Chapter Two –The Warning
1137 Words
The morning after the exhibition, Aria sat slumped at her desk, clutching her second cup of bitter coffee like it was life support. Her inbox was overflowing, her temples pounded, and no matter how many times she blinked, she couldn’t erase the memory of Damon Blackwood in that alley.
Those eyes. For one fleeting second, they hadn’t looked human.
She shook her head hard. Don’t be ridiculous. You were scared. Adrenaline makes you see things.
“Miss Cole?”
Her boss, Mr. Harlow, appeared at the door with a grin so wide it almost split his face.
“You have a visitor.”
Aria groaned. “Tell them I’m not”
“He insists.”
And then she saw who stepped in behind him.
Damon Blackwood.
Her fingers tightened around the mug. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Damon’s gaze swept over her small office like it was beneath him, then landed on her. That same unreadable smirk curved his lips.
“Miss Cole.”
Mr. Harlow beamed, practically glowing. “Mr. Blackwood has something very exciting to discuss with you. I’ll leave you two.”
And just like that, he disappeared, shutting the door behind him.
Aria folded her arms, forcing calm she didn’t feel. “Let me guess. You’re here to lecture me on how to run my gallery?”
Damon sat down without asking permission, his movements smooth, deliberate. The leather chair groaned under his tall frame.
“No. I’m here to offer you a deal.”
Her brow arched. “A deal?”
“I’ll fund a major expansion of this gallery. Millions, if necessary.” His tone was measured, businesslike, but there was something sharp under it. Something that didn’t feel like business at all. “In return, you’ll work directly with me.”
Aria barked a short laugh. “Let me get this straight. You walk into my office, throw money around, and expect me to jump into your pocket?”
His smirk deepened. “I don’t expect you to jump. I expect you to recognize opportunity when it stands in front of you.”
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Why me? Why this gallery? You don’t care about art.”
“Careful, Miss Cole,” Damon said softly. Too soft. His eyes glinted in the morning light, catching hints of amber that shouldn’t have been there. “Assumptions can be dangerous.”
The air shifted. Heavy. Pressing. She forced herself to look away, busying her hands with a stack of meaningless papers.
If you’re trying to intimidate me, it won’t work. I’ve dealt with worse than a spoiled billionaire with a God complex.
When she finally glanced back, something flickered in his expression. Amusement. Maybe admiration.
“Feisty again,” he murmured. “I told you I liked that.”
Aria pushed to her feet, circling her desk to put space between them. “Here’s the problem, Mr. Blackwood. I don’t like you. And I don’t trust you. So whatever game you’re playing, find another pawn.”
For the first time, his perfect mask cracked. His jaw tightened, his posture shifted, sharper, more dangerous.
“You think you can walk away from this?” His voice was lower now, rougher, like it scraped against something primal. “You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.”
Her breath caught. For a split second, she thought his pupils narrowed slitted like a predator’s. She blinked, and they were normal again.
“Is that a threat?” she asked, though her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted.
Damon leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her ear.
“It’s a warning.”
The door swung open before she could respond.
“Everything all right?” Mr. Harlow’s cheerful voice filled the tension-heavy room.
Aria straightened instantly, forcing her expression neutral. “Perfect. Mr. Blackwood was just leaving.”
Damon didn’t move. His gaze held hers, sharp, burning, unspoken challenge flashing between them. Then, finally, he stepped back.
“We’ll continue this conversation later.”
He walked out, silent but commanding, leaving the office colder than when he entered.
Aria tried. She really did. She buried herself in emails, in schedules, in the endless noise of curatorial work. But Damon’s words kept gnawing at her.
You don’t know what you’ve stumbled into.
By evening, her focus was gone. She packed up early, stepping into the city’s chaos. Horns blared, neon lights flickered, strangers brushed past her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes followed her home.
At her apartment, she poured herself a glass of wine, hoping the bitter taste would ground her. She sank onto her couch, telling herself she was safe now.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her stomach flipped. She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Aria sighed and answered. “Hello?”
Silence. Then a low voice whispered through the line.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone at night.”
Her blood ran cold. “Who is this?”
The call disconnected.
Aria dropped the phone onto the counter, her pulse racing. A prank. It had to be. Or one of the men from the alley. But how would they know her number?
A knock rattled her door.
She froze.
Another knock, harder.
Her heart thundered. She grabbed the nearest object a half-empty wine bottle and crept toward the door. “Who’s there?”
“Relax, Miss Cole.” The voice was deep. Familiar. Damon.
She yanked the door open, fury battling fear. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He stood in her doorway like he owned it. Hands in his pockets. Eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“Checking on you.”
“I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”
“You also didn’t ask for two men to corner you in an alley,” he said smoothly.
Her grip on the bottle tightened. “How do you even know where I live?”
His lips curved into that maddening smirk. “I make it my business to know the things that matter.”
Her pulse spiked. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something low, intimate. “Or maybe I just don’t like the thought of someone else touching what’s mine.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not yours.”
For a moment, his eyes shifted. Amber. Bright. Otherworldly.
She blinked, and it was gone.
Damon tilted his head, studying her like she was both puzzle and prize. “Not yet.”
Before she could throw him out, he turned and walked away, silent, controlled, leaving the weight of his presence behind.
Aria slammed the door shut, locking it with shaking hands.
Her heart pounded, her thoughts tangled.
What the hell was Damon Blackwood?
- Writer
