Damien wakes to the sound of birds chirping outside his window, the golden morning light filtering through sheer curtains. For a moment, he expects to see the sleek, modern skyline of the city through floor-to-ceiling glass. But when he blinks awake, all he sees are tall oak trees swaying in the breeze.
Right.
The bet. The isolation. The very intriguing woman who clearly hates his existence.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he stretches, muscles flexing beneath the soft sheets.
Elara.
She's going to be a problem. A beautiful, stubborn, fascinating problem.
Not that he minds.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Everything about this place—the quiet, the distance, the lack of luxury—should make him restless. It should have him counting the days until he can escape back to the real world, to champagne lounges and boardroom battles.
And yet…
He finds himself wondering what Elara is doing right now.
With a shake of his head, Damien pushes to his feet. A quick shower later, he throws on a black T-shirt and jeans—casual, but still devastatingly attractive, if he says so himself. He rubs a towel over his damp hair before making his way downstairs, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee.
The house is still and quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen. He rounds the corner, only to find Elara standing there, scowling at a toaster like it just insulted her ancestors.
Damien leans against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking.
"You planning to kill that toaster, or should I step in?"
Elara startles slightly, then lets out an exasperated sigh when she sees him. "It's broken."
"Or maybe," he says, pushing off the doorframe, "you just don't know how to use it."
She turns to him slowly, dark eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm not an idiot."
He chuckles, stepping beside her. "Didn't say you were."
Elara doesn't move as he reaches past her, fingers brushing the edge of the counter. He presses a few buttons, adjusts the dial, and just like that, the toaster hums to life, the scent of warming bread filling the space.
Elara crosses her arms, unimpressed. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"
"Not think," he says, flashing her a grin. "I know."
She huffs, grabbing her coffee and turning away. "You shouldn't be in here."
Damien raises an eyebrow. "In the kitchen? What, am I banned from eating now?"
She sighs, rubbing her temple. "This is my space. You stay in yours."
He props himself up against the counter, tilting his head. "Sweetheart, this house is massive. I don't think 'staying in my space' is really going to work."
Elara mutters something under her breath before setting her coffee down with a little more force than necessary. "Fine. Then we need ground rules."
Damien grins. Oh, this should be fun.
"Alright, let's hear them."
She lifts a finger, her expression dead serious. "One—you don't bother me."
"Too late for that."
Her eyes narrow, but she continues. "Two—you don't touch my things."
He smirks. "Define 'things.'"
Her jaw clenches. "Three—no flirting."
Damien lets out a slow, amused chuckle. "That's going to be a problem."
Elara exhales sharply, rubbing her temples like he's the headache that won't go away. "Look, I don't have time to babysit a billionaire who thinks rules don't apply to him."
"You say that like you're not dying to know what I'll do next."
She looks up at him, and for the first time, he sees it.
The flicker of something else in her dark eyes.
She's intrigued.
Annoyed? Yes. Frustrated? Definitely. But beneath all of that, there's a spark. And Damien? He's an expert at turning sparks into full-blown flames.
"You're impossible," she mutters, grabbing her coffee. "Just… stay out of my way."
She turns to leave, brushing past him—and for the briefest second, he catches it.
The scent of vanilla and something sweet.
It lingers in the air, teasing his senses, stirring something deep in his chest. He could stop her. Say something witty. Push her just a little further.
But no.
This is a long game.
And Damien always wins.
So instead, he lets her go, watching as she disappears down the hallway, her steps light but purposeful.
"She won't last for long" He smirks, pulling a nonstick skillet from the archaic kitchen cabinet. "I'll break down her walls."
One month.
And he's already breaking the rules.