The Billionaires Dancer

CHAPTER SIX

I can hardly recall getting out of the vehicle. The fatigue is overwhelming, gumming me like an extra layer. Damon doesn't hurry me. He also remains silent. He simply strolls alongside me, calm, collected.

Upon entering, I take note of the magnificent foyer briefly—dark marble tiles, a sparkling chandelier above, and a musk of something luxurious and costly permeating the atmosphere. It feels stifling.

As we arrive at a bedroom—spacious, simply furnished, with sheets that appear incredibly soft—I find myself starting to shut down. "You should get some rest.” He says. It's not a suggestion.

I should fight, should argue, but when I feel the bed dip beneath me, everything else fades. My eyes shut before I can even consider how risky it is to fall asleep in Damon Baas' house.

I rise to sunlight filtering through the curtains. For a brief moment, dazed and groggy, I lose track of my whereabouts.. Then I gaze at the room—its pristine, meticulous flawlessness—and it all rushes back to me.

Damon.

Last night.

The absolute exhaustion that took me down completely.

I rise, massaging my face. My hair is unruly, my bikini a bit crumpled. But before I can reflect on it, there's a knock. "Miss, your breakfast is prepared," a voice calls from outside the door. "Mr. Baas asks for you to come to the dining hall."

I close and open my eyes. Of course. Damon has a bloody dining hall.

I throw the covers aside, hurrying to the bathroom and a stylish vanity shows my face—plump lips, prominent cheekbones, blue, upward-turned eyes that always carry a hint of sorrow. A type of beauty that disturbs people, I’ve heard. A gift I've learned over time to use as a tool.

I frown at my reflection and switch on the faucet, splashing icy water on my face before taking a toothbrush from the counter. It's fresh. He was waiting for me, as if he had predicted I'd need it. The idea turns my stomach.

I vigorously brush my teeth, then enter the glass-encased shower, allowing the warm water to rinse off the traces of sleep. The thought that Damon brought me in here last night and tucked me in makes my heart feel constricted.

He can’t be doing all this out of the kindness of his heart. No, Damon Baas has to have an ulterior motive.

I emerge, rubbing my skin dry with a towel before making my way to the large walk-in closet. I stop dead in my tracks.

It is filled with women's wear. Not a mere handful of items, or extra pieces—an entire collection of clothing. Gowns, tops, pumps and even underwear. Delicate lace and silk.

My fingers dance along the fabrics, my jaw tightening.

How many women has he brought here? How many has he dressed up, played with, thrown away?

The anger bubbles up before I can stop it. I shouldn't care. This isn't new. Damon has always been this way. The type to collect things—expensive cars, rare cigars, beautiful women.

And yet, knowing that doesn't stop the irritation from burning under my skin. I grab a simple white silk dress, slipping it on. It's a short halter neck, falling mid-thigh, the fabric free falling on my curves like it was made for me. The thought infuriates me further.

Fine. He wants me in his clothes? Then I'll wear them. However, I won't play this game with him.

I straighten my shoulders, raise my chin, and exit the room. The dining hall is ridiculously large for only one person . A lengthy polished table accommodating at least two dozen people spans the room, while Damon occupies the head, relaxed in a sharp white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, one hand idly spinning a fork. A steaming cup of coffee is placed beside him.

The moment I step inside, he looks up. I expect a simple acknowledgment. Maybe even an insult. Instead, his eyes sweep over me, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth lifts.

"Well. That's unfair."

"What?" I snap.

"You. Looking like that. In the morning." He tilts his head. "It's cruel, really."

I brush aside the warmth slithering up my back and move past him, choosing the chair at the far end of the table, yet even at this distance, I can't escape the sensation of his gaze on me. A plate is ready for me—light and fluffy scrambled eggs, crunchy bacon, perfectly toasted bread, and a bowl of fresh fruit beside it.

My abdomen tightens. I can't recall the last time I saw food that looks this amazing.

Damon observes me as I grab my fork, a grin still lingering on his face. "You used to eat faster than that. What happened?"

"I learned patience," I mutter, cutting into the eggs.

He leans back, sipping his coffee. "Patience doesn't suit you."

"And running away doesn't suit you," I shoot back.

His smirk falters, just slightly. For a moment, there's only the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain. Then, voice light, he says, "I don't run. I make strategic exits."

I set my fork down and ask calmly. "Why did you leave?"

Damon leans back, stretching his arms out over the chair. "That's a loaded question for breakfast."

"I don't care."

He exhales slowly, swirling his coffee. "Sonia—"

"No." I grip the edge of the table, my civility slipping. "You don't get to say my name like that. Like you didn't abandon me. Like you didn't leave me to deal with everything alone."

His gaze darkens, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't waver, but something flickers in his expression. Something guarded.

My heart pounds. "Do you know what it's like to have nothing?" I press, voice unwavering now, sharpened by years of anger. "To sell yourself just to keep a roof over your head? To let a man like Roman own you because the alternative is starving in the street?"

Damon's grip tightens around his coffee cup. Just barely.

I laugh again, but there's no humor in it. "Of course you don't. You're Damon Baas. You have butlers, chauffeurs, a f*****g walk-in closet filled with women's clothes, like we're just another one of your expensive toys."

His jaw clenches, but he still says nothing.

I lean forward. "So tell me, Damon. What excuse do you have? Why did you disappear the night my father died? Why did you leave me when I needed you the most?"

His expression smooths out, effortless. The perfect mask.

"You really think it's that simple?"

"Yes."

A slow exhale. He leans back, eyes sweeping over me, his usual indifference sliding into place.

"You always did like easy answers."

I fist my hands so tightly I break the flesh of my palms. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Deflect. Twist things around. I'm not one of your women, Damon. I'm not a game you get to play."

His smirk returns, a little crooked this time.

"No," he says. "You're much worse."

I open my mouth to argue, to tear into him again, but the frustration is unbearable. He won't give me what I want. He never does.

My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand abruptly. "Sonia."

"No." I shake my head. "I'm done with this."

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You haven't even finished your breakfast."

"f**k breakfast," I snap, storming past him.

Damon doesn't stop me. Not immediately. But just as I reach the hallway, I hear the chair scrape back, the sound of fast, purposeful footsteps behind me.

I don't slow. Neither does he.

Then suddenly—his hand wraps around my wrist.

I spin, fury crackling through my veins. "Let go."

He doesn't. He just stares at me, dark eyes unreadable. “You want the truth?” His voice is quieter now, but it holds weight. “Fine.”

I hold my breath.

“I left because I had to. I left because staying would have been worse.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and for the first time, there’s no amusement, no teasing lilt to his tone. Just something raw. “And I didn’t come back because I knew what I’d done to you. And I knew you’d never forgive me.”

My nails dig into my palms. “That’s not good enough.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

I snarled.

"You're angry."

"Of course, I'm f*****g angry."

He tilts his head, considering me. Then, with that same insufferable smirk, he says, "Good."

Before I can snap at him, he tugs me closer, his grip firm but careful. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of expensive cologne on his skin.

I glare up at him, breath unsteady. "You're enjoying this."

"Only a little."

The tension is suffocating, electric. I hate that my pulse betrays me, that I feel anything other than rage in this moment.

I jerk my wrist free. Damon lets me go, but his smirk never fades.

"Go ahead," he says, voice impossibly smooth. "Run again."

I don't move. And he knows I won't. Not this time.

Because I'm not done with him yet.