The Fine Print of Us

Chapter seven - Checkmate

Damien got what he wanted. More time with Mara. More than time—proximity. She was living in his space now, breathing the same air, walking the same floors. And she had agreed to it.

Voluntarily.

Contract or not, it was progress.

It wasn’t luck—it was strategy. Carefully executed moves, timed precisely. The arrangement gave him an edge, and in his world, the one who controlled the board controlled the outcome. But Mara wasn’t a piece to be played.

She was the one variable he couldn’t predict. And that’s exactly why she’d gotten under his skin. She wanted him. That much was clear. It was in her eyes, the hitch in her breath when he stood too close, the way her voice always sharpened when she was trying to hide how much she felt. She thought she was protecting herself by staying guarded, but that only told him what he already knew: something real was still burning between them.

He’d touched it once. Briefly. And he intended to touch it again. But this time, he wouldn’t chase. He’d draw her in.

Let her break the rules. Let her come to him.

All he had to do was stay close. Close enough to be a temptation. Careful enough to never push too hard. One step too fast, and she’d bolt. But if he played it right? She’d fall back into his bed—and maybe into something he hadn’t even let himself name yet.

He turned away from the skyline and pulled out his phone.

A message from Ivy lit the screen: “Congrats, lovebirds. Photo’s live. Trending in under ten minutes.”

He clicked the link. There it was. The two of them, side by side. His hand on her back, her smile soft—not forced. Not fake.

Convincing.

He zoomed in. Not on himself. On her.

Her expression wasn’t performance. It was something else. Something that, if he was lucky, could grow. His office intercom buzzed. Claire, his assistant, her voice sharp as always.

“Mr. Blackthorn, you have a call. It’s… Clarissa Lennox.”

He blinked. Mara’s mother?

“I told her you were in a meeting,” Claire continued. “She insisted. Said it was urgent.”

Of course she did.

He sighed. “Put her through.”

The line clicked.

“Mr. Blackthorn,” Clarissa’s voice was sweet, polished… lethal. “Now that you and my daughter are official, I think it’s time we schedule a proper family dinner. You will be attending.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an ambush wrapped in civility.

Damien’s lips curved slightly. So that’s how it was going to be.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “I look forward to it.”

And strangely… he meant it.

Damien delivered the news about Clarissa’s dinner ambush without flinching. Mara didn’t scream or throw anything, which he counted as progress. She’d just muttered something about needing chocolate and walked off with her usual dramatic flair.

He let her go.

He had work to do.

The courtroom didn’t forgive distractions, and he wasn’t about to hand Reinhart an inch because his personal life had bled into the headlines. Still, as he stared down the stack of files waiting on his desk, a part of his brain kept circling back to dinner. To Clarissa Lennox. And to how easily the woman could dismantle the fragile thing he and Mara were pretending to build.

He knew women like Clarissa.

Polished.

Political.

Predatory.

They didn’t ask questions—they set traps. He could handle her. The question was whether Mara could.

That’s what unsettled him. Mara had strength, no doubt. She was sharper than most people realized—quick with words, sharper with wit. But there was something in her eyes when she talked about her mother. Something bruised. Something buried.

So tonight wasn’t about performance. It was about preparation.

He needed to know what the hell he was walking into. What she’d grown up under. What she needed from him when her mother inevitably struck where it hurt most.

And if he was being honest with himself—painfully honest—he didn’t just want to protect the narrative. He wanted to protect her.

His phone buzzed. A message from Mara.

“Just got off the phone with my dad. Dinner’s at 7. Dress code: ‘Don’t terrify the neighbors.’ Bring your best fake smile.”

Damien smirked. He could do charm. Hell, he could do devotion if the audience demanded it. But Mara wasn’t the audience. She was the wild card. And if Clarissa thought she could use her daughter as leverage, she’d learn the hard way that Mara Lennox didn’t belong to anyone.

Least of all her.

After closing his laptop and leaving the chaos of the day behind, Damien headed straight to the shower. Water scalding. No distractions. Just focus. By the time he stepped out, steam rolling off his skin, he already knew what he was wearing.

