Day one.
And I already wanted to kill him.
I barely had time to grab the folder before Damian kept walking, long strides carrying him down the hallway like the world existed to stay out of his way.
I followed because standing there like an abandoned intern would have been worse.
The private elevator doors were already open.
He stepped inside without looking back.
I entered a second before they closed.
The mirrored walls trapped us in polished silence.
I folded my arms. "You could try asking like a normal person."
"I could," he said. "But results have spoiled me."
"You confuse obedience with competence."
"And you confuse sarcasm with leverage."
I hated that he said it so calmly.
The elevator descended.
I caught our reflection in the mirror.
He looked composed, expensive, untouched.
I looked like a woman one bad decision away from unemployment.
I straightened my shoulders.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"Relax," he said. "It's lunch, not an execution."
"With you, I'm not sure there's a difference."
That faint almost-smile returned.
Then disappeared before I could decide if I imagined it.
The restaurant occupied the top floor of a neighboring tower.
Glass walls. White linen. Quiet conversations spoken in the language of people who never checked price tags.
The hostess brightened instantly when she saw him.
"Mr. Vale. Your usual table is ready."
Her smile shifted when she noticed me.
Smaller.
Colder.
Women could be cruel in subtler ways.
Damian placed one hand lightly at the small of my back to guide me forward.
Heat shot through me.
I stepped away at once.
"Don't touch me."
His expression didn't change.
"Then stop hesitating."
He sat first.
I chose the chair across from him.
A mistake.
He moved my water glass to the seat beside him.
"Sit here."
"No."
"Yes."
"I'd rather eat standing."
"Sit down, Serena."
The waiter appeared beside us, instantly nervous.
I smiled sweetly at him. "I'll need another minute."
Damian watched me.
Then leaned back.
"Across from me, then. I'm not interested in causing a scene before appetizers."
I took the opposite seat again.
Small victory.
I collected those where I could.
Menus arrived.
I opened mine.
No prices.
Of course.
I closed it again.
"What are we doing here?"
"Eating."
"You didn't drag me here for food."
"I walked. You followed."
"I was ordered."
"You signed."
Every answer felt like a trap door.
The waiter returned.
Damian ordered without checking the menu.
I asked for the cheapest pasta I could identify by description.
The waiter's eyebrows twitched before professional training saved him.
When he left, Damian spoke.
"You hate appearing dependent."
"You enjoy reminding me I am."
"I enjoy accuracy."
I leaned forward.
"Then let's be accurate. You framed me. Paid my mother's bills without permission. Bought my time with desperation. What exactly should I be grateful for?"
The surrounding tables seemed to grow quieter.
Good.
Let them listen.
His gaze held mine steadily.
"You're alive in a city that likes to crush people who fall."
"That's not mercy. That's ownership."
"No," he said softly. "Ownership is cleaner."
My pulse stumbled.
There were moments with him when anger was easier than understanding.
This was one of them.
The food arrived.
My pasta looked like art and tasted expensive.
I hated how hungry I was.
I took two bites too quickly.
Damian noticed.
Again.
"Didn't eat breakfast?"
"I was busy surviving."
He cut into his steak.
"Try planning better."
I laughed once.
"Try being human."
Something unreadable crossed his face.
Gone instantly.
He set down his knife.
"You think I was born like this?"
I blinked.
It was the first personal sentence he had ever offered.
"I think men like you are manufactured in laboratories."
"That would explain the patience shortage."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then I remembered the headlines.
The apartment.
The contract.
My expression cooled.
"Why me, Damian?"
This time I used his first name deliberately.
He noticed that too.
Everything mattered with him.
"You're competent."
"Hire from your boardroom."
"They bore me."
"You enjoy conflict."
"I enjoy honesty."
"You call this honesty?"
He reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on the table.
I opened it.
My breath caught.
Security footage stills from the charity gala.
Me at the bar.
A waiter handing me a drink.
Ten minutes later, me stumbling.
Then two men guiding me toward the private elevators.
My fingers tightened.
"You had this?"
"Yes."
"You knew I was drugged."
"Yes."
The restaurant disappeared around us.
Noise. Light. People.
Gone.
"You let them destroy me anyway."
His jaw flexed once.
"I was handling something larger."
"Larger than my life?"
"Yes."
The answer was immediate.
Ruthless.
I shoved the papers back at him.
"You are disgusting."
"And yet," he said quietly, "you're still sitting here."
I stood so fast the chair scraped loudly.
Heads turned.
Good.
Let them look.
"I'm sitting here because you trapped me."
"No," he said, rising slowly. "You're sitting here because you want answers."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
"You should be careful what truths you ask for, Serena."
My heart beat hard enough to hurt.
"Why?"
"Because the men who drugged you weren't after you."
Cold slid down my spine.
"They were after me."
Silence swallowed everything.
Then my phone rang.
Hospital.
I stared at the screen.
Damian stared at me.
"Answer it," he said.
I did.
The nurse sounded breathless.
"Miss Quinn? Your mother collapsed twenty minutes ago. We need you here immediately."
The phone nearly slipped from my hand.
I looked up.
Damian was already reaching for his keys.
"Move," he said.
And for the first time since I met him—
I obeyed.