02.
1396 Words
[Damien]
Five days.
That’s how long it’s been since I last saw her, and I still haven’t stopped replaying it.
I should’ve forgotten her the moment I left that room.
I couldn’t.
Her touch should’ve meant nothing. But for the first time in twelve years, my body reacted.
“Bring her to me.”
That was my only command. Maybe seeing her again would answer the questions in my head.
I sent my men to find her immediately. I just didn’t expect to be the one losing focus because of it.
Dawn passes.
Morning comes fully, sunlight pouring through the glass walls of my penthouse, the clock has struck 8:30am, yet I remain seated exactly the same way I have all night—elbows resting against the leather chair, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead.
The half-empty whiskey bottle sits in front of me.
I’ve had enough alcohol already.
What I need is news.
Soon, approaching footsteps finally break the silence.
Two men walk into the living room.
Jonathan—one of the few people I trust enough to keep close—steps forward while his aide trails behind him. I still can’t remember the i***t’s name no matter how many times I hear it.
They better have something useful.
“Good morning, sir.”
I don’t respond.
I only want answers.
“All we could get was a name and number,” Jonathan says as he pulls his phone from his pocket. He stretches it toward me.
For some reason, my heartbeat changes in that moment.
As I take the phone from him, I realize I never actually imagined what she looked like outside that red room. I only knew I wanted her.
"Lena." Her name rolls out of Jonathan's lips the exact moment my eyes with the woman in the photo.
Brown hair.
Around five foot five.
Thin lips.
Plain.
Not the kind of woman men usually turn around for twice.
Honestly, I wasn't expecting anything, but not this. Yet somehow…
I can’t stop thinking about her.
“She hasn’t worked at the club in a long time,” Jonathan continues. “Apparently she was one of their one-timers. Worked there three times total. Her night with you was one after three months and no one’s seen her since the night with you.”
A slow exhale leaves me.
“That can’t be all.”
“Of course not.” Jonathan smiles slightly, like he already expected my reaction. “We called the number multiple times. She answered once. We traced the location.”
He reaches into his pocket again and hands me a sheet of paper.
An address.
Good.
“Get the car ready.”
Both men leave immediately. Only then do I finally stand. I could order them to drag her here. But I can’t explain it.
For some reason…
I want to go to her myself.
The car ride isn't long, but the thudding in my chest is something else.
The car comes to a halt in front of a tall building. My brow creases. Something is off.
I own this building.
I thought the name sounded familiar when I read the address Jonathan handed to me, but I didn't read meaning into it. How can a stripper afford the rent here?
Either ways, it works for me.
"Call David." I order Jonathan.
Two minutes, that's all it takes for the short robust man to come running. "Mr. Vale."
He is sweaty and a bit shaky. "I didn't know you'd be visiting, please, come with me."
"I'm headed to room 506, meet me there with the room key."
"R-Room 506...its..its not empty... Someone lives—" his words get swallowed as his eyes meet with my scary ones. "Yes sir." He scurries away.
Jonathan gestures forward and I walk behind, both hands pocketed.
Room 506 opens into a nicely arranged apartment.
There's not much to look at. Just two couches and a television, but it sure is clean.
A knock sounds behind me.
I turn to Jonathan knocking softly on a door.
"Ms. Hamilton?" he calls before gently twisting the door knob open.
I walk away to sit on one of the sofas.
"ARRRGHHHHHH!!!!" A scream suddenly tears through the apartment.
“What the hell?!”
I don’t move.
From where I sit in the living room, all I hear is crashing sounds followed by Jonathan’s strained voice.
“Miss Hamilton, calm down—”
The other man I can barely remember his name rushes into the room.
“CALM DOWN?!” she screeches. “There are strange men inside my room!”
Another loud thud follows.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“You can’t just break into people’s homes, you psychopaths!” she yells again.
“She’s reaching for her phone,” the other man mutters.
“Don’t touch me! Oh my God—you’re kidnappers! Are you traffickers?!”
Jonathan curses under his breath.
A few seconds later, hurried footsteps approach. Then she appears.
Messy brown hair.
Oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder.
Barefoot.
And furious.
Jonathan grips her wrist while the other man holds her phone away from reach.
“LET ME GO!”
Her eyes land on me. She freezes for exactly one second. Then immediately: “Who the hell are you?!”
I stay seated watching her. She matches the image.
The same lips.
The same eyes.
But somehow she looks completely different from the woman in red.
“I’m serious!” she snaps. “Who are you people? Why are you in my house?! How did you get in?!"
I don’t answer immediately. Because I’m still looking at her. Still trying to understand what exactly it was about her that night.
Nothing about her appearance explains the effect she has on me.
She notices my stare almost instantly. And apparently, she misunderstands it.
“Oh my God,” she says in horror. “He’s one of those rich perverts, isn’t he?”
Jonathan pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Miss Hamilton—”
“No! Because why is he staring at me like that?!” she cries, struggling harder. “Do I look like I want to be trafficked today?!”
My eyes narrow slightly.
Trafficked?
The thought is ridiculous enough to almost amuse me.
“HELP!” she suddenly screams at the top of her lungs.
Jonathan immediately clamps a hand over her mouth while the other man grabs her shoulders.
“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters. “Would you stop screaming for one second?!”
“Mmmph!”
“You’re not being kidn*pped!”
“MMPH!”
“No one is trafficking you!”
She bites his hand.
Jonathan jerks back instantly. “Ow—what the hell?!”
The girl stumbles free immediately, backing away from all of us like a terrified cat. Her breathing turns uneven. Her eyes dart around the apartment quickly, probably searching for something to use as a weapon.
Then Jonathan finally loses patience.
“Miss Lena Hamilton,” he says sharply, “watch your tone. Do you even know who you're screaming at right now?”
She blinks once.
“What? Is he God? The president?"
Jonathan gestures toward me. “That is Damien Vale.”
Silence.
Her expression changes instantly. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then—
“…The billionaire? The landlord?” she suddenly jerks forward, "you can't waltz in here because you own the building. I paid in f*****g full! I'm not owing you. You can ask Mr. David. Wait! Is he the one that opened the doors for you?"
Jonathan gasps in disbelief, but I halt him with a raise of hand, rising to my full height.
I notice her lips move, but I've toned her voice out that I can't make out what she's saying.
It is satisfying to see her eyes follow mine as her head raises all the way to hold my gaze.
I walk towards her, towering over her completely.
"Lena Hamilton?" my voice deepens intentionally.
She cowers in but pushes her shoulders straight immediately, “Y-Yes.” Her lips part slightly.
And for the first time since entering the room— She stops fighting.
With an inch distance between us, all I could do is ask the one question that's stuck in my head all day.
"Who are you?"
Her brows furrow, confusion fills her eyes, her voice croaks out. "What?"
- Writer
