Chapter 95
Aria pov
He pulled back suddenly, and the loss of his warmth made me 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 p>
“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 p>
The words hit me like cold water. “Are you serious right now p>
“Go to bed.” He wouldn’t look at me, 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 me home, you beg me to come back, you put your hands all over me, and now you’re sending me away p>
“Aria”
“Did you ask me to come home just to seduce me?” My voice rose, shaking with fury and something that felt dangerously close to tears. “Because for someone who was begging me on the phone, you’re awfully smug now. Was this some kind of game? Some test to see if you still could p>
“That’s not” He reached for me, but I slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.” I was shaking now, from anger or arousal or both. “You don’t get to work me up like that and then dismiss me like I’m nothing, not again p>
“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 something you had no intention of finishing. The right thing would have been keeping your hands to yourself if you were just going to push me away p>
“I’m trying to respect you”
“Respect me?” My voice cracked. “You’re playing with me. Making me 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 me p>
I turned and stormed toward my bedroom, my heels clicking sharply on the floor.
“Aria, wait”
“Go to hell, Damien p>
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 time 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 me. Or better yet, don’t call me home at all p>
I slammed the door in his face with enough force to rattle the frame. The sound echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.
On the other side, I heard him say my name 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 me, 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 me.
And I hated him for it.bHated him for making me want him. For making me feel. For proving that despite everything—the betrayal, the years, the walls I’d built—he could still unravel me with a touch.
But most of all, I hated that even now, even furious and humiliated, a traitorous part of me wanted to open that door and go back to him. I wrapped my arms around my knees and let the tears come, 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,” came 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 me more because I took advantage when you weren’t ready p>
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 home to play games. I called you because I was losing my mind. And when I touched you, when you let me, I wanted—fuck, I wanted everything. But you deserve better than me taking what I want before you’re p>
More silence. Then, quieter: “I love you. Even if you hate me. Even if you slam every door in my face for the rest of my life, I love you p>
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 mess 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 moment, I just lay there, listening to them—this domestic symphony that shouldn’t feel so right but did.
Then I remembered last night. His hands on me, his mouth on my neck. The way he’d worked me up until I was moaning and desperate—and then just stopped and sent me away like I was nothing.
The humiliation burned fresh, and with it came 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 me, I was trying to do the right thing. Goodnight, beautiful. I’m still here if you need me.
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 some pathetic texts would make up for playing games with me, he had another thing coming.
The scene that greeted me stopped me in my tracks. There was flour everywhere. Ground meat 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 p>
“I’m following the instructions!” Damien gestured at his phone. “She said fold p>
“You folded it badly.” Noah’s assessment was brutal.
I couldn’t help it, a laugh escaped before I could stop it as both their heads whipped toward me.
“Mama!” Noah spotted me first. “We’re making meat pies and samosas! From YouTube video p>
“I can see that.” I surveyed the disaster, fighting another laugh. “Or attempting to p>
“We’re very good at attempting.” Damien’s eyes met mine, and something flashed in their depths—hope? Apology? Heat? “Morning p>
“Morning.” I kept my voice cold, moving to the coffee maker. I needed something to do with my hands before I said something I’d regret or threw something 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 p>
“Where’s the fun in that?” He flashed that charming smile, the one that used to work on me. “Besides, I’m bonding with our son p>
“By giving him a lesson in how not to cook p>
“By showing him it’s okay to fail.” He picked up another wrapper, squinting at the video. “And fail again. And keep trying p>
“Very philosophical for someone covered in flour p>
Noah giggled. “Daddy got flour in his hair when he sneezed p>
“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 p>
“I’m not.” I took a sip of coffee, hiding behind the mug.
“You almost did.” His voice softened. “I saw it p>
“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 p>
“They’re rustic,” Damien defended.
“They’re disasters p>
“Mama, can you help?” Noah pleaded. “Daddy keeps making them ugly p>
“Hey!” Damien protested. “They’re not ugly, they are… character-building p>
I snorted. “Character-building samosas, that’s a new one p>
“See? You laughed.” His smile widened. “That’s progress p>
“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 p>
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 games p>
“Causing general mayhem,” I finished for him. “How delightful p>
“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 me show you how it’s actually done before you give our son food poisoning p>
“You don’t have to p>