way you can sense a storm before the first thunder.
At one point, she did glance back—and caught him standing a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her like he was trying to figure her out. His jaw was tight, his posture casual but charged. The air between them thickened, humming with something she didn’t want to name.
She looked away first, forcing her focus back to the tablet. “Mr. Holt—Damien,” she corrected, her voice a shade softer than intended, “I’ll need access to your private study for the lighting adjustments.”
He hesitated. A pause heavy enough to feel. “No one goes in there.”
She turned to him. “Even the designer you hired?”
His eyes darkened—not angry, just guarded. He exhaled slowly. “You’re persistent.”
“It’s one of my better qualities.”
Something shifted in his expression, then. He looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Follow me.”
He led her down a quiet hallway lined with glass and shadow. The air was cooler here, more private. When he opened the door, she felt it immediately—the shift in energy, the unspoken history hanging in the air.
The study was darker than the rest of the penthouse. It wasn’t sterile like the others; it felt *lived in* but lonely. The kind of room that carried the weight of memory.
Books lined the shelves, though some were stacked unevenly, as if he’d stopped caring about order. A few picture frames faced backward, turned deliberately toward the wall. And in the corner, an old record player sat silent, like it hadn’t been touched in years.
Elena stepped in slowly, her designer’s instinct quieting. This wasn’t a room that needed improvement. It needed gentleness.
“You really don’t like reminders, do you?” she said softly.
He didn’t answer, but his silence was thick with something unspoken.
She ran her hand lightly along the edge of the desk, feeling the grain of the wood beneath her fingertips. “Then let’s build new ones.”
When she looked back, he was watching her again—but not with that calculating, businesslike focus. This was something else. Something quieter.
For the briefest moment, the armor in his eyes cracked. There was ache there. And loneliness. And a question she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to.
The room seemed to shrink around them, filled with quiet and memory and something she didn’t have a name for.
“New ones,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elena nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. You don’t have to live surrounded by ghosts, Damien.”
He didn’t respond, but the look he gave her—long, searching, vulnerable—felt like a confession without words.
And for just one heartbeat, she forgot why she was there.
Forgot the job, the distance, the rules she’d drawn for herself.
There was only him. The sound of his breath. The weight of his gaze. The pulse that quickened between them like a warning neither of them planned to heed.
She cleared her throat and looked away, forcing herself back into the role of professional. “I’ll, uh…start with the light placement in here tomorrow.”
He nodded once. But his voice, when it came, was lower. Rougher. “Fine.”
As she walked back toward the main room, she could still feel his eyes on her.
And she knew—whatever this was, whatever had just sparked—it wasn’t going away anytime soon .
- Writer
