HIS PRINCESS

CHAPTER 20

Ariana’s eyes dropped for a beat, scanning the gleaming watch on his wrist, the impeccable lines of his coat, the perfectly aligned pocket square.

Then she looked back up.

“You wear it in suits,” she said quietly. “But you haven’t changed.”

Damon tilted his head. “Still looking for flaws?”

“No,” she said. “Just confirming what I already knew.”

A silence settled. Then Ariana turned back toward Derrick, as if Damon no longer existed in the scene.

“Let’s talk,” she said evenly.

But just as Derrick shifted to give her more space in the booth, Damon’s voice followed—soft, but mocking.

“I wonder what she’s asking you for. A loan? A favor? Or something more... physical?”

Ariana’s spine straightened. She turned only slightly—just enough to meet his gaze one last time.

“If you think every woman you hurt ends up begging for scraps,” she said coolly, “then, you're beyond redemption.”

And with that, she slid into the booth beside Derrick, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Damon stared for a beat too long before he chuckled under his breath and turned away, muttering something to Gabriella, who still hadn’t moved.

They stopped near the back entrance of the bar, where the noise thinned out and the air felt clearer. A row of dim streetlights flickered over the alleyway, casting soft shadows across the tiled pavement.

Ariana leaned slightly against the railing, arms crossed. Her eyes weren’t angry—they were patient. But Derick could tell she wasn’t here to waste time.

“So,” he said, giving her a half-smile, “how much are we talking?”

She glanced at him, hesitant. “I’m not asking for a gift. Just a loan. I’ll pay you back.”

Derick tilted his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She took a breath. “Three million dollars.”

He gave a low whistle. “That’s not pocket change, Ari.”

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s not.”

There was a pause. Long enough for Derick to reach into his pocket and glance at his phone. A message notification had just blinked through, but he ignored it for a beat.

“I didn’t think you’d come to me,” he muttered.

Ariana’s voice was low. “There’s no one else.”

Derick opened his mouth to say something, but the phone buzzed again—this time more urgently. He frowned and held up a hand. “Give me a second.”

He stepped away, scrolling quickly. The message was from his secretary.

> “Sir, it's urgent. Mr. Ling just pulled out of the waterfront project. He cited conflict of interest. Said it had something to do with your association tonight; that you were seen with someone he didn’t want to be involved with. Something about personal issues."

Derick’s jaw tightened. His thumb hovered over the screen. Just ten minutes. That’s all it took.

His eyes lifted slowly, scanning the street. Somewhere in the distance, a sleek black car idled with its headlights off. And it suddenly made sense.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and returned to Ariana.

Her eyes followed him. She could tell. Something had shifted.

“What is it?” she asked.

He hesitated. For once, his easy confidence faltered. “Ari... look, I want to help. I do. But I can’t lend you the money.”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at him. Not angry—just... waiting.

“It’s complicated,” he added. “There’s a lot going on with my company and recent projects require funds, It's a bit risky to release such significant amount.”

“Risky?” she echoed.

“There’s... a misunderstanding,” he muttered.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t talk in circles.”

Derick went quiet.

And then she knew.

The moment of realization hit her like a slap of cold air.

Damon.

That phrase returned to her—clear as day, lodged in her memory from years ago. “She’s mine. Make sure she stays where she belongs.”

She had dismissed it then. Thought maybe she was being paranoid. But now—

“Someone’s making sure I don’t get help,” she said, almost to herself. “A dog who still thinks I owe him bones.”

Derick frowned. “Ariana…”

She looked at him, something in her face hardening. “Tell your investor, or whoever’s watching you, that I’m not interested in pleasing ghosts. And next time you want to do something for yourself, make sure you’re not already leashed.”

Derick’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not.”

She turned around, heels clicking lightly against the pavement as she walked away, the glow of the bar behind her fading with each step.

Derick didn’t follow.

He just stood there—hands in his pockets, the weight of someone else's control heavy on his shoulders, watching the woman he couldn’t help walk into a storm alone.

---

The hallways of Bar Zapata blurred past her—golden light glinting off cocktail glasses, the mingling voices of strangers barely registering in her ears. Her heels pressed against the tiled floor with no rhythm, only tension. Her lungs ached as if she hadn’t taken a full breath since Derick’s rejection.

