Tension
1690 Words
MANHATTAN SECRETS -
Episode 4: "Tension"_
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Twenty-four hours.
That’s all it took for the city to crown her.
New York hadn’t slept since Fashion Week. And neither had the billboards.
_"THE NEW QUEEN OF NYC"_ glowed down 5th Avenue in six-foot letters.
_"DAMIAN VOSS BETS $5M ON LYRA BLAKE"_ was plastered across every taxi screen.
And _"MIDNIGHT IN SOHO 2.0 SOLD OUT IN 8 MINUTES"_ trended for the third day straight.
_Lyra Blake_ was in the 40th floor office of Voss Tower at 8:02 AM.
The space smelled like money, glass cleaner, and Damian’s cologne.
Her sketches were framed now. Hanging beside architectural models worth more than her hometown.
On the table: three contracts. Milan. Tokyo. Paris.
Her laptop pulsed with 47 unread emails. Buyers. Editors. Vogue.
The door didn’t knock.
It never did.
_Damian Voss._
Black Tom Ford. Tailored to the point of violence. No tie. Two buttons undone.
Coffee in one hand. Fury in the other. The kind of exhaustion that only comes from running an empire while testifying to the FBI.
He didn’t say good morning.
“You signed Milan without me.”
His voice was glacial. The kind of cold that cut.
Lyra didn’t look up. Her pen kept moving across silk.
“You were in DC. And it’s my brand.”
“My capital.”
“My name on the door.”
“My empire backing it.”
Silence. Thick enough to drown in.
She lifted her gaze. Messy bun. Black blazer. No makeup. Forty-eight hours without sleep and she still looked like a threat.
“What do you want, Damian?”
He set the coffee down. It spilled across the marble. Neither of them flinched.
“You think because the board is chanting your name, because Vogue called you the future of fashion, that you get to rewrite the rules?”
Lyra rose. Slow. Deliberate.
“I think because I handed back the USB that could’ve buried you, because I rebuilt _Midnight_ in forty-eight hours while you were in a courtroom, I’ve earned a seat at the table.”
Damian laughed. It wasn’t a laugh. It was a warning.
“Earned? Cute.”
He circled the desk. Predator. Unhurried. Stopped inches from her chair. Close enough that she could count the flecks of grey in his eyes.
“Sign it. Milan is canceled. We lead with Tokyo. Bigger buyers. Cleaner press.”
Lyra folded her arms. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not your employee, Mr. Voss.”
“Then stop acting like you own my company.”
Outside the glass, three assistants had forgotten how to breathe.
Damian’s jaw flexed.
“Last chance, Blake.”
Lyra picked up the contract. Held it between two fingers.
“No.”
She let it fall. It drifted to the floor like snow.
Damian’s eyes went black.
He moved.
One hand. Her wrist. Not cruel. Not bruising.
Just enough to yank her forward. One step. Into his orbit.
Her chest met his. Cedar. Espresso. Something that cost more than rent.
“Listen to me,” he murmured. Low. Furious. And beneath it, something raw.
“You walked in here with four hundred dollars and a dress made in your kitchen. I gave you a runway. I gave you my last name on a marquee. Don’t mistake my investment for—”
“Don’t touch me,” Lyra cut him off. But she didn’t step back.
Grey met brown. Ice met fire.
For two seconds, the world narrowed to the space between their mouths.
His thumb grazed the inside of her wrist. Right over her pulse. Testing it.
And she saw it.
The flicker. The way his gaze dropped to her lips before snapping back up.
The way his breathing hitched. CEO. Billionaire. And he was off-balance.
In her head: _Stubborn. Infuriating. And right. God, he smells like power._
In his head: _She’s going to be the death of me. And I’m letting her._
Damian released her. Like touching her burned.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to the window.
“Tokyo,” he said. Final.
Lyra exhaled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it.
“You’re impossible.”
“Pot. Kettle. Black.”
Five minutes. Only the hum of Manhattan forty floors below.
Damian pivoted. Leaning against the glass, arms crossed.
“Still here?”
“You haven’t fired me.”
“I’m drafting the email.”
Lyra rolled her eyes and bent back over her sketches.
“You’re mad because I was right.”
“About?”
“Milan. The buyer’s dirty. He’s with Kessler.”
Damian sighed. The sound was weighted. “He threatened to walk if we didn’t prioritize Tokyo. Said it was ‘brand alignment.’”
Lyra frowned. “Then say that.”
“I wanted to see if you’d push back.”
“Why?”
“Because the second you stop fighting me is the second I stop believing in you.”
He moved back to the desk. Picked up her coffee. Took a deliberate sip. Grimaced.
“Black. No sugar. Predictable.”
He set it down. Exactly where her mouth had been.
