CHAPTER THREE
1134 Words
The second time Elena entered Damian Snow’s penthouse, it felt different.
Not less intimidating—God, no. The place still screamed money, power, and silence.
But this time, the silence wasn’t empty. It remembered her.
Her boots clicked softly against the marble as she walked inside, art bag in hand.
A warm breeze drifted in from the balcony, carrying the scent of distant rain.
The city buzzing from the outside beyond the glass, but inside, everything was still.
Damian wasn’t waiting by the window this time.
Instead, he stood at a bar close to the back of the room, two fingers curled around a glass of dark liquor, shirt sleeves once again rolled up.
“You’re three minutes early,” he said, not looking at her.
“I’m punctual,” she replied, setting up her easel. “You’ll survive.”
“I wasn’t complaining.”
He turned, eyes sweeping over her in a way that made her pulse hitch.
Then he sat in the same chair as yesterday, angled toward the light, elbows relaxed on the arms.
The silence stretched again—but not like before. This time, it was tense.
Elena pulled out her sketchpad and pencils, flipping to yesterday’s unfinished outline.
“You were right,” she said quietly. “You are good at control.”
His brows lifted slightly. “Something bothering you, Ms. Moore?”
“Just wondering if I should check under my couch for microphones.”
A pause.
Then: “I said I wouldn’t do it again.”
She didn’t look up.
“And I’m just saying I’m not used to working with people who think privacy is optional.”
Damian didn’t respond.
But his expression shifted. Just slightly.
Elena let the moment sit, unfinished like a crooked line. Then she sighed and refocused on the sketch.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
He tilted his head. “Is that how you approach all your art? Like a chore?”
She shot him a glare.
“Only when the subject is infuriating.”
To her surprise, he smiled. Not a polite one—a real, flickering smile. Brief. Unexpected. Gone too fast.
She stared at him, startled.
“I like that you don’t pretend,” he said.
“And I don’t like that you act like honesty is some kind of party trick.”
“Touché.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that. The pencil moved in her hand, dragging light against paper.
His face took shape again—the hard lines of his jaw, the shadow beneath his eyes.
She noticed how his right hand twitched once when she reached for her eraser. Barely perceptible. Most wouldn’t have caught it.
But she did.
She filed it away.
Earlier That Morning – Elena’s Apartment
She hadn’t slept well.
After the first session, she’d gone home and stared at the unfinished sketch for hours.
There was something about the way she’d captured him—not polished. Not powerful. Vulnerable. Almost… lost.
It made her chest ache, and she didn’t like that.
He was a billionaire. A man used to getting whatever he wanted.
She was just another name on a list. Another curiosity to hold and let go.
Her mother’s breathing had been shallow last night.
The medication wasn’t working like it used to.
Elena had watched her sleep, fragile and pale, and tried not to cry.
She had bills due. Credit cards maxed. Paint tubes almost dry.
She needed this job.
But God help her, she wanted something else.
Something Damian Snow had no right to make her feel.
And that terrified her more than poverty ever had.
—
Back in the Penthouse
“Do you always do that?”
His voice broke her focus.
She blinked. “Do what?”
“Drift away. When you sketch.”
She hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“What were you thinking about?”
She tapped the side of the canvas. “That I shouldn’t be here.”
He didn’t flinch. “And yet, here you are.”
Elena stared at him. “Why did you pick me?”
“I told you. That sketch you did. You saw something no one else has.”
“Yeah. But why let me get close? A stranger.”
Damian paused. Then: “Because sometimes strangers are the only people who don’t want something from me.”
Elena let out a short laugh. “You think I don’t want something? I need this money more than I’ve needed anything in months.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “But you don’t want me.
Not like most people do.”
There was a beat of silence.
She didn’t know what to say to that.
So she lowered her gaze and—without thinking—reached out to adjust the light falling on his hand.
It happened quickly.
His fingers brushed hers.
Just a touch.
But her breath caught. So did his.
And in that one, careless moment, something shifted.
She should’ve pulled away.
Instead, she sketched the curve of his hand over hers.
Just one line. Unplanned.
When she realized what she’d done, she froze.
Damian followed her gaze—looked down at the pad. At the image of his hand covering hers, delicate and painfully human.
She expected him to be angry. Or amused. Or distant.
But he just stared.
Quiet. Exposed.
Elena’s voice was hoarse. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
He didn’t move.
And neither did she.
For the first time, Damian Snow looked like a man standing too close to a fire he didn’t know how to put out.
The silence after the sketch was different this time.
He didn’t look away. Neither did she.
The pencil in Elena’s hand felt suddenly too light, too fragile for what she had just captured—
a moment that hadn’t been intended, but had arrived anyway, like lightning slipping through a c***k.
Damian’s eyes dropped to her fingers. Then to the sketch.
“It’s…” he began, then stopped.
Elena cleared her throat. “I can erase it.”
“No,” he said, more sharply than she expected.
Then softer: “No. Don’t.”
She set the pad down gently, as if afraid to break whatever spell had been cast between them.
“I didn’t mean to blur the line.”
“You didn’t blur it,” he said, gaze steady on her. “You just made it visible.”
Those words hit harder than she wanted to admit.
She turned to rearrange her supplies—an excuse to look away.
But even as she moved, she could feel the weight of him still watching her.
“Tell me about her,” he said suddenly.
Elena froze.
“Who?”
“Your mother
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