Chapter 8: The 24 Hours
1053 Words
"Rule #1 of the 24 hours," Damien said, pulling me into the kitchen. "No phones."
He took my phone from my hand. And his. Dropped both in a drawer and closed it.
"Rule #2," he continued. "We eat. Real food. Not takeout."
"Rule #3?" I asked, leaning against the counter in his t-shirt and sweatpants.
"Rule #3," he said, opening the fridge. "You tell me what you want. And I make it."
I stared at him. The billionaire CEO in gray sweats, bare feet, hair still messy from sleep.
"You cook?"
"I survive," he corrected. "But for you and the baby, I can try."
My heart did that stupid thing again.
---
An hour later, the kitchen smelled like pancakes.
Bad pancakes. Burnt on one side.
Damien frowned at the pan. "This is harder than negotiating a merger."
I laughed. "Let me help."
"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. "I’ve got it."
He flipped the pancake. It landed on the floor.
We both stared at it.
Then I started giggling.
Then he did too.
"Okay," he admitted, turning off the stove. "New plan. Cereal."
"Cereal I can do," I said, grabbing two bowls.
We ate at the island. Him in sweats. Me in his shirt.
No suits. No boardroom. No cameras.
Just us.
"So," I said between bites. "What do people do during 24 hours off?"
"Normally?" Damien asked. "Work."
"Right. But normal Damien."
He thought about it. "Sleep. Read financial reports. Go to the gym."
"Sounds lonely."
"It was," he said simply. Then he looked at me. "Until now."
I had to look away or I’d cry. Again.
Hormones were no joke.
---
After breakfast, he took my hand.
"Come on."
He led me to a room I’d never seen.
White walls. Empty. Sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
An easel in the corner. Blank canvases. Paints.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Your studio," Damien said. "Selena set it up last night. While you were sleeping."
"My... studio?"
"You said you were a designer," he said, like it was obvious. "You need a place to work. Or paint. Or whatever you do when you’re not fighting billionaires."
I walked to the easel. Touched the wood.
"You did this? For me?"
"For us," he corrected. "You need to be happy here. For 6 months. For longer if..."
He didn’t finish.
I turned and hugged him. Hard.
"Thank you," I whispered into his chest.
"You’re welcome," he murmured, arms around me. "Now go make something ugly so I feel better about my pancakes."
I laughed and pushed him away.
For the next 3 hours, I painted.
And Damien... watched.
He sat in the corner armchair with a book he wasn’t reading.
Every 10 minutes his eyes would drift to me. To my hands. To my stomach.
"Can I ask you something?" I said without looking up.
"Always."
"What was your dad like?"
The room went quiet.
"An asshole," Damien said finally. "Worked 20 hours a day. Thought emotions were weakness."
"Is that why you’re like this?"
"Like what?"
"Closed off. Scared."
He didn’t answer for a long time.
"Maybe," he said. "I don’t want to be him."
"You’re not," I said. "You’re here. With me. With the baby."
He stood up and came over. Looked at my painting.
Blues and golds. Abstract. A city skyline.
"It’s good," he said.
"You don’t have to lie."
"I’m not." He pointed. "That’s Cole Tower."
"Maybe," I smiled.
---
Lunch was sandwiches. He actually didn’t burn those.
After, we ended up on the couch. Movie on. No sound. Just subtitles.
His arm around me. My head on his shoulder. His hand resting on my stomach.
Halfway through, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark.
And I was in bed.
With Damien’s arm still around me.
"Hey," he whispered. "You were snoring."
"I was not," I mumbled.
"You were. It was cute."
I turned to face him.
"How long was I out?"
"4 hours," he said. "You needed it."
The room was quiet. Just us and the city lights outside.
"Damien?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask for something?"
"Anything."
"Can we just... talk? No board. No press. No baby stuff. Just us."
He nodded. Pulled me closer.
"Okay. You first."
---
So we talked.
About NYU. About my first design client. About the time I got food poisoning in college.
About his first company. About the time he broke his arm skiing. About why he never dated seriously.
"Because no one was worth it," he said. "Until you."
"That’s a terrible line," I teased.
"I know," he grinned. "I’m out of practice."
We laughed. Quiet. In the dark.
At some point, his hand found mine under the covers.
Laced our fingers together.
"Ava," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I like this. The 24 hours."
"Me too."
Silence. Comfortable.
Then his phone buzzed. From the drawer.
Once. Twice. Ten times.
The 24 hours were over.
Damien didn’t move.
"Do we have to?" I whispered.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
He ignored it.
Instead, he rolled over and kissed me.
Slow. Deep. Like he had all the time in the world.
When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Tomorrow the world comes back," he said.
"I know."
"But tonight... tonight it’s just us."
He kissed my temple. My cheek. My jaw.
Then lower. To where his hand rested on my stomach.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispered to my stomach. "Mom and Dad are here."
I started crying. Again.
"Hey," he said, panicked. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," I sobbed. "It’s just... no one’s ever talked to me like that. Like I matter."
"You do matter," he said firmly. "Both of you. More than anything."
He wiped my tears with his thumb.
"Sleep," he said. "I’m right here."
And I did.
---
The next morning, the drawer buzzed again.
Vivienne. The board. The press.
Reality was back.
But for 24 hours, we had this.
Pancakes on the floor. A studio. Cereal for dinner.
Talks in the dark. Hands held.
Damien kissed my forehead before getting out of bed.
"Ready to face them?"
"With you?" I asked.
"Always," he said.
I took his hand.
"Then let’s go."
Outside, Vivienne was waiting.
Inside, I had something she didn’t.
A husband who chose me.
A baby we chose.
And 24 hours we’d never give back.
- Writer
