Revenge In A suit & Tie

First Real Smile

Goodness! For what seemed like a full decade, I never woke up without some or the other swearwords thrown my way.

This time I woke up to utter silence.

Not the type that screams, not one that threatens. The kind of silence that stretches over a broken marriage like a suffocating plastic wrap.

Just silence in the company of soft sunlight and the gentle humming of the penthouse AC, humming through walls like a living creature.

I blinked at the cream-colored ceiling and then turned my face away, lying relaxed on the king-sized bed, inhaling faint green scents of leather and cedarwood. Damon clearly was not in the same room; it was one of the few agreements: one bedroom, two rooms, one marriage, no expectations. But the strange thing was, somehow that distance didn’t feel cold. It was courteous. It was fair.

It was almost... safe.

Still, this kind of comfort was beyond what I was able to wrap my mind around. Perhaps because material comfort didn't exactly translate into emotional safety. But, at least within the walls of the penthouse, I was beginning to feel a semblance of normalcy.

Yet, today carried its weight of pressure. Damon had his charity board meeting to attend and it was required for me to accompany him to a brunch at this rooftop lounge. Not quite a red-carpet affair, but public enough for the pretence to be maintained.

I got out of bed and stretched, catching a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror. The loose curls from last night were still draped on my shoulders, but my eyes; those eyes weren't dull anymore. Something had changed.

Maybe it had something to do with the man across the hall.

"Quite a night, huh?" I asked lightly as Damon stood before the coffee machine. He was clad in a tight grey vest with no tie, sleeves rolled up. Those veins on his forearms were like roads to temptation. I was not blind.

He didn't bother to look my way; instead, he mechanically poured an espresso, just like everything else. "There are five emails from Olivia's attorney," he said flatly. "She's being persistent."

"I'm not surprised. That woman could make pestilence look polite."

A low sound, half-grunt half-laugh, escaped him. Damon Cross was laughing? Had anyone ever heard of such a thing?

"Glad you're settling in. You look... better," he said, truly facing me now.

Better. It was not exactly a compliment, really. Coming from him, it was practically a love letter. "Thanks. I did actually sleep."

"Good." He studied me a little longer, his eyes half narrowing as if anyone else looking at me would fail to decipher. Then he deposited down beside me another espresso. No cream. No sugar. Just as I had requested it yesterday morning. He remembered.

We drank in silence-a rare and comfortable kind.

And the first time Damon smiled. Not the polite curl of the lips, nor the corporate smirk during meetings. This one was somehow a bit smaller-a bit softer-real.

My stomach did slow rolls.

"You should do that more often," I blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Smile. Like that. It's good for you."

He stared at me a second too long. "Don't get used to it," he whispered, but the corners of his mouth refused to fall.

Reconvening, back on the rooftop brunch was a performance of subtle touches and choreographed laughter. Damon had laid the palm of his hand upon the small of my back each time another looked our way. I found myself leaning into him more naturally than expected. It felt real.

In the middle of it all, while he was speaking with a tech investor about merger regulations, I saw him look at me. Not once. Not twice. Several times.

Like he was trying to size me up.

I felt it all over again that slow, rolling shift between us. Something unseeable but undeniable.

When we finally made it back to the penthouse later in the afternoon, I kicked off my shoes and plopped down on the velvet couch. "That was exhausting."

He didn’t say anything. Just stood, walked over to the window, and looked out at the skyline. For once, the silence didn’t feel easy. It felt tight and tense.

Then, without turning, he said, “Because someone should."

That did something to me. Something reckless.

Damon peeled off his tie and took a seat across from me, legs spread wide, looking like he owned the place. "You did well.”

“Years of pretending in front of Zachary’s friends prepared me."

His face darkened. "You can stop mentioning him.”

“It’s a part of my past. I don’t get to wipe it off just because I walked into your world, Damon.”

His jaw tightened, just a tick. "No, but I can keep him out of it."

There was something raw about his tone. Not possessive. Protectively.

“Why do you care?" I murmured before I could shove my foot back in my mouth. "

Later that night, I went into the living room where I found Damon nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sleeves rolled up again, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked...less CEO, more man.

I hesitated in the doorway. "I don't want to overstep things here, but...can we talk?"

His eyes found mine, and for once, there were no barriers between us, no walls.

“Sit.”

So I sat.

“Why me?" I asked. "There were a thousand women you could have asked to play your wife. Women who aren't married. Women who aren't...broken.

He was quiet. The kind of quiet that dragged truth to the surface.

"Because you weren't looking for your fifteen minutes of fame. You weren't trying to make use of me. You needed an out as much as I needed cover."

"And now?"

He sipped slowly, then sat the glass down. "Now I'm not sure what I need."

It was a confession, and I didn't know how to hold it.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Damon reached over and swept a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

His fingers brushed against my skin with an unintended sweetness. “You’re not broken, Sierra,” he said in a soft voice. I had to respond, maybe even ask him why he was so open with me when his phone buzzed loudly.

He looked at the screen.

Then he cursed.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling my pulse rise.

He handed me the phone without saying a word.

A text from Connor: “We have a problem. Olivia’s stirring again. And worse Zachary Monroe’s been seen in L.A. Press is sniffing. You should probably get ahead of this.”

I went cold.

“He’s here,” I said, quietly.

Damon’s jaw locked. “And he’s looking for you.”