The door opened, and there she was. Isabel. His first ever lover.
Her body swayed with every step, her black fitted dress hugging her curves like a second skin.
She wore her beauty like armor, her heels clicking against the marble floor with deliberate grace.
"Hi, Damian," she purred, her lips curling into a smile that once made his teenage heart pound.
His gaze was cool, unreadable. "Wow, Isabel. You get to show up after all these years."
She stepped closer, her perfume wrapping around him like an unwelcome memory. "I'm sorry," she whispered, lowering her lashes.
"I missed you so much, Damian. I know you missed me too, but you wouldn't say it."
He said nothing. He wouldn't give her that power again.
But deep down, against his will, he felt the ghost of something stir. He had missed her once—terribly, desperately—when he was too young to know better.
"Does your lover know you're here?" he asked, his tone sharp, almost mocking.
Her eyes shimmered. "You're the only man I ever loved."
His jaw tightened. "Enough of your games. Why are you here, Isabel?"
Her mask faltered then, replaced with urgency. "I need your help. The video from the boutique—it's everywhere.
Trending. Damian, you have the power to take it down. Please… help me."
Damian leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Do you know who you messed with at that boutique?" His voice was quiet, lethal.
"You know very well I hate when someone touches what's mine, Isabel. And you…" He let the weight of his words hang in the air like a noose.
Her lips parted, fear flashing in her eyes for the first time.
At that moment, his phone buzzed loudly against the desk. He glanced at the screen. His mother.
His expression hardened. "My secretary will escort you out."
"Damian—" she began, reaching for him.
"Now," he said, his voice final.
Her heels clicked against the floor again, this time sharper, faster, as she walked away with her pride wounded.
Damian waited until the door closed behind her before answering the call.
"Yes, Mother," he said, his voice clipped.
Her warm tone floated through, softening the edges of the room.
"Damian, … did you like the food I sent? I prepared your favorite dish myself."
His shoulders eased, though he didn't admit it out loud. "Yes. I enjoyed it."
"I can almost picture you eating it with that expression you always had as a boy," she chuckled fondly.
"Do you remember? You would frown at the vegetables, then sneak extra potatoes when you thought I wasn't looking."
"Mother," Damian muttered, irritation laced with reluctant fondness.
She hummed. "Ah, Damian, always so serious. But now, tell me something, Damian…"
His grip on the phone tightened. He knew that tone. Sweet, lilting, but beneath it, steel.
"The girl from the boutique," she said softly. "I know she stays with you."
His jaw flexed. "Mother—"
"Don't lie to me," she cut him off gently but firmly. "I want to meet her. And that's final."
Silence stretched between them.
Damian stared out his office window, face unreadable. His mother continued, her voice both tender and commanding:
"Damian… I only want to see the girl who had the fire to stand against Isabel in public. Don't hide her from me."
Then she ended the call.
Damian set the phone down slowly, his reflection staring back at him from the dark glass. Elena…
"From being his playtoy now his mother wants to meet her so badly"
His thoughts betrayed him—her tearful eyes when he had spat cruel words, her trembling hands clutching at nothing as she whispered, you're hurting me, Damian.
His chest burned in a way that power and money could not soothe.
He cursed under his breath, pulled out his phone again, and dialed Viktor.
"Damian Volkov," Viktor answered lazily. "What now?"
"I need you to arrange something for me and send it to my house.
White lilies. Fresh. A bouquet."
There was a pause. Then Viktor howled with laughter.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. Did I just hear Damian Volkov? The Damian Volkov? Ordering flowers? For a woman?"
Damian's tone was sharp. "And an apology note, something nice is written."
Viktor nearly dropped the phone from laughing. "Apology? To her? Oh, this is rich. The king of cruelty brought to his knees by a girl"
"Viktor." Damian's voice dropped dangerously.
"I made her cry" he said
"So let me get this straight," he said, slow and teasing. "You made her cry and because you can't bring yourself to say the word sorry, you send her lilies instead. That is… peak Volkov behavior."
Damian kept his voice level, "I don't say sorry. I fix things."
"That's a nicer way of saying 'I bribe with flowers,'" Viktor snorted. "Fine. But don't act like those lilies are romantic. "of course you made her cry."
You won't even let her see her aunt.
"None of your business, Viktor. Just arrange it." Damian's answer was short, clipped. The underlying order in it made Viktor laugh out loud.
"Wait — don't tell me you're falling for your little playtoy, Damian?" Viktor said, the words deliberate, watching for any crack.
Damian's back stiffened, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"No." He sounded positively offended at the idea. Then, softer, and with a strange, private edge: "It's… pathetic of my best friend to think I'll fall in love again."
Viktor blinked, offended and delighted in equal measure. "You called me your best friend just now? That's new. Should I be honored or scared?"
Damian's jaw tightened. "Don't make a big deal of it."
"By the way, my mother wants to meet her. She saw the video. She's insistent. And, oh — Isabel just left my office."
"Isabel?" His voice was low. "She came?"
"She wanted me to take down the boutique footage.
"So, after so many years of not seeing your teenage lover, that's what she tells you."
Viktor let out a low whistle. "She's trouble, you know that. And Elena? She's a firecracker. I watched the footage your little cupcake has a tongue sharper than a switchblade."
Damian's expression softened almost imperceptibly at Viktor's flippant tone. He rubbed his thumb along the bridge of his nose and then said,
"I know she drives me crazy."
"And that is precisely why I like her. She breaks you up a little. Makes you interesting."
"Get off my phone," he said, a dry edge to the warning. "Do your job."
***
Hours later, Elena came down the marble staircase, Tatiana bouncing beside her, chattering about shoes and evening plans.
Elena stopped abruptly.
On the living room were tall crystal vases filled with flawless white lilies. Their delicate scent drifted through the room, their petals glowing like snow against the polished surface. A cream envelope leaned against the vase, Elena's name written in bold, dark strokes.
The butler bowed slightly. "Miss Elena, these arrived a short while ago. From Master Damian himself."
Elena blinked, stunned. She reached for the envelope with trembling fingers, Tatiana watching like a hawk.
Her breath hitched as she opened it.
Elena,
I shouldn't have said those words. I was out of line. I don't like seeing your tears. Please Forgive me cupcake.
Her lips parted, her chest fluttering. Heat rose in her cheeks.
Tatiana gasped dramatically. "Wait. Hold on. Did Damian Volkov just… apologise? With flowers?!"
"Tia—" Elena tried to hush her, crimson spreading across her face.
But Tatiana snatched the card, reading it aloud in a mock-theatrical tone. "'I don't like seeing your tears.' Oh my god, Elena, he's in love with you. You've bewitched him!"
"Stop it!" Elena lunged for the note, mortified, but Tatiana danced away, laughing so hard her eyes watered.
"You don't get it," she giggled. "My cousin doesn't apologise to anyone. Not when he ruins lives, not when he destroys companies, not even when he breaks someone's jaw!
But you?" She spun around, waving the lilies. "You make him send white lilies like some hopeless romantic."
Elena warmth in her chest was undeniable.
Tatiana nudged her playfully. "You like it. Admit it. You're blushing like crazy. You're turning the devil into a poet, Elena."