Layla had replayed the exhibition a hundred times in her head—Damian's sudden appearance, the quiet storm behind his eyes, the tension when Luke spoke to her, and how Damian had hijacked the night without ever saying a word about it.
She needed answers. Not for closure. Not for confrontation. For clarity.
So she waited.
When the day ended, she didn't rush out like she usually did. She lingered, watching the hallway through the thin pane of glass next to her desk. The moment she spotted him walking out of his office with his coat slung over his arm, she stood.
"Damian."
He paused. Looked at her. No smile. No irritation either. Just that unreadable look he always wore like armor.
"I need to ask you something," she said, heart in her throat.
"Walk with me," he said simply.
She followed him out of the building. The parking lot was quiet, his car parked at the far end, sleek and dark like him. He stopped before reaching it.
"I need to understand," she said, finally. "What happened at the exhibition—why did you come? Why did you act like that with Luke? It's not like you cared, so—why?"
Silence.
Damian glanced away, jaw ticking. His fingers tightened slightly around the keys in his hand. His body was still, but something about him felt like it was miles away.
"Layla…" he said softly, a warning, a sigh, she couldn't tell.
"No, Damian," she cut in, voice rising. "You don't get to keep doing this. Acting like you care one second and shutting down the next. Just tell me. Why did you do it?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her—and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. Something raw. Something vulnerable.
But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"You're overthinking it," he said flatly. "It wasn't that deep."
Her mouth fell open. "Not that deep?"
He gave a slight shake of his head, turned, and started walking toward his car like that was the end of it. Like she hadn't just peeled herself open in front of him.
Layla stood frozen, throat tight, heart hammering. She watched his back, straight and composed, like hers hadn't even cracked.
Like she was asking for too much.
She didn't move until she heard the distant sound of his car engine start.
Then it hit her—like a gut punch she hadn't braced for.
Not that deep?
He really said that?
Layla stood in the quiet parking lot, blinking rapidly against the sting in her eyes. She wasn't even sure what hurt more—the dismissal, or the fact that she'd expected more from him. That deep down, she'd hoped he would say something honest. Human. Something that would explain why he looked at her the way he did. Why his silence always said more than his words ever did.
But she got nothing.
Not even an ounce of effort.
She pressed her lips together and turned, walking fast. Past the streetlights. Past the ache. Past the foolish feeling curling inside her chest.
She didn't cry. She was too angry for that.
She just walked until the night swallowed her heels and the tightness in her chest started to feel like distance.
Damian – Inside the Car
He didn't blast the radio or call his driver. He just sat behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it might crack under pressure.
She asked for the truth. And for once, he'd almost told it.
Almost told her that he couldn't stop thinking about how Luke looked at her. That her smile had been different that night. Softer. That it hadn't been meant for him—and that gutted him.
Almost told her that he hated how she made him feel things he didn't know what to do with.
That he showed up at that exhibition because the thought of Luke winning her made him feel out of control.
Instead, he said it wasn't that deep.
Because if he started explaining it, he wouldn't stop. And Damian Morgan wasn't a man who lost control—especially not over a woman. No matter how much she was starting to mean more than he could admit.
He pulled into traffic, jaw clenched, heart tight.
This was exactly why he kept walls. Exactly why he didn't let people in.
Because caring about someone like Layla meant one day she'd look at him with hurt in her eyes—and he wouldn't know how to fix it.
And that terrified him.
Layla sat on the couch with her knees tucked under her, a half-empty glass of red wine in her hand. Her apartment smelled like lavender and microwave popcorn—comfort scents. Safe scents.
Zina was sprawled on the other end of the couch, scrolling through her phone with one hand and sipping wine with the other.
"So… let me get this straight," Zina finally said, without looking up. "You confronted your boss-slash-maybe-situationship-slash-secret crush about the way he acted like a territorial animal at an art exhibition. And instead of giving you a straight answer, man dipped?"
Layla sighed, leaning her head back on the couch. "Pretty much."
"And what exactly did he say?"
"'It's not that deep.'"
Zina finally looked up. "Girl."
Layla groaned. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting," Zina said, sitting up and tucking her legs under her. "Layla, come on. That man has had you spinning in circles since the day you started working for him."
"It's not like that."
Zina raised a brow. "Isn't it? You're here sulking over a man who can't even admit he's into you. You like him. Don't even try to deny it."
Layla didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
Zina gave a knowing smile. "See? I knew it. I've known it since the day you called him 'intense' like it was a bad thing but your eyes said, he could ruin me and I'd say thank you."
Layla laughed despite herself. "You're dramatic."
"Facts are facts. But let me tell you something—don't hold on to someone who doesn't know how to hold you back."
Layla's smile faded a little. She looked down at her wine, swirling it slowly.
"Maybe he does care," she said quietly. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to show it."
Zina scoffed. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just emotionally constipated and needs therapy before he drags someone else through his unresolved trauma. Either way, you don't deserve to be in the crossfire."
Layla said nothing. The silence between them thickened for a second.
Zina leaned in, voice softer now. "Look… you're amazing. Smart, fine, loyal—some man out there would be lucky to even have your attention. And you know what? He's already trying."
Layla blinked. "Who?"
Zina rolled her eyes. "Girl. Luke. The tech guy who looks at you like you're the sunrise? That man is not subtle."
Layla sighed. "I don't know…"
"Maybe give him a chance," Zina said gently. "I'm not saying date him just because Damian's acting like a wall, but don't freeze your life waiting for someone who doesn't know how to show up for you."
Layla looked over at her. Vulnerable. Conflicted.
Zina smiled and reached for the wine bottle. "Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe the distance will make Damian realize he's not as emotionally dead inside as he thinks."
Layla chuckled. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm right, though."
Layla leaned back into the couch, resting her head on Zina's shoulder. "Yeah… you might be."
But even as she said it, her heart tugged toward someone who wasn't there. Someone who always made her feel too much—and never gave quite enough.