Aria pov
He pulled back suddenly, and the loss of his warmth made whimper. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, chest heaving. "Go to bed, Aria." His voice was strained, rough.
I blinked, confused, my body still thrumming with need. "What?"
"Go." He stepped back, putting distance between us. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the tendons in his arms standing out with the effort of restraint. "Before I forget I’m trying to be a gentleman."
The words hit like cold water. "Are you serious right now?"
"Go to bed." He wouldn’t look at , his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping.
Confusion gave way to anger—hot and sharp. "You" I struggled to find words through the haze of rejected desire and humiliation. "You call ho, you beg to co back, you put your hands all over , and now you’re sending away?"
"Aria"
"Did you ask to co ho just to seduce ?" My voice rose, shaking with fury and sothing that felt dangerously close to tears. "Because for soone who was begging on the phone, you’re awfully smug now. Was this so kind of ga? So test to see if you still could?"
"That’s not" He reached for , but I slapped his hand away.
"Don’t touch ." I was shaking now, from anger or arousal or both. "You don’t get to work up like that and then dismiss like I’m nothing, not again."
"I’m trying to do the right thing"
"The right thing?" I laughed, the sound bitter and harsh. "The right thing would have been not starting sothing you had no intention of finishing. The right thing would have been keeping your hands to yourself if you were just going to push away."
"I’m trying to respect you"
"Respect ?" My voice cracked. "You’re playing with . Making feel like I’m the one who can’t control myself while you stand there so fucking noble." Tears of frustration burned in my eyes. "I hate you, I hate that you can still do this to ."
I turned and stord toward my bedroom, my heels clicking sharply on the floor.
"Aria, wait"
"Go to hell, Damien."
I reached my door and yanked it open, then turned back. He was standing there, frozen, looking devastated. Good. Let him feel a fraction of what I felt.
"Next ti you want to play the gentleman," I said, my voice cold despite the tears threatening to fall, "try it before you get your hands on . Or better yet, don’t call ho at all."
I slamd the door in his face with enough force to rattle the fra. The sound echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.
On the other side, I heard him say my na once more—quiet, broken but I didn’t answer.
I pressed my back against the door and slid down until I was sitting on the floor, my dress pooled around , my whole body still trembling. My lips felt swollen from his kisses. My neck probably had marks from his mouth. My skin was on fire everywhere he’d touched .
And I hated him for it.bHated him for making want him. For making feel. For proving that despite everything—the betrayal, the years, the walls I’d built—he could still unravel with a touch.
But most of all, I hated that even now, even furious and humiliated, a traitorous part of wanted to open that door and go back to him. I wrapped my arms around my knees and let the tears co, silent and burning.
Outside my door, I heard footsteps—pacing back and forth. Then a soft thud, like he’d hit or leaned against the wall.
"I’m sorry," ca his muffled voice through the door. "I’m so fucking sorry. I just—I didn’t want you to regret it in the morning. Didn’t want you to hate more because I took advantage when you weren’t ready."
I didn’t answer.
"I know I handled that wrong," he continued, voice raw. "I always handle everything wrong with you. But Aria, I swear to you—I didn’t call you ho to play gas. I called you because I was losing my mind. And when I touched you, when you let , I wanted—fuck, I wanted everything. But you deserve better than taking what I want before you’re."
More silence. Then, quieter: "I love you. Even if you hate . Even if you slam every door in my face for the rest of my life, I love you."
I heard his footsteps retreat, then the click of his bedroom door closing. I sat there on the floor of my room, tears streaming down my face, my body still aching with need, my heart a twisted ss of anger and longing and love I didn’t want to feel.
*********
I woke to the sound of voices in the kitchen. Damien’s low rumble, Noah’s excited chatter, and the clink of dishes. For a mont, I just lay there, listening to them—this dostic symphony that shouldn’t feel so right but did.
Then I rembered last night. His hands on , his mouth on my neck. The way he’d worked up until I was moaning and desperate—and then just stopped and sent away like I was nothing.
The humiliation burned fresh, and with it ca anger. I grabbed my phone it was 6:47 AM. Twenty-three texts from last night, all from Damien. I scrolled through them, my jaw clenching.
I’m sorry. I handled that wrong. Please don’t hate , I was trying to do the right thing. Goodnight, beautiful. I’m still here if you need .
I wanted to throw the phone across the room but Instead, I climbed out of bed, pulling on my robe, and padded to the kitchen. If he thought so pathetic texts would make up for playing gas with , he had another thing coming.
The scene that greeted stopped in my tracks. There was flour everywhere. Ground at on the counter, dough in various stages of disaster. Noah standing on a chair, hands covered in what looked like samosa filling.
And Damien, covered in flour and grease, staring intently at his phone propped against the coffee maker, where a YouTube video played.
"And now you fold the corner like this" the cheerful voice on the video instructed.
"Like this?" Damien held up his attempt but it looked like a crumpled napkin.
"No, Daddy!" Noah giggled. "You’re doing it wrong!"
"I’m following the instructions!" Damien gestured at his phone. "She said fold!"
"You folded it badly." Noah’s assessnt was brutal.
I couldn’t help it, a laugh escaped before I could stop it as both their heads whipped toward .
"Mama!" Noah spotted first. "We’re making at pies and samosas! From YouTube video!"
"I can see that." I surveyed the disaster, fighting another laugh. "Or attempting to."
"We’re very good at attempting." Damien’s eyes t mine, and sothing flashed in their depths—hope? Apology? Heat? "Morning."
"Morning." I kept my voice cold, moving to the coffee maker. I needed sothing to do with my hands before I said sothing I’d regret or threw sothing at his head.
"The samosas are being challenging," he admitted, gesturing at his misshapen attempts.
"Clearly." I poured coffee, inhaling the rich aroma. "Did you consider, I don’t know, buying them from a restaurant?"
"Where’s the fun in that?" He flashed that charming smile, the one that used to work on . "Besides, I’m bonding with our son."
"By giving him a lesson in how not to cook?"
"By showing him it’s okay to fail." He picked up another wrapper, squinting at the video. "And fail again. And keep trying."
"Very philosophical for soone covered in flour."
Noah giggled. "Daddy got flour in his hair when he sneezed!"
"I can see that too." Despite my anger, despite everything, the corner of my mouth twitched.
Damien paused the video, his eyes locked on mine. "You’re smiling."
"I’m not." I took a sip of coffee, hiding behind the mug.
"You almost did." His voice softened. "I saw it."
"You’re delusional." I moved closer to examine their creations, keeping the counter between us. "These samosas look like they’ve been through a war."
"They’re rustic," Damien defended.
"They’re disasters."
"Mama, can you help?" Noah pleaded. "Daddy keeps making them ugly."
"Hey!" Damien protested. "They’re not ugly, they are... character-building."
I snorted. "Character-building samosas, that’s a new one."
"See? You laughed." His smile widened. "That’s progress."
"Don’t." My voice turned sharp, the reminder of last night flooding back. "Don’t act like we’re okay just because I laughed at your pathetic cooking skills."
The kitchen went quiet. Noah looked between us, confused.
"Aria" Damien started.
"Shouldn’t Noah be getting ready for school?" I cut him off, my tone icy.
"Teacher workday." Damien’s expression turned cautious. "So we’re having a boys’ morning, making breakfast, playing gas."
"Causing general mayhem," I finished for him. "How delightful."
"Mayhem is my favorite!" Noah announced proudly, oblivious to the tension.
"I’ve noticed." I set down my coffee, moving to wash my hands at the sink. "Fine. Let show you how it’s actually done before you give our son food poisoning."
"You don’t have to."
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