Elena's heart hadn't stopped pounding since she left the gala. Damian Costa had unsettled her in a way she had never experienced before, and no matter how many deep breaths she took, the memory of his touch, his words, his promise, refused to fade.
She had barely closed the door to her small apartment when she felt the weight of it all crash down on her. Leaning against the door, she pressed her palms to her face, inhaling shakily. She was in trouble—deep, inescapable trouble.
A knock at the door shattered her thoughts.
She jumped, her body going rigid. It was late—too late for visitors. Dread coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, then forced herself to move. Peering through the peephole, her breath caught in her throat.
Damian.
She should have ignored it. Should have pretended she wasn't home. But something in the way he stood there—calm, patient, like he knew she would open the door—made her fingers tremble as they wrapped around the handle. Against her better judgment, she twisted the lock and pulled the door open.
He leaned against the frame, looking completely at ease, as if he had every right to be there. "I told you this wasn't over."
Elena crossed her arms over her chest, doing her best to ignore the way his presence filled the tiny space. "You followed me home?"
His lips curved slightly. "I've always known where you live, Elena."
Her stomach twisted. "That's not comforting."
"I wasn't trying to comfort you."
Something in the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. He didn't try to hide the truth, didn't sugarcoat his intentions. Damian Costa was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, his focus was on her.
"I don't play games," she said, her voice firm.
His smirk deepened. "You're already playing."
She clenched her jaw. "What do you want?"
"I want to talk."
She scoffed. "Somehow, I doubt that."
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "Let me in, Elena."
It wasn't a request. But she still had a choice—didn't she?
After a long pause, she stepped aside, letting him enter.
---
Damian moved through her small apartment with a calculated ease, his sharp eyes taking in everything—the canvases stacked against the walls, the scattered brushes, the faint scent of turpentine lingering in the air.
"You live simply," he observed.
"I live how I can afford," she shot back, watching him warily.
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "That won't be a problem for much longer."
Her stomach tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I take care of what's mine."
Anger flared in her chest. "I am not yours."
His gaze darkened, and before she could react, he was standing in front of her, his fingers tilting her chin up. "You will be."
She should have shoved him away. Should have told him to leave. But the heat radiating from his body, the way his grip sent fire dancing across her skin, stole her breath.
"You don't get to decide that," she whispered.
His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, slow and deliberate. "Don't I?"
Something in his voice—something cold, absolute—made her pulse spike. He was dangerous, intoxicating, and she was teetering too close to the edge.
"I should hate you," she admitted, barely recognizing her own voice.
He smirked. "But you don't."
She swallowed hard. No, she didn't. And that terrified her more than anything.
---
The hours slipped away, lost in a dance of tension and temptation. Damian didn't leave, and she didn't ask him to. They talked—about art, about power, about the things neither of them could say out loud. He was sharp, intelligent, and disturbingly perceptive. He saw through her defenses like they were made of glass.
And when he finally stood, preparing to leave, he left her with one final warning.
"This game, Elena… you can pretend you're not playing. But in the end, you'll lose."
She watched him go, her heart pounding.
Because deep down, she already knew he was right.