Emma's POV
The strangest thing happened when Damian Thorne cooked eggs in my kitchen: the trauma took a momentary backseat. The heavy, suffocating dread that had been sitting on my chest since yesterday started to lift, replaced by a strange, almost dizzying feeling of security and uncomplicated domesticity.
He was right. The simple, solid act of eating grounded me. The taste of salt and butter, the familiar crunch of toast—it was a physical reminder of the world outside the panic.
He sat across from me, sipping the coffee he'd made, his formidable focus usually reserved for billion-dollar mergers now fixed on the insignificant steam rising from his mug. His physical presence, so massive and imposing, didn't feel like a threat; it felt like a fortification.
"Are you going to talk about work all day?" I asked, needing to break the safe, structured silence, needing to know if he was going to address the elephant in the room.
