I stared at the message.
Hey. This is Damien. Hope you got home safe.
Short. Polite. Normal. And yet, everything inside me screamed that nothing about this man—or the way he made me feel—was remotely normal.
I re-read the text at least ten times. My thumb hovered over the screen, frozen. What was I supposed to say? Thanks. I'm fine. Good night? Boring. OMG you're hot, can I lick your abs? Pathetic. I wasn't some high schooler crushing over a boy who winked at her in algebra.
But the truth?
My stomach hadn't stopped fluttering since last night. His voice. His presence. The dangerous way he looked at me like he knew exactly how to undo every defense I had ever built.
I typed: Thanks again for the ride. Got home safe.
Then I deleted it.
Typed again: You didn't have to help me, but you did. I owe you.
Deleted it.
Was I seriously about to chicken out over a text?
With a frustrated groan, I threw my phone onto the bed and collapsed beside it. The ceiling had no answers, and the silence in my tiny studio apartment suddenly felt louder than ever. The pile of unopened bills still sat like a monster in the corner, mocking me.
I could almost hear my landlord's passive-aggressive voice from the hallway, warning me this month was the final straw. As if I didn't already know.
My fingers itched. Not for Damien. For change. For something—anything—that didn't feel like drowning.
My phone vibrated.
A second message.
You don't owe me anything, Amara. But I meant it when I said you deserve better. Dinner tomorrow. Let me show you.
My heart somersaulted.
Dinner? He wasn't even pretending this was casual. He wanted to see me again. Not in a smoky club, not drunk or flirty—but sober. Intentional.
I was supposed to be smart. Careful. The last thing I needed was another man to disappoint me. To dangle hope in my face, then vanish when the real me—the broke, desperate, overworked, barely-surviving me—surfaced.
But something about Damien… He didn't look at me like I was a project. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to figure out, piece by piece.
I typed back: Dinner sounds good. Where?
Sent it before I could back out.
Seconds later, his reply came.
I'll pick you up at seven. Wear something red.
I sat up, heart thudding. Red?
That was bold. Confident. A command disguised as a request. I didn't even own anything red—except a silky dress Trina had forced me to buy during some clearance sale. I'd never worn it. Too tight. Too daring. Too… not me.
But maybe it was time to be someone else.
Someone braver.
I stood and crossed to the closet. Pulled out the dress. It still had the tag on it. Blood red. Sleeveless. Dangerous.
Just like him.
—
The next day passed in a blur. I cleaned my apartment like I was expecting royalty. Googled "what to say on a date with a CEO" like an idiot. Spent thirty minutes fixing my hair, ruining it, then fixing it again. Red lipstick? Too much? I wiped it off—then reapplied it.
At 6:58, I stood at my window watching the street below. That's when I saw it.
A black Range Rover pulled up to the curb.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
He was here.
I opened the door before he could knock.
Damien stood there, hands in his coat pockets, wearing all black like a man who knew exactly what power looked like. His eyes swept over me once—slow, appreciative, deliberate.
"You wore red," he said, a spark of approval in his voice.
"You said wear red," I replied, trying not to sound breathless.
He smiled like I'd just passed a test. "Ready?"
I nodded, stepped out, and followed him down.
—
Dinner was at a place called Verona, an upscale rooftop restaurant I'd only ever seen on Instagram. The kind of place that didn't list prices on the menu and served water in crystal glasses. The view of the city skyline took my breath away—but not as much as the man across from me.
Damien was easy to talk to, which shocked me. He asked questions. Listened. Made me laugh. Not once did he talk about himself unless I asked.
"What do you do, Amara?" he asked halfway through dinner, his voice low and curious.
I looked down. "Right now? I'm juggling two part-time jobs and avoiding three debt collectors. Not glamorous."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"I didn't ask for glamorous," he said. "I asked about you."
My throat tightened. No one had ever said that to me before.
Just as I was about to speak again, Damien's phone buzzed.
He checked it, jaw clenching for a split second.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
He looked at me—really looked at me—and something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"Dinner's not over," he said calmly. "But I need to make a quick stop first. Will you come with me?"
My heart pounded. A quick stop? Where?
"Where are we going?" I asked, voice low.
His expression was unreadable. "To handle a small problem."