The smell of fresh pancakes and coffee hung in the air.
Elena sat at the table, her head bent as she played with her fork, quiet and shy after the night they'd shared.
Damian sat across from her, leaning back in his chair, coffee in hand, watching her with that unreadable expression he wore so well.
He tilted his head, a teasing smirk ghosting across his lips.
"What happened to my brave little cupcake?" he asked softly, voice curling around her like smoke.
"Where's the girl from last night? The one who clawed at me, dared me…?"
Elena's blush crept up her cheeks. "Stop it, Damian," she muttered, eyes fixed on her plate.
He chuckled low. "Ah… so you do remember," he teased, leaning forward now, his gaze devouring her.
"And here I was thinking you'd forgotten how you whispered my name…"
"Damian!" she snapped, cutting him off, but her voice trembled.
He loved it. That fight. That heat. He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving her.
"Do you want to come to my office today?" he asked suddenly.
"I want everyone to see you. To know you're mine. Soon to be my wife."
Her head jerked up, eyes flashing. "What?"
"I said," he drawled, slow and deliberate, "I want them to know. That you're mine.
That you're my future wife." Let them choke on their jealousy."
She opened her mouth, then her sharp tongue returned.
"No. I'm not going anywhere with you like that. I don't belong on display in your office, I'm just your playtoy."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the space — only broken by Damian's sudden laugh ignoring her last words.
He smirked, dark and amused. "There she is. My fierce little cupcake."
Just then the butler stepped in, hands behind his back. "Sir, your bag is ready. The car is waiting," he announced.
Damian stood smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. He looked back at Elena. "Give me a kiss before I go," he said.
Elena blinked. "What? No. Not here. Not with him standing there." She whispered.
Damian's smirk sharpened. "You're shy because of him?"
Then, without looking away from her, he said to the butler, "Watch closely. See how my cupcake gives me a goodbye kiss."
Elena's face went scarlet. "Damian! Don't—"
He cut her off with a look. "Cupcake." His voice was harder now. "I'm waiting."
Her heart raced. She wanted to say no, but something in his tone made refusal impossible. Slowly, hesitantly, she stood and came toward him.
Damian lowered himself slightly to her height, waiting, his dark eyes locked on hers.
Elena pressed the quickest kiss to his mouth — shy, barely a brush.
His hand caught her chin before she could pull away.
"That's all you give me, in front of him?" he murmured. "Do better."
Before she could protest, he kissed her harder, deeper, taking what he wanted.
The butler cleared his throat softly, but Damian didn't care. He pulled back only when he was satisfied, eyes glittering.
"There," he said. "Now that's a proper goodbye kiss."
Elena's cheeks burned; she glared at him through her lashes.
He leaned close, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.
"Oh please, Elena… you should be lucky I'm even nice to you," he said, his words slicing through the air like a blade.
"You're my sex slave. Just because you met my family doesn't change anything. So stop giving me that attitude."
The words hit her like a slap. She froze, every nerve in her body trembling.
Damian straightened, slipping on his jacket like nothing had happened.
"Be good, cupcake," he added, voice back to that smooth purr. "Or I'll remind you exactly what you are."
He turned and walked out, leaving her stunned at the table, cheeks hot, heart pounding — caught between humiliation, anger, and the pull he always had over her.
***
At the women centre, Irina Volkov graceful even in her quiet simplicity, sat among them with her usual gentle smile.
Though she was Damian's mother, she never acted superior; she was soft-spoken, always listening more than she spoke.
But today, the air shifted.
One of the women, emboldened by gossip that had been circulating, leaned forward with a sharp tone.
"Irina, I really don't understand how you can sit here with your head high. Your son—Damian Volkov—they say he's a monster.
Ruthless. A criminal hiding behind wealth. Doesn't it shame you?"
Irina's fingers tightened on her teacup, though her expression stayed calm.
Another woman added quickly, "Yes, people talk. They say he doesn't even respect women.
That he rules like some dark tyrant. It's pitiful, really, how a mother can't even guide her son."
The words cut sharper than knives. Irina's lips trembled, but she forced herself to hold her composure.
Her heart ached, not because she believed the venom, but because it was her son being dragged through the mud in front of her.
The room filled with murmurs, a wave of judgment sweeping through the women as if her pain were entertainment.
Finally, she could no longer stay silent. She straightened in her seat, her voice trembling but firm.
"My son… is not a monster." Her hands shook as she set down the cup.
"You people think you know him because of rumors and whispers, but Damian has a heart.
He has carried pain none of you could imagine. He is strong. He is my son, and I will not sit here and listen to lies about him."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her usually composed face breaking under the strain.
The room fell silent, but not from respect — rather, the women sat back, smug at having broken the elegant Irina's calm.
And then, the doors opened.
Click. Click. The sharp rhythm of heels striking the polished floor.
Heads turned. Gasps echoed.
Isabel strode in, her presence like a storm—dressed to perfection, her lips curved into a mocking smile.
She didn't waste a moment before speaking, her voice dripping with venom and authority.
"Well, well," she said coolly, eyes sweeping over the room.
"Is this what you call women supporting women? Or is this just a pack of bored hyenas gnawing on someone else's grief?"
The women shifted uncomfortably in their seats, averting their eyes. Isabel smirked, enjoying their sudden silence.
"What's the matter? Not so brave when someone actually calls you out?
You sit here gossiping about a man you'll never know, attacking his mother, and for what? To feel important?"
No one spoke. Not a single word.
"Pathetic," Isabel spat, her voice cold and sharp as a whip. "Damian Volkov is more powerful than any of you combined. And his mother—"
she placed a hand lightly on Irina's shoulder— "is worth more than all your hollow words. Remember that the next time you dare open your mouths."
Irina, still stunned, turned her head slowly, realizing who was standing beside her.
Isabel's eyes softened immediately as she crouched down, cupping Irina's hands warmly.
"Aunt Irina…" Isabel whispered, her tone suddenly honeyed, a perfect performance.
"I'm so sorry you had to endure that. I should have been here sooner. But I'm here now. I'll always protect you."
Before Irina could respond, Isabel leaned forward and hugged her tightly. The embrace was unexpected, suffocating almost, and Irina hesitated.
She had never truly liked Isabel—her arrogance, her hunger for power, the way she used people like chess pieces.
Still, with the room staring and her heart fragile from the attack, Irina let her arms wrap around Isabel.
"It's been so long," Isabel murmured against her ear. "But don't worry. I'm back now. And I'll stand by you, no matter what."
Irina blinked, still dazed, whispering softly, "Isabel… you—"
"Shh." Isabel pulled back, her smile radiant, carefully crafted to look sincere. "Let me take you home, Aunt. You shouldn't stay here another minute."
The room of women remained silent as Isabel guided Irina gently toward the door.
When they stepped outside, Isabel's sleek car waited, a driver already holding the door open.
Irina gave her a small, surprised smile as Isabel helped her in, her tone syrupy sweet.
Once Irina was inside, Isabel slid in after her, her mind already racing. She smiled to herself, victorious.
Perfect. Just perfect.
She had staged everything flawlessly—She paid the woman to say those words to aunt Irina.
sweeping in like a savior, and winning Irina's trust in one calculated move. Soon, the news would reach Damian.
She knew how much Damian cared about his mother.
And when it reaches Damian, Isabel thought smugly, he'll come crawling to me. He'll see that I defended his mother when no one else dared.
He'll remember who truly belongs by his side.
She leaned back in the leather seat, her lips curling.
For Isabel, it wasn't just about helping Irina—it was about reminding everyone, that she knew how to play the game and she intended to win.