Different Worlds
1644 Words
Alison’s phone buzzed nonstop on the marble counter. Maya again—probably her twentieth call of the morning. Alison glanced at it, then at Damian, who watched her with that unreadable look that made her heartbeat stutter.
“You should pick up,” he said. “She’s going to call the police at this rate.”
“She wouldn’t—” Alison cut herself off. No, Maya absolutely would. She grabbed the phone. “I’m fine.”
“ALISON MARIE CARTER.” Maya’s voice was so loud Alison had to pull the phone away. Across the kitchen, she saw Damian’s mouth twitch like he was trying not to laugh. “Do you know how worried I am? I thought you were dead in a ditch!”
“I’m not dead. I’m fine. I’ll call you later.” Alison kept her voice low; Damian was definitely listening.
“Later? LATER? You ran off with some mystery guy and think—”
“Maya. I’m fine. I promise. I’ll explain when I get home.” She paused. “Where did you end up last night?”
Silence. “That’s… not important.”
“Uh-huh.” Alison allowed herself a tiny smirk. “Talk later.”
“Wait—are you safe? Do you need me to come get you?”
Alison glanced at Damian. He was calmly refilling her mug like he’d done it a hundred times. Everything about him was careful, controlled… and yet weirdly gentle.
“I’m safe,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you later.”
She hung up before Maya could start again and set the phone face-down.
“Protective friend,” Damian said, sliding her coffee to her.
“She has good reason.” Alison wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “I don’t usually do this.”
“Go clubbing?”
“Any of it.” She took a sip, avoiding his eyes. “Clubbing, drinking, waking up in a stranger’s place wearing his shirt.”
“For what it’s worth, you wear it better than I do.”
Heat rushed to her face. She looked down at the shirt—at her bare legs—and shifted in her seat.
“You said something last night,” Damian said suddenly. “About fashion. Your own brand. Tell me about it.”
Her instinct was to shut down. She never talked about her dreams—they felt too fragile. But he looked genuinely interested.
“It’s not… anything real,” she said. “Just ideas. Sketches.”
“Ideas always start somewhere.” He leaned against the counter across from her. “What kind of fashion?”
“Sustainable. Affordable. Actually size-inclusive, not pretend inclusive.” She stopped. “Why do you care?”
“Because you care,” he replied instantly. “And last night, when you talked about it, you lit up.”
That unsettled her. People didn’t usually notice things like that about her.
“It’s complicated,” she said. “I don’t have money. Or connections. Or a degree. I work sixty hours a week scheduling meetings for people who don’t even know my name.”
“Morrison & Klein,” he said. “Finance firm.”
“You know it?”
Something flickered across his face. “I’m familiar.”
Before she could ask more, he added, “You’ve been sketching for three years. Can I see them?”
She gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t carry my sketchbook to clubs.”
“But you have one,” he said, not asking—just stating.
She nodded.
“Then you’re taking this more seriously than you admit.” His gaze was steady. “So what’s stopping you?”
“Besides zero money, zero connections, and zero experience?” She sighed. “Nothing. I’m just lazy.”
“You’re not lazy,” he said, too sure of himself. “You’re scared.”
The words stung. She set her cup down harder than she meant to.
“You don’t know me.”
“No,” he said calmly. “But I know what it looks like when someone stays in a life that makes them miserable because the alternative is too scary.”
Something in his voice sounded personal. Like he knew that feeling himself.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed with a Monday morning reminder.
Reality hit her like cold water.
“I need to go,” she said, sliding off the stool. The shirt rode up and she tugged it down. “Thank you. For… everything. For not being a serial killer.”
“Low standards,” Damian said, but he smiled.
“Where’s my dress?”
“Bedroom. On the armchair.” He stepped aside. “I’ll give you privacy.”
He brushed her lower back as he passed—a light touch, probably accidental, but it sent a shiver right through her. She met his eyes for a split second, then he walked away.
Alison went to the bedroom. Her dress and shoes were neatly folded. In daylight, the dress looked even shorter, tighter, and more ridiculous than it had last night.
Maya’s idea, of course.
Live a little. You’re twenty-five, not fifty.
Well. She’d lived. And now she was hungover, embarrassed, and wearing a stranger’s shirt in his penthouse.
She changed back into the dress, wincing at how cheap the fabric felt after wearing his clothes. Somehow the dress felt even tighter now. She slipped on her heels—how had she survived a whole night in these death traps?
She checked herself in the mirror.
Yep. Walk of shame energy.
Damian waited in the living room, now wearing a black t-shirt that somehow made him look even better.
“I’ll have Marcus drive you home,” he said.
“That’s okay, I can get a ride—”
“Marcus is already downstairs,” Damian said. “Where do you live?”
She hesitated. Pride was stupid at times like this. She couldn’t afford a ride, and the train was a death sentence in these heels.
“Logan Square,” she said. “Just… drop me somewhere on the street.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. “Don’t want to be seen getting out of my car?”
Her face burned. “It’s not—”
But yes. That was exactly it.
He nodded once. “Got it.”
They walked to the private elevator. She tried not to stare at the art, the furniture, the view. This was his normal.
In the elevator, she tried to ignore how close he stood and how good he smelled.
“Alison,” he said softly.
She looked up.
“Last night you said people like me never know what it’s like to want something we can’t have.”
She winced. “I was drunk.”
“You were honest.” His eyes held hers in the mirror. “And you were wrong.”
Before she could ask what he meant, the doors opened.
The garage looked like a luxury car show. Marcus stood by an elegant black sedan.
“Miss Carter,” he greeted politely.
Alison turned to Damian.
“Goodbye,” she said.
“Goodbye, Alison.” Something unreadable passed through his eyes. “Good luck at work tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” she said, throat tight.
She almost reached the car when Damian touched her wrist—gentle, warm. She stopped.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “your brand would be extraordinary.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything. It meant too much.
“Thank you.”
She got into the car before she could say something stupid.
As Marcus drove away, she saw Damian standing there watching the car go, hands in his pockets, unreadable as ever.
He disappeared as they turned the corner.
Damian called her interesting in his head. A rare thing in his world of predictable people and hidden agendas. She’d challenged him. She’d been real.
And that stuck with him more than he expected.
Back upstairs, he saw her empty coffee cup on the counter and found himself hoping she’d chase the dreams she was too scared to touch.
—
When the car emerged into sunlight, Alison finally saw where she’d been.
Gold Coast.
Of course.
Everything in her stomach dropped.
His world. And she had slept in it.
She’d walked here before on lunch breaks. Always wondering what it felt like to live so high above everyone else.
Now she knew.
It was beautiful. And lonely.
As they drove through the neighborhood—gated mansions, perfect lawns, glass towers—it hit her hard:
They lived in completely different worlds.
The city shifted as they drove—expensive neighborhoods melting into normal ones. By the time they reached Logan Square, the contrast felt almost cruel.
Marcus parked at the corner she’d requested.
“Here you are, miss.”
She hesitated. “Marcus… does he bring women home often?”
She instantly regretted asking. But she needed to know.
Marcus was expressionless, but something flickered in his eyes.
“In five years, miss, this is the first time he’s asked me to drive someone home.”
Her breath caught.
“Oh. Thank you.”
She stepped out. The car pulled away, quiet and smooth.
Just like that, the morning slipped away too.
Her phone buzzed.
Maya: I’m at your place with coffee. I NEED DETAILS.
Despite everything, Alison smiled.
Five minutes away. Prepare yourself.
By tomorrow, she’d be back at work pretending nothing had happened. By next week, this would feel like someone else’s memory.
It had to.
She climbed the stairs to her apartment. Heavy steps, heavier thoughts.
She heard Maya pacing inside.
Alison squared her shoulders, unlocked the door, and stepped in.
Time to pretend this morning meant nothing.
Even if it didn’t exactly feel that way.
- Writer