Lyra stared. “Did you just—”
“Taste test,” he said, deadpan. “For cyanide. Standard protocol in Voss Tower.”
Liar.
He plucked her pen from the holder. Clicked it. Twice. Set it down. Not in the cup. Right beside her knuckles. So she’d have to brush his fingers to retrieve it.
“Stop,” she muttered.
“Stop what?”
“Antagonizing me.”
“It’s called leadership, Blake. You should try it.”
He rounded the desk. Stopped behind her chair. Close enough that she felt the heat of him.
When he leaned in, his voice was at her ear.
“The slit,” he said. “Take it higher. To the thigh.”
Lyra’s pen skidded.
“Don’t critique my designs from behind me.”
“Why? Insecure?”
“I don’t like you.”
“Liar.”
She spun the chair. Their knees collided.
“Say that again.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m a liar.”
Damian’s smirk was lethal.
“You’re a liar, Blake.”
“And you’re—”
“Go on.”
“Arrogant. Narcissistic. Insufferable.”
He leaned in further. “And?”
“And—”
“And?” His voice dropped to a rasp.
“Nothing.”
“Coward.”
He walked away. Whistling. Actually whistling. Like he hadn’t just set her nervous system on fire.
Sixty minutes later.
Lyra was still there. Redoing Milan from scratch.
Damian reappeared. New shirt. Charcoal. Sleeves pushed up.
“Board in ten.”
“I’m not attending.”
“You are. They want to see the woman who saved us three hundred million dollars.”
Boardroom. Twelve chairs. Twelve pairs of eyes.
Chairman: “Ms. Blake, regarding Milan—”
Damian interrupted. “Milan is confirmed.”
Silence.
He glanced at Lyra. “Ms. Blake made a compelling case. We proceed with both. Milan and Tokyo.”
After. Elevator. Just the two of them.
“You backed me,” Lyra said.
“I corrected myself.”
“Why?”
“Because watching you tear up a two-million-dollar contract was the most attractive thing I’ve seen all year.”
Ding. 40th floor.
As she stepped out, his hand caught her wrist. Gentle this time.
“Tokyo. Six AM. Private jet. Wear black.”
“Controlling.”
“You love it.”
“I endure it.”
He didn’t let go immediately.
“Oh. And bring the red dress. The one from the leak.”
“Why?”
“Because I want the entire industry to watch them choke on it.”
Lyra’s studio. SoHo. 11:47 PM.
Phone lit up.
_Damian_: _You breathing?_
_Lyra_: _Barely. Working._
_Damian_: _On Tokyo?_
_Lyra_: _What else?_
_Damian_: _Send me something._
_Lyra_: _No._
_Damian_: _Why not?_
_Lyra_: _Because you’ll dismantle it._
_Damian_: _Because I’ll be obsessed with it._
_Lyra_: _..._
_Damian_: _Pack black. And bring the fire. I’ll need it in Tokyo._
_Lyra_: _Stop antagonizing me, Voss._
_Damian_: _Can’t. It’s my favorite hobby._
_Damian_: _P.S. You were right about Milan._
_Damian_: _P.P.S. That was a good fight today._
Lyra tossed the phone. It landed on silk.
_“Impossible man,”_ she whispered.
_“And I’m dangerously close to liking it.”_
JFK. Private terminal. 5:30 AM.
Damian was already there. Aviators. Coffee. The kind of presence that made TSA agents nervous.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic on the West Side Highway.”
“In my city, we don’t make excuses.”
“This isn’t your city anymore. It’s ours.”
He handed her a coffee. Black. No sugar.
“How—”
“I have people, Blake.”
Eight hours to Tokyo.
He worked. Calls. Emails. Acquisitions. Then he looked up.
“Here.”
He gestured to the seat beside him.
“I don’t sit with—”
“Sit.”
She did.
He tossed a cashmere throw over her. “Rest.”
“I don’t sleep on planes.”
“Then close your eyes and pretend.”
Two hours later she woke up.
Blanket to her chin. Head on his shoulder.
She jolted upright. “I did not—”
“You drooled.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“Fine. A little.”
He was grinning. That rare, unguarded grin.
“Stop antagonizing me.”
“Never.”
Park Hyatt Tokyo. 52nd floor.
Two suites. Adjoining.
Damian walked her to her door.
“Meeting in two hours. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He paused. Hand on the doorframe.
“Blake.”
“Hmm?”
“Good fight. Both of them.”
He disappeared into his suite.
Lyra leaned against her door. Heart hammering.
And she hated that it was his fault.
Phone vibrated.
_Damian_: _Room service is on me. Order the wagyu.
P.S. Stop thinking about me. I can hear it from here._
Lyra laughed. Soft. Real.
_“Infuriating,”_ she breathed.
_“And mine.”_
To be continued...
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