The restaurant was dimly lit.
The low hum of conversation and clinking glass filled the air. Damian sat back in his chair, the collar of his black shirt slightly open, his watch glinting under the light.
Viktor sat opposite him, a glass of whiskey in his hand, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.
"So the contract with the Italians went through," Viktor was saying, his voice low and confident.
"But we'll need to move the cargo through another port if we want no interruptions."
Damian's gaze was distant. He gave a slight nod, his jaw tightening, his fingers tapping the rim of his glass.
Viktor noticed. "You're not even listening, man," he said, leaning back with a half-smirk. "Who's got your mind so lost lately, huh?"
Before Damian could answer, the soft sound of heels clicked across the marble floor. Both men turned their heads — and there she was.
Isabel.
She was dressed to be seen — her red dress clinging to her every curve, her lips the same shade of scarlet, heads turning as she walked, her confidence radiating like perfume.
She stopped in front of their table, a knowing smirk on her lips.
"Damian," she purred, her voice honey-sweet but dripping with something poisonous underneath.
Viktor raised an amused brow.
She leaned in — bold, invasive — trying to kiss Damian. He turned his head slightly, her lips brushing the air instead of him.
Viktor couldn't help the low chuckle that escaped him. "Guess not everyone's happy to see you, sweetheart."
Isabel straightened, rolling her eyes in irritation. "Still rude as ever, Viktor," she shot back sharply.
Then her eyes slid back to Damian. "Hi, love. I missed you."
She sat down at their table uninvited, crossing her legs elegantly, pretending not to notice the cold silence that followed.
Damian didn't even look at her — his expression unreadable, his gaze fixed on his drink.
Viktor smirked, swirling the ice in his glass.
"Funny," he said lazily. "You say you missed him, but I didn't think 'missing' someone involved chasing them into restaurants they clearly don't want you in."
Her eyes snapped to him, fury flashing briefly. "At least I had him once," she hissed under her breath.
Viktor laughed quietly, leaning closer. "Yeah. Once. And now you're clinging to ghosts, sweetheart."
Her face flushed red with embarrassment, her nails digging into her purse.
She turned to Damian, desperate for a reaction — any sign that she still mattered. But he didn't even glance at her.
He just picked up his glass, downed the rest of his drink, and stood. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the soft chatter of the restaurant.
"I'm done here," he said flatly.
Isabel blinked. "Wait—Damian—" She started to stand, but Viktor's voice stopped her.
"Careful, Isabel," he said, his tone mocking, a grin playing on his lips.
"You might burn your heels running after a man who's already moved on."
The laughter in his voice made her cheeks burn. For a second, she looked like she might slap him — but instead, she just glared, her pride swallowing her words.
Viktor stood up too, tossing his napkin onto the table, and followed Damian out.
He caught up to his best friend by the parking lot.
"Dude," Viktor said, still laughing under his breath. "How were you ever in love with that woman?"
Damian didn't answer. His expression stayed blank, his hands deep in his pockets.
But inside, his mind wasn't on Isabel — it was on Elena.
The way she looked when she was angry. The way she bit her lip when she tried not to smile. The way she trembled when she tried to be strong.
He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. Why do I even care? he told himself.
Viktor looked at him curiously. "Where to now?"
Damian's jaw clenched. He unlocked his car and slid inside, his voice low.
"I'm going home."
***
No one had expected him back this early.
When he stepped out of the car, his expression was unreadable. The butler was the first to greet him, bowing slightly, voice trembling.
"Welcome home, sir."
Damian's cold eyes flicked up. "Where's Elena?"
The maids exchanged nervous glances. One of them stammered, "S-she's in her room, sir… resting."
"Resting," he repeated flatly, his jaw tightening. Then, without another word, he walked past them, his polished shoes echoing down the long hallway.
He pushed open her bedroom door quietly.
The sight before him made his steps still — Elena was curled on the bed, asleep, her lashes wet with tears.