First Sebastian, then Derick. Now what?

She should’ve left. She should’ve walked out of this place and buried the night behind her. But as she rounded the corner leading to the exit, a familiar voice drifted to her ears.

“…She’s really her same naive and shameless self?” Gabriella Byme’s voice rang clear through the haze of clinking glasses and music. “Honestly, does she think no one sees her begging for money in dark corners like some street rat?”

Ariana paused mid-step, her pulse halting for a second.

“Pathetic,” Gabriella continued with a clipped laugh. “There are heiresses in this city with real pride. Real background. But she’s still clinging to a last name that doesn’t want her.”

Another voice responded faintly, but Ariana didn’t catch it. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

“She doesn’t even have a degree that matters,” Gabriella whispered. “Dropped out of med school, ran off to chase a camera like a broken toy. And now? Loitering in bars like a lost kitten.”

Ariana turned her head slowly toward the corner booth. And there they were—Gabriella, draped in a satin emerald gown that shimmered under the light, legs crossed tightly, a wine glass delicately twirling in her fingers… and Damon Meyer, lounging beside her in quiet silence.

The polished man who had once taken everything from her.

He hadn’t changed at all.

She adjusted her clutch and stepped toward their booth.

Gabriella caught sight of her first. The smug smile vanished just a little too late. “Oh—Ariana.”

Ariana didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes fixed on Damon.

He sipped his wine, unbothered. “Still trying to borrow money in private, I see?”

The words hit her squarely but delivered calmly.

Gabriella’s jaw twitched as if she hadn’t expected him to say it aloud.

Ariana stared at him for a moment, then said, voice low but level, “Better than spending money to cover a scandal you caused.”

Gabriella tensed.

Damon smiled, still not blinking. “Touché.”

Ariana's pulse thundered beneath her skin, but her face stayed still.

“Some people know when to bow out gracefully,” Gabriella said, her voice soft but cold.

“Some people don’t know how to stay in their lane,” Ariana replied. “Yet here we are.”

Gabriella’s mouth opened slightly, stunned.

But Damon leaned forward a little, wine glass swirling in his hand, the candlelight glinting off his smirk. “You know, Ariana,” he said quietly, “there’s only one person in this city who’d help you now.”

Ariana’s hands curled slightly at her sides.

“If you need help,” Damon continued, “you know the process. A drink. Then a little respect.”

Gabriella let out a breathy laugh. “Don’t be so harsh.”

Damon didn’t respond.

His eyes were on Ariana.

“Drink first,” he said, “and then… kneel. Say it properly. President Meyer. That’s how we start.”

The air tightened around Ariana like a rope.

Behind her, voices from other tables grew quieter. Heads turned. Curious eyes wandered.

Ariana stared back at him, the shame curling in her gut like smoke. It wasn’t new—but tonight, it was unbearable.

This was Damon’s game. Always public. Just enough to make her bend, never enough to leave a scar someone else could see.

And yet, in that moment, something in her wanted to scream.

She had nothing left to hold onto—no career, no home, no family name that counted anymore. Her grandfather was fighting for breath in a crowded ward. Her father was behind bars, punished for a crime he didn’t commit. And the scholarship—the one last ticket out—was as good as gone.

And now Damon, of all people, wanted to make her crawl?

Her chest rose and fell.

And then, finally, she took a step forward.

“Is this what it takes now?” she asked, her voice hoarse but steady. “Bowing to men like you?”

Damon raised an eyebrow. “It’s not personal.”

“It never is,” she murmured.

She looked down at her hands. At her heels. At the ground that seemed to be pulling her under. Damon Meyer furrowed his brows as he watched her. For some reason, at that moment when she was about to kneel, he didn't feel the satisfaction he had imagined!

And just as she lowered herself slightly—

“Don’t.”

The voice snapped through the air like a wire pulled tight.

Familiar, crisp and controlled.

Ariana stiffened.

Footsteps clicked toward her, sharp and steady, until they stopped right at her side.

Sebastian Harris.

Standing tall in a steel-gray coat, black gloves tucked under one arm, his eyes unreadable, his presence sharper than anyone else in the room.

He didn’t glance at Damon. He didn’t even look at Gabriella.

His gaze was locked on Ariana.

“Get up,” he said again.