A suit cut like armor—deep charcoal, sharp lapels. Dark tie. Gold cufflinks. No pocket square. Just power, plain and simple. He didn’t dress to impress.

He dressed to warn.

Clarissa Lennox wanted to see what kind of man her daughter had let through the gates?

Good. He’d show her.

And when this night was over, Clarissa would know exactly what mistake she’d made trying to use him as a pawn in whatever agenda she had mapped out for Mara. If she thought he’d fold or perform, she’d learn he only did one thing better than argue in court: protect what was his.

When he stepped into the living room, he paused. Mara stood near the windows, backlit by the last hints of gold from the setting sun. Dressed in a sleek, wine-colored number that hugged her waist and kissed her collarbone—soft, elegant, impossible to ignore.

She looked like trouble dressed in grace.

His jaw tensed for half a second before he said, quietly but without hesitation, “You’re beautiful, Mara.”

She glanced over her shoulder, lips curving just enough. “You look pretty good yourself, Blackthorn.”

He gestured to the private elevator. “Shall we? I assume your mother has a countdown clock running.”

“You have no idea.”

He met her eyes. “Not yet. But I plan to.”

She arched a brow. “Glad I’ve got you in my corner tonight.”

“You’re not just in my corner, Mara,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “You’re under my protection. Clarissa’s going to learn that fast. Politely, of course.”

“Color me impressed.”

He smirked. “Oh, you will be. I’ll show you why I don’t lose cases.”

They arrived ten minutes early. Intentionally.

It wasn’t a coincidence. Damien timed it that way because timing was strategy. Early arrival meant control. Control meant advantage. When Clarissa Lennox opened the door, she didn’t flinch—she smiled, smooth and polished like marble. Too polished. A woman used to controlling the scene.

Not tonight.

Damien let her hug Mara first. Let her scan her daughter’s dress with that critical flick of her eyes.

“Didn’t you wear that to my charity event last month?” Clarissa asked with the faintest trace of judgment.

Mara didn’t even blink. “Yes. It’s a pretty dress. It’ll do just fine for family dinner.”

Good. She didn’t bend. He felt a glint of satisfaction spark in his chest.

Then Ethan Lennox stepped into view—a softer contrast. The warmth in his hug, the sincerity in his voice when he told Mara she looked beautiful—genuine. He was exactly the man Damien had predicted: competent, accomplished, and long since retired from the war zone that was Clarissa.

“Damien,” Ethan said with a nod, extending a hand. “Heard a lot about you. Glad you could make it.”

He returned the gesture with his signature grip—firm, confident. “Likewise, sir. Thank you for having me.”

Ethan smiled, approving.

Clarissa’s eyes, however, hadn’t left him.

The dining room was set like a page from a lifestyle magazine. Polished oak. Crisp linens. Enough crystal and porcelain to suggest wealth without trying too hard. Calculated, of course.

They started with drinks. Mara was handed a glass of white wine. She hesitated, her expression barely shifting—just a flicker of irritation only someone like Damien would catch.

He remembered.

She hated wine.

Preferred gin. Something sharp, real, unpretentious. The wine was deliberate. A micro-aggression in glass form. Damien reached for the wine bottle, casually topping off his own glass.

Then he smiled, turned to the woman of the house, and said smoothly, “Clarissa, forgive me, but I think Mara mentioned once that she prefers something with a bit more bite. Do you mind if I ask your bartender for a gin and tonic?”

Clarissa blinked. “Well, of course, if that’s what she wants.”

He turned to Mara, dark eyes meeting hers, voice just for her now. “Is that what you want?”

Her smile was slow, surprised—but grateful. “Yes. That’d be perfect.”

He nodded once and set his glass aside. “I’ll take care of it.”

And just like that, he’d shifted the balance.

This wasn’t Clarissa’s court anymore.

It was his.

The mood was set—and Clarissa hated it.

Damien didn’t need her clipped smiles or rigid posture to read that. He could feel it in the way she stirred her soup too neatly, the way her eyes flicked between him and Mara like she was calculating her next move in a game she was suddenly losing.