Even in sleep, her face looked tense, as though she was fighting something she couldn't escape from. Her hands were clutching the blanket too tightly.
Damian's chest felt strange. It wasn't anger. Not fully. It was something heavier — a weight pressing on his ribs.
He noticed the faint shimmer under her eyes, the dried tracks that said she had cried herself to sleep.
He stood there for a long while, just watching. Then he left without a word, shutting the door quietly behind him.
An Hour Later
A soft, warm smell filled the halls.
It pulled Elena from her restless sleep like a soft hand brushing her cheek. Her eyes blinked open, still puffy from tears she didn't even remember shedding.
The morning light spilled through the curtains, painting faint gold lines across her face.
Her stomach twisted when she realized she had fallen asleep crying — again. Her throat burned slightly.
She sat up, brushing the back of her hand under her eyes, murmuring, "Get a grip, Elena."
But that smell — that sweet, warm smell — was too tempting to ignore.
She followed it down the hallway barefoot, the soft click of her anklet the only sound echoing against the marble floor.
When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she froze.
Damian Volkov — the man who terrified boardrooms and made even bodyguards lower their gaze — stood there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied loosely around his waist, flour dusting the edges of his hands.
His hair was a little messy, his jaw set in concentration as he studied a pie crust that looked… uneven at best.
He looked up. Their eyes met.
"Don't just stand there, cupcake," he said, voice deep but lighter than usual.
"Come help me before I ruin this thing"
For a second, she thought she had misheard him.
Cupcake.
Not plaything.
Not sex slave.
He hadn't called her that in so long.
Her throat went dry.
"You… you're baking?" she managed, stepping into the kitchen slowly, as if afraid the moment would disappear if she moved too fast.
Damian exhaled, a small, almost sheepish smirk curving his lips. "Trying to. I wanted to make you pie. But I think I'm doing it wrong."
Her heart did a strange little flip. "You wanted to make me pie?"
"Yeah," he said casually, though his voice softened just a little.
"Heard from the maids you made one earlier. Looked like you actually knew what you were doing. So…"
She blinked. "So you decided to… bake?"
He gave a low hum. "Something like that."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy this time — it was almost peaceful.
Then she walked closer, rolling up her sleeves. "You're not folding the dough right,"
she said, taking a small handful and showing him how to press the edges gently. "You're supposed to be careful, not crush it."
He leaned slightly against the counter, watching her hands move. "Careful, huh? That's not exactly my strong suit."
She glanced up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. "I noticed."
He arched an eyebrow, pretending to look offended.
"Are you mocking your—" he stopped himself, then smirked. "Are you mocking me, cupcake?"
She tried to hold back a laugh. "Maybe just a little."
He reached for some flour and flicked a bit at her arm. Her mouth fell open in surprise.
"Did you just—?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said smoothly, pretending to focus on the crust.
She grabbed a bit of flour and tossed it back, hitting his shoulder.
He froze.
She waited for the sharp reaction she always feared.
But instead, Damian just exhaled through his nose — then smirked again, slow and dangerous. "You started this."
Before long, the kitchen was full of laughter, bits of flour in their hair, and the smell of sugar baking.
She even managed to get him to roll the dough properly this time, their hands brushing once in a while, small touches that made her heart jump but neither of them mentioned.
When the pie finally went into the oven, Damian leaned against the counter, watching her wipe flour off her cheek.
"You look like you want to laugh," he said lowly.
She bit her lip. "Maybe I do."
He tilted his head slightly. "You think I look funny?"
"A little," she said, almost whispering. "There's flour on your face."
He raised a brow, pretending to look offended. "You put it there."
She smiled, soft and small. "You started it."
He moved closer, the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sweet scent of pie. "So you're saying it's my fault?"
She shrugged, glancing up at him — her lips curling just a little. "Yes, Damian."
The way she said his name — not master, not sir, not playtoy's owner — just Damian —. Master felt so heavy in her mouth.