Chapter nine -Small Victories and Cocktails
1537 Words
The door slammed. Not hard enough to rattle the walls, but just enough to punch the air out of his lungs. Damien stood there, still, the tension in his body wound tight like wire. Her heat lingered on his hands. Her scent—sweet, sharp, addictive—still clung to his skin. And the taste of her was branded into his mouth like a damn signature.
Then she was gone.
Locked behind a door like what just happened hadn’t rattled her as much as it had him.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. She wanted him—there was no denying that. Not after the way she kissed him, touched him, responded like she’d been seconds from begging him not to stop. It wasn’t just lust. It never was, not with her.
But the second she pulled away… she shut down. The walls came up fast, like she’d rehearsed it.
Damien didn’t do doubt. He didn’t do confusion. And yet here he was, staring at a closed bedroom door like it held all the answers he wasn’t ready to admit he wanted.
This wasn’t part of the deal.
Her words echoed in his mind like a slap.
The deal.
That damn contract. The agreement. The performance.
He sat down slowly, pouring himself another drink, letting the silence of the penthouse wrap around him. It felt colder without her voice. Without her fire.
Damien Blackthorn didn’t chase women. He didn’t have to. But he wasn’t about to let her run from this. Not again.
Because that kiss?
That kiss had meant something. And no matter how fast Mara Lennox ran, he would make damn sure she couldn’t outrun this or him.
That damn author could try his luck, but Damien wasn’t about to let Mara slip through his fingers.
Not now.
Not ever.
In the short time he’d known her, something had shifted inside him—deep, certain, and immovable. The kind of instinct that didn’t need proof. He felt it in his gut, in his bones. She’s it.
He’d said it aloud once already, over dinner with her parents. Calm, calculated, sincere. A quiet promise buried in conversation: I plan to marry your daughter.
And he did.
But he wasn’t a fool.
Mara Lennox didn’t respond to force. She pushed back when cornered, built walls when anyone tried to climb them. If he chased her now, she’d bolt and this time, she might not come back.
So he wouldn’t chase.
He’d give her the illusion of space. Let her pretend this was on her terms.
Because in the end? She’d be wearing his ring, living in his space, taking his name. And it wouldn’t be a game. It would be real.
He just had to wait.
For now.
He stood and downed the last of his drink, the burn a poor substitute for her. Then he moved to the massive window that overlooked the city and let the night cool his temper.
The plan was still in motion.
Mara was fire but he was patience, pressure, and precision. And even the brightest flame bowed to steel in time.
It had taken months of preparation. Endless hours. Ruthless strategy. But Damien Blackthorn delivered. He won the case. And not just won, he annihilated the opposition. Buried them under airtight arguments, surgical precision, and that signature cold, clean efficiency he was known for. The verdict had landed like a hammer. His client was exonerated. The press spun it into legend.
Blackthorn was back. No, he’d never left.
He was now officially the highest-grossing name in the firm. His win guaranteed the board’s silence, their grudging admiration. Every partner who whispered doubts behind closed doors now stood behind him with smiles too tight and words too polished.
They had no choice.
He kept the lights on.
He paid their salaries.
They could hate him but they damn well needed him.
Still, none of it meant a thing if he couldn’t share the moment with her.
Mara.
The name settled like heat in his chest. He hadn’t seen her all day. She’d been working from her design studio,something about a client revision and back-to-back calls. He respected it. Even liked it. She had her own world, and she ruled it with creative fire and brutal professionalism.
But tonight?
Tonight was about more than a win in court.
It was about her.
Them.
Damien rolled his sleeves, loosened his tie, and checked the time. He already made a reservation at a restaurant she liked. Low lighting, real music, no hidden cameras. No press.
Just them.
She didn’t know yet. But she would.
He reached for his phone and typed a message: Victory demands a toast. Be ready by eight. Dress like you plan to make me forget how to speak.
He smirked as he hit send.
Let her pretend she wasn’t affected. Let her fight it a little longer.
She could run circles around him in heels and wit but at the end of the day?
She was already his.
Mara hadn’t let him pick her up. She insisted on meeting at the restaurant instead, an act of independence that didn’t surprise Damien one bit. She needed control. Needed the illusion of space. He could give her that for now.
But when she walked in, all that distance vanished.
Every head in the room turned. And Damien’s blood burned hotter.
The red glittering dress clung to her curves like it had been sewn onto her skin. Legs for miles, the soft glide of fabric that hinted at bare flesh underneath. A neckline low enough to make every man in the room forget their drinks.
He stood, of course. Because Mara Lennox didn’t just enter a room she conquered it.
She met his eyes as she approached, that signature smirk dancing on her lips. The one that knew exactly what kind of damage she was doing to him. She was confident. Cool. But he knew better. Knew what lay beneath that practiced mask.
He pulled out her chair for her, letting his fingers brush her bare shoulder as she sat.
"You wore that dress on purpose," he murmured as he took his seat across from her.
Her lips curved into a smile. "You said to dress like I planned to make you forget how to speak."
Damien chuckled, low and dark. "Mission accomplished."
The waiter came and went. Orders were placed. Cocktails were served. But Damien had eyes only for her. The case was done. The noise had quieted. For the first time in weeks, he could focus entirely on the woman who. whether she knew it or not was steadily unraveling him.
And tonight?
He planned to return the favor.
He leaned forward, voice low. "You know why I brought you here, don’t you?"
Her blue eyes sparkled above her glass. "Because you won."
"Because we did," he corrected. "You think I would’ve stayed sane the past month without you?"
She tilted her head, amused. "So this is your thank-you dinner?"
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then rose again. "Something like that. Though I’m hoping dessert isn’t the only thing getting devoured tonight."
She flushed.
Just slightly.
But he saw it.
Felt it.
And knew this night had only just begun.
They lingered over drinks, conversation dipping between playful banter and charged silences. Every time she smiled at something he said, Damien caught himself imagining how that mouth would taste again. How she’d sound if he kissed her the way he wanted to.
When they left the restaurant, he kept his hand low on her back, guiding her into the car like she already belonged to him. Neither of them said much on the ride.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse was quiet. Tense. Their reflections stared back at them in the sleek mirrored doors, her red dress shimmering in the low light, his fingers twitching with restraint.
She stepped out first. He followed, locking the door behind them.
"Your room or mine?" he asked, voice low, teasing.
Mara turned slowly, arching a brow. "You assume I’m inviting you anywhere."
He closed the distance between them in two strides, stopping just shy of touching her. "I don’t assume," he said. "I know what that dress meant. What your eyes have been telling me all night."
She exhaled slowly, chin tilted up defiantly. "And what if I change my mind?"
"Then I walk away," he said, brushing his fingers along her jaw. "But you won’t."
Her breath caught. He leaned in, slow, giving her every chance to stop him.
She didn’t.
Their lips met like a spark catching fire. Her hands found his collar, his arms circling her waist, pulling her flush against him. There was nothing tentative about it. No hesitation.
When they broke apart, breathless, she whispered against his mouth, "This doesn’t mean anything."
"Then why are you trembling?"
She pulled back. Just a step. Enough to think.
"I can't do this," she muttered, more to herself than him.
And before he could stop her, she turned and disappeared down the hall toward her room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Damien stood in the quiet penthouse, heart pounding.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
- Writer