She had expected a puppet. Someone she could parade around cocktail hours and social galas, someone who would defer to her experience in all things upper-class. What she got instead was a man who made the room orbit him.

Ethan, to his credit, tried to lighten the air with casual conversation. Golf came up. Then a passing mention of a new political thriller Ethan claimed he couldn’t put down. Damien answered every prompt with polite interest, showing just enough charm to keep things civil without giving up an inch of control.

Clarissa remained silent too long between sips of wine. Seething in silk.

Good.

Let her stew.

He caught Mara’s eye across the table. She hadn’t said much, but the subtle shift in her expression—chin lifted, the corners of her mouth curling ever so slightly—told him everything.

She liked seeing her mother lose. Liked seeing him win.

His gaze dipped to the delicate hollow of her throat as she swallowed another bite of her salad. Something flickered in his chest—not just pride, but want. Not just to claim a victory, but to claim her. Maybe tonight would be more than damage control. Maybe she'd finally drop the armor.

Let him all the way in.

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease, swirling his wine glass just for effect. Clarissa finally looked at him—measured, tight-lipped.

“Damien,” she said, voice honeyed with just enough frost. “You strike me as a man with a plan. Where do you see this… relationship going?”

There it was. The ambush she’d been holding back since the moment he walked through her front door.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he smiled slowly, deliberately, and placed his glass down with a soft click.

“Long-term,” he said. “Mara’s the kind of woman you don’t just date. You build around her. You protect her. And if you’re smart, you never let her go.”

Clarissa blinked.

Mara inhaled softly.

And Ethan, somewhere between amused and surprised, murmured, “Well. That’s… quite the answer.”

Damien turned to Mara, holding her gaze. Not a performance now—a promise.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her lips parted. Her cheeks flushed. But her eyes—those sharp, intelligent, no-bullshit eyes—didn’t look away.

“Yes,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “I would.”

He smiled again—small, but satisfied.

Checkmate was near.

The car ride home was quiet. Not uncomfortable, charged. Mara sat beside him in the black leather seat, her legs crossed, one hand curled in her lap, the other idly toying with the hem of her dress. She didn’t speak, but her silence wasn’t indifference.

It was resistance. Carefully stacked walls.

She wanted him. He knew. It was in the tight way she held her body, the way she wouldn’t look at him too long, afraid her eyes might betray her. She’d held her own tonight—brilliantly—and now she was afraid of what came next. Of what this meant.

So he didn’t push. Not yet.

Not until they were in the elevator.

Not until the doors slid shut, locking them into that narrow, private space high above the city.

Then he shifted closer—just enough to make her glance up, her breath catching slightly.

“You handled her well tonight,” Damien murmured, his voice low. “Impressive.”

Mara tilted her chin. “I’m not a child. She doesn’t scare me.”

“No,” he said, eyes fixed on her mouth. “But I do. A little.”

Her lips parted. “No, you don’t.”

“Liar.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

She moved first, heading for the penthouse. He followed, silent, composed—but there was a fire behind his eyes now, one he didn’t bother hiding. Inside, she tossed her purse onto the counter, kicked off her shoes, and turned—ready to tell him something, anything.

But he was already there.

Close.

Too close.

His hand slipped around her waist, firm, unapologetic. His mouth hovered just beside her ear.

“You’ve been running since the second I touched you,” he said, voice like velvet wrapped in heat. “Say the word and I’ll stop. But don’t pretend you don’t want me.”

Her breath hitched. “Damien—”

“You wore that dress for me,” he whispered, fingers brushing down her arm. “You walked into that dinner with fire in your eyes. And I loved every second of it. You’re not scared of me, Mara. You’re scared of what I make you feel.”

Her heart pounded.

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

He waited.

Watched.

Until she grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him in—hard. Their lips collided.

Heat, hunger, anger—all of it. Her nails dug into his chest as he backed her into the wall, his hands sliding down her hips, claiming her, pressing his body flush against hers.

She moaned into his mouth—frustrated, desperate, wild.

And then she broke the kiss, breathing heavy.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said.

“Of course not,” he lied, kissing her again.

They didn't make it to the bedroom.

Not that night.