Devour Me Slowly : Heaven's Scar

EPISODE - 3

Meanwhile, back at Cross Mansion, Damon was still sprawled across his massive bed, the dim morning light barely touching the room, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He squinted at the caller ID—his mother.

He picked up the call lazily, voice deep and calm. “Hello… yeah, Mom?”

“Damon! You haven’t even woken up yet,” his mother chided lightly, her tone filled with warmth and amusement. “Oh, never mind… I’ve fixed a date for you with a nice girl. You have to meet her.”

Damon’s eyebrow arched, and he muttered under his breath, “Hell no…”

“But Mom,” he continued, more firmly this time, “I’ve already found someone.”

His mother’s voice bubbled with excitement. “Oh! I’m so glad! I want to meet her. How is she?”

“I… okay, Mom. I’ll meet her with you,” Damon said, keeping his tone measured, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “And don’t worry about that other girl—say no to her. Okay? Bye, Mom. Love you.”

He ended the call, placing the phone back on the nightstand. The mansion remained silent, the memory of the conversation lingering in the air. Damon sat up slowly, running a hand through his dark hair, already thinking of the day ahead.

Damon leaned back against the headboard, the phone still warm in his hand. I have found someone… he had said. The words felt strange on his tongue—they weren’t true.

He hadn’t found anyone. Not really. Not yet. But his mother’s excitement had made him answer quickly, to avoid her nagging and questioning. A smirk tugged at his lips as he thought, For now, a little white lie will do. She doesn’t need to know I haven’t even looked yet.

His steel-gray eyes darkened as he considered the truth. When the time came, he would find the right person—someone who intrigued him, challenged him, and belonged to him on his terms. Until then… the lie would buy him the peace to plan.

Everyone feared him. They always had. His name alone carried enough weight to make people tremble, his stare enough to silence entire rooms. But deep inside, he knew—someone who bent under that fear could never last with him.

No, the one he would choose had to be different. She had to look straight into his eyes without flinching, without breaking, without that nervous stammer everyone else had in his presence. Someone who would defy him, even if the world wouldn’t dare.

Only she would deserve a lifetime commitment from Damon Cross.

A faint smirk curved his lips. He hadn’t found her yet, but when he did… she wouldn’t escape him.

He stood up, stretching his tall frame before dragging himself toward the washroom. The cold splash of water on his face shook away the remnants of sleep, though his mother’s words still echoed in his head. A girl… marriage… commitment. He scoffed under his breath, yet somewhere deep down, that strange curiosity lingered.

Minutes later, Damon emerged, dressed in a crisp black suit that sharpened his already intimidating aura. Adjusting his tie in the mirror, he smirked faintly—he didn’t need anyone, yet he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Who could ever dare to meet his gaze without flinching? Who would have the courage to defy him instead of trembling before his name?

With that thought circling in his head, he grabbed his keys, slipped his watch on, and left for his office, ready to dominate the day—unaware that destiny had already started drawing its own plans.

He descended the grand staircase, his polished shoes echoing against the marble floor. The chef stood respectfully at the side, waiting for his approval. On the dining table was a perfectly laid-out breakfast—avocado toast garnished with herbs, eggs done exactly the way he liked, and freshly squeezed orange juice in a crystal glass. Everything was elegant, sharp, almost reflecting his own persona.

He took his seat, picked up the silver cutlery, and ate with calm precision. Not a crumb out of place, not a sip too hurried. Even his breakfast had to mirror control. With the last sip of juice, he wiped his mouth with the napkin, adjusted his cufflinks, and rose.

“All set,” he muttered to himself, his cold eyes already calculating the day ahead, as he reached for his suit jacket and prepared to leave for the office.

Damon arrived at Cross Heights, the sleek black car pulling smoothly into the underground entrance. The moment he stepped out, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Employees instinctively straightened, some bowing their heads subtly, others offering polite nods.

“Good morning, Mr. Cross,” they greeted in unison, voices respectful, tinged with awe.

Damon’s steel-gray eyes scanned the lobby casually, taking in the scene. He walked with pride, each step deliberate, controlled, radiating dominance. The subtle sway of his tailored suit, the confident tilt of his chin, the faint smirk that hinted he was always three steps ahead—it all made the staff feel both inspired and slightly intimidated.

As he passed, whispers traveled through the office like a silent current. “There he is… Mr. Cross,” someone murmured. Another added, “I can’t believe he’s in the same room… just walking past us.”

Damon acknowledged none of it directly, his presence alone speaking volumes. Heads nodded, papers rustled as people quickly returned to their work, but their eyes kept darting toward him. He was more than a CEO—he was the embodiment of power, control, and unspoken fear.

With a final, measured glance around the office, Damon made his way toward his personal elevator, ready to ascend to the top floor and begin the day on his terms.

Damon entered his office cabin, the heavy mahogany door closing behind him with a definitive thud. The room was immaculately organized—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, sleek leather chairs, and a polished oak desk that gleamed under the morning light. Everything reflected his taste: sharp, commanding, and precise.

As he settled into his chair, his secretary, Mr. Franklin, approached with a tablet in hand, bowing slightly. “Good morning, sir. I’ve compiled the updates on your projects, as well as the planner for the upcoming deals in export and transport,” he said in a measured, respectful tone.

Damon gestured for him to continue, his piercing eyes scanning the documents.

“The shipment contracts with Easton Logistics have been finalized,” Franklin continued, tapping the screen to display charts and numbers. “All exports for the quarter are on schedule. The transport division reports a 12% increase in efficiency since the new fleet integration. Additionally, the planner highlights your upcoming negotiations with international partners next week. All meetings are confirmed.”

Damon listened silently, his expression calm but calculating, absorbing every detail. Every piece of information was a puzzle he would align with precision. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk as he reviewed the data, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Good,” Damon finally said, his voice low, controlled, and commanding. “Keep monitoring all transactions. If anything deviates even slightly, I want to know immediately. No surprises. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Franklin replied promptly, bowing slightly before stepping back.

Damon leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he considered the intricate web of business deals, shipments, and transport operations. Everything was under his control… but he knew that power demanded vigilance, precision, and a mind that never rested.

Damon opened his sleek, custom-built laptop, its polished metal surface gleaming under the office lights. The screen illuminated his sharp features, casting a faint glow across his focused expression. Every keystroke was deliberate, precise—just like him.

He scanned through emails, contracts, and reports, his mind absorbing the details at lightning speed. Charts, graphs, and financial statements scrolled effortlessly across the high-definition display, each window meticulously organized. No margin for error, no room for delay.

With a few quick clicks, he opened the transport logs, analyzing routes, schedules, and shipment details. His eyes flicked to discrepancies, noting even the smallest deviations. Then he switched to export contracts, reviewing clauses and fine print with the sharp scrutiny only someone like him could possess.

The office was silent except for the faint tapping of keys, the only sound echoing the rhythm of a man in complete control. Damon leaned back slightly in his leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed on the screen, already strategizing the next move to tighten his grip over the empire he had built.

After attending countless meetings, approving some deals and rejecting many more, Damon finally leaned back in his chair, a faint tension easing from his shoulders. The day had been exhausting—every decision, every negotiation, every carefully measured word had demanded precision, focus, and control.

He needed relief. Something to cut through the relentless pressure of power and responsibility. And for Damon Cross, there was only one thing that could do it: a finely aged glass of whiskey.

Rising from his chair, he adjusted his suit jacket and grabbed his coat. Today, he would head to The Pride—the bar he had built himself, a haven of elegance, shadow, and subtle danger. It wasn’t just any bar; it was a statement. A place where he could exist outside the rigid rules of boardrooms, where the clinking of glasses and muted conversations offered a rare kind of freedom.

In truth, London bore his mark in countless ways. Most of the upscale bars, high-end restaurants, sprawling malls—they were all his. Every corner of the city that gleamed with luxury, every establishment that carried a whisper of prestige, had a thread of Damon Cross woven into it. It was a kingdom built on steel, glass, and ruthless ambition.

As he stepped into the streets, the city seemed to acknowledge him, subtly bending to the rhythm of his presence. Tonight, though, he wasn’t here as the unstoppable CEO or the feared mafia king—he was here simply for a glass of whiskey, the one indulgence that could soothe the unrelenting fire inside him.

Just as Damon walked with his right hand brushing against the lapel of his coat, his phone buzzed. The screen lit up—James, his trusted lieutenant.

“Sir,” James’s voice was calm but tense. “The man… Leo, the one who took money from you… he hasn’t returned it yet.”

Damon froze mid-step. His steel-gray eyes narrowed, a storm of fury simmering just beneath the surface. The name struck a nerve he didn’t often allow anyone to touch.

“I remember him,” Damon growled, his voice low and lethal. “He thought he could take from me and get away with it?”

James hesitated, then said, “No, sir. He—”

“Enough,” Damon snapped, cutting him off. His jaw flexed as his fingers tightened around the phone. “I’m going to The Pride. Get him. Bring him to me. Now.”

The line went silent for a moment before James replied, “Understood, sir. I’ll handle it.”

Damon slipped his phone back into his pocket, his stride picking up. The anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, coiling like a predator preparing to strike. Nothing infuriated Damon Cross more than betrayal—or anyone daring to owe him.

Tonight, Leo would pay.

Damon slid into the blacked-out Rolls-Royce, the engine purring like a beast ready to be unleashed. His hands gripped the steering wheel with quiet intensity as the streets of London blurred past, every light reflecting off his steel-gray eyes. Fury simmered just beneath his calm exterior, focused entirely on one person: Leo.

Meanwhile, at The Pride, Aurora moved gracefully behind the bar, serving drinks with a practiced ease. Glasses clinked, ice rattled, and laughter from the patrons filled the room, but she remained focused, her ocean-blue eyes scanning the room, carefully keeping the workflow smooth.

She didn’t notice the tension creeping closer—the storm of the city’s most feared man barreling toward the bar, a predator with one goal in mind.

A patron at the bar leaned slightly forward, curiosity in his eyes. “Hey, what’s the best drink here?” he asked, glancing at the menu but clearly trusting her recommendation.

Aurora smiled politely, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it depends on what you like,” she began, her voice warm and confident. “If you enjoy something strong but smooth, the signature Cross Old Fashioned is our specialty. It’s aged whiskey with a hint of cherry and orange zest. If you prefer something lighter, I’d recommend the Pride Martini—crisp, slightly citrusy, and perfectly balanced.”

She slid the menu aside, pointing subtly at a small plate on the side. “And you might want to try the smoked salmon bruschetta as a side—it pairs really well with both drinks. Light, flavorful, not too filling.”

The patron nodded appreciatively, clearly impressed. “Thanks, I’ll take your recommendation.”

Aurora poured the drinks with practiced precision, her movements smooth and unhurried despite the busy bar around her. For now, the world outside—the deals, the danger, the men who ruled the city—felt far away, even if only for a moment.