Mira's POV
By the time the final applause died and the last flash of a camera cooled from burning my retinas, I felt like I'd been hollowed out and stuffed with static. The event had gone well — at least according to every investor who had stopped me, every politician who shook my hand, every glossy-lipped model who smiled for the cameras beside me.
To them, I was radiant. Poised. Ross-perfect.
Inside, I was a knot of pulsing nerves.
Not because of the business talk.
Not because of my parents' expectations.
Not even because of the investors who eyed me like an asset they wanted shares in.
No.
It was because of him.
Damion King.
Every time I'd lifted my eyes across the room, he'd been there. Standing just close enough for me to feel him. Watching me with that impossible, unreadable stillness. The kind of calm that feels like a storm building behind glass.
He didn't hunt me with his gaze; that would've been obvious. Too mortal, too pedestrian. Instead, he studied me the way someone might study a riddle they've waited years to solve.
And every time our eyes met — whether intentionally or by accident — something in my chest would contract so sharply I had to swallow to breathe again.
I don't know what was wrong with me.
Or maybe everything was finally starting to make sense.
By the time the event coordinator announced the closing remarks and guests started drifting out through the grand doors, I wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner, ditch the heels, and pretend I wasn't coming apart at the seams.
But the universe has a sense of humor.
Because as soon as I stepped away from the crowd, my mother swooped in like a hawk spotting fresh prey.
"Mira," she hissed, smiling so brightly her cheeks were practically sculpted glass. "Where are you going? Senator Halden wants a moment—"
"Mom," I breathed, "just five minutes. I need air. I promise I won't vanish."
"You always vanish," she muttered, then caught herself and reset her smile. "Fine. Five minutes. But please don't wander far."
I nodded, touched her arm, then slipped away before someone else could latch onto me.
The hallway just outside the ballroom was quieter, dimmer, washed in amber lights that made the gold trim glow like embers. I walked until the sound of laughter faded into a hum. Past a pair of staff members clearing champagne flutes. Past a line of portraits in gilded frames. Past a door left slightly ajar.
A draft of cold night air brushed my arm.
Balcony.
Perfect.
I pushed the door open and stepped outside.
The night swallowed me gently — cool, crisp, with a faint scent of rain lingering in the distance. The city glittered beneath the skyline like jewels scattered by impatient gods. Golden light rippled over the rooftops, and far below, cars flowed through the streets like electric veins.
I inhaled deeply.
Finally. Silence.
Finally. Solitude.
Finally—
"You shouldn't be out here alone."
My eyes flew open.
He stepped out of the shadowed corner near the railing like he'd been carved from the night itself. Damion King. Dark suit. Darker eyes. The kind of stillness that made the atmosphere tighten as if gravity itself bowed around him.
For a fraction of a second, I forgot how to stand upright.
"I—" I blinked. "Were you just… standing there?"
His lips curved, but only slightly. "You looked like you needed the quiet."
"Were you watching me?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Not watching." His gaze moved over my face, deliberate and slow. "Waiting."
My pulse stumbled.
"For what?"
"For you to breathe."
My lungs betrayed me by emptying in one sharp exhale.
He approached — not quickly, but with the kind of measured intention that made every step feel like a decision. Slowly, carefully, he stopped just a few feet away, the cold wind catching the edges of his coat.
"May I?" he asked.
I didn't know what I was agreeing to until he lifted his hand — not touching me, but close enough that the air warmed between us. The heat from his skin felt unreal. Like there was something burning beneath the surface.
"Yes," I whispered, even though the word tangled in my throat.
He reached past me and pushed the balcony door fully closed with a soft click. Instantly, the noise from inside vanished.
"We won't be disturbed," he said.
Something electric shot straight through me.
Why did that sound… dangerous?
Why did it sound like exactly what I wanted?
"You seemed overwhelmed tonight," he added.
"You could tell?"
He gave a quiet, warm hum — not amusement, not pity. Something else. Something knowing.
"I notice things," he said. "Especially things about you."
My breath wavered.
"How?" I asked. "You don't know me."
"Don't I?"
My heart slammed against my ribs, too fast.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Damion's gaze slid toward the city lights for a moment, as if giving me space to breathe — but he didn't move away. Didn't retreat. If anything, he seemed rooted to that spot by some force he wasn't willing to name.
"Your mother polished you tonight," he said softly. "Polished you so you'd shine the way she wanted. But you shine differently when no one's looking."
He didn't speak like a man guessing.
He spoke like a man remembering.
I swallowed. Hard.
"And how would you know that?"
This time, he turned fully back to me. Shadows crossed his eyes, stretching dark and deep across his expression, carving out something intense enough to make the night feel smaller.
Because suddenly we weren't standing on a balcony.
We were standing inside a moment neither of us had planned for — the kind of moment you fall into like gravity.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that the air thickened between us.
Close enough I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
"I've observed you," Damion murmured, voice low enough to feel rather than hear. "From a distance. Through reports. Through impressions in the business world. Through the gap between who you are and who you pretend to be."
My throat tightened.
"Pretend?" I whispered.
He nodded. "You play the obedient daughter well. But there's more underneath. Something sharp. Something restless. Something… wild, perhaps."
A shiver rippled down my spine — sharp and sweet, equal parts fear and longing.
"You don't know me," I repeated, barely audible.
"I know enough."
His hand lifted — slow, cautious — until his fingers hovered beside my jaw. Not touching. Barely brushing the edge of my breath. But the sensation sparked through me like a match.
My pulse skittered.
"Damion," I said, meaning it as a warning, but it came out as a plea.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Not ravenous.
Not aggressive.
Just… aware.
Far too aware.
"It wasn't my intention to unsettle you," he said, though I wasn't convinced that was true. "But I find it very difficult to pretend you're like everyone else."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" I whispered.
"