The shift was subtle, but Damian felt it like a chill in the middle of summer.
Layla stopped lingering.
No more thoughtful pauses after meetings, no more casual check-ins or warm glances during long briefings. She started finishing work faster, more efficiently—too efficiently. She left the office on time. Sometimes early.
And when she was there, she was there only as his assistant.
Nothing more.
No emotion. No softness. Just polished, professional Layla. The one he hired. The one who never looked at him like she once had—like she was trying to read something behind his silence.
Now, she didn't even try to look.
It was a Tuesday when he noticed it most.
He stepped out of his office at noon, glancing at her desk. She was typing, her eyes flicking between the screen and the calendar beside her. Composed. Unshakable.
"Hey," he said casually, walking up. "I thought about scheduling a last-minute board meeting just to see if I could make your eye twitch."
She didn't even blink. "Noted, sir. Your next call starts in ten minutes."
Damian paused.
Sir?
No smile, no snark, no side-eyes. Nothing.
Just Layla, calm and crisp.
He tried again. "You know, most people would at least fake a laugh. Even if it's pity."
"I don't believe in rewarding weak humor, sir."
Ouch.
He chuckled lightly, searching her face, waiting for a hint of amusement. It never came.
She stood and handed him a document. "You'll need to sign this before the end of the day. HR's been chasing your signature."
Her fingers brushed his slightly, but she didn't flinch. Didn't even seem to notice.
He did.
Something burned in his chest as he stared at her, trying to catch her eyes. But she was already walking around the desk again, typing an email, moving on. Like the moment hadn't happened. Like he hadn't once seen her laugh so hard she spilled coffee on her blouse and made him laugh too.
Damian's hand twitched slightly, almost reaching out to stop her. To touch her wrist. Her shoulder. Anything.
But he didn't.
He stopped himself.
Because what would he even say?
He'd chosen silence that night outside the office. He let her walk away thinking she was asking for too much—when really, she had every right to ask for more.
Now he was the one reaching. Too late.
Too silent.
Too still.
Damian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, staring out at the city he'd once felt in control of.
Now, everything felt off.
Everything except her.
Layla.
Efficient. Unbothered. Distant in a way that wasn't cold, but clean. Precise. Like she had drawn a line with her silence and dared him to cross it.
And he couldn't.
Or wouldn't.
Or didn't know how.
He ran a hand through his hair, the conversation from earlier playing in his head on repeat. Her voice so neutral it almost felt cruel. The way she'd called him "sir" like he wasn't the same man who had once stood too close, said too little, and still made her cheeks flush.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't emotional.
She was gone, but still here.
Still in his office, still in his space—but gone from him.
Damian had never struggled with control. He was the kind of man who could compartmentalize anything—pain, desire, even affection. But Layla made all of that harder. She didn't just stir something in him—she made him question if he even wanted to live so closed off anymore.
And he hated that.
He hated that she got to him.
But what he hated more was knowing he did this. He pushed her away with silence. With pride. With that stupid, throwaway line — "It's not that deep."
It was deep.
She was deep.
And now, she didn't even look at him the same.
He could still remember how her eyes used to linger—curious, warm, a little frustrated but always searching. Now she barely met his gaze at all.
And when her fingers brushed his earlier, she didn't even flinch.
He did.
He nearly reached for her. His fingers had moved on instinct, craving contact, craving… her.
But he stopped himself.
What was he supposed to say?
"Sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter"?
"Sorry I care about you too much to admit it"?
"Sorry I'm terrified of what I feel when I'm around you"?
He swallowed hard and sat down at his desk. The seat felt colder than usual.
She was still here. But not with him. Not really.
And if he didn't do something soon… he might lose her completely.
And this time, she wouldn't wait for him to figure it out.
Layla wasn't nervous about dinner with Luke.
At least, that's what she kept telling herself.
He'd been charming when she'd run into him at the exhibition, easy to talk to, and—most importantly—not complicated. He was straightforward in his interest, never hiding behind silence or mixed signals.
So when he asked if she wanted to grab dinner at a new rooftop restaurant, she said yes.
She even dressed for the part—soft curls, a sleek black dress, heels that gave her just enough confidence to remind herself she was worth being