Chapter4
433 Words
It started with a touch.
Just a brief one—Damon’s hand brushing against Élodie’s at a gallery opening in Le Marais. She had worn a deep emerald dress that caught the light like water, and when she laughed—genuinely this time—he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
And she saw it.
A c***k in the armor.
After the event, they didn’t take separate cars like usual. He insisted she ride with him. In the back of the sleek black sedan, silence stretched until he finally asked, “Are you happy?”
She turned her face to the window. “Not really. But I’m not broken anymore.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been happy,” he finally said. “Not since I was a child.”
She turned, surprised.
“I was twelve when my mother died,” he said. “Your father’s company blocked the zoning permits she fought for. She lost her investment… and hope. She took her own life three months later.”
Élodie’s breath caught.
“I didn’t know.”
He looked at her, his voice tight. “I know your father didn’t kill her. But his power, his greed… I blamed him. I wanted revenge. For years, I thought taking everything from him would fix something in me.”
She whispered, “Did it?”
Damon shook his head.
“Then I met you. And you looked me in the eyes and said no. You weren’t afraid. You didn’t want anything from me.” He paused. “And now… I think I don’t want anything either. Except to keep you close.”
Her heart thudded.
She didn’t speak. Instead, she reached over, took his hand, and laced their fingers together.
For once, it didn’t feel like acting.
It came a week later.
A soft rain fell outside the penthouse. She stood by the window in one of his shirts, sipping hot chocolate. Damon came in, hair messy, wearing no jacket, just a loose sweater and sweatpants. He looked human. Tired. And beautiful.
“You didn’t sleep again?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I dream of her sometimes. My mother.”
Élodie stepped closer. “She’d be proud of the man you’re becoming.”
His eyes met hers—slowly, searching, filled with a vulnerability he never showed anyone.
And then, as if pulled by gravity, he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t forced. Not for show. Not part of a contract.
It was real.
It was fire.
- Writer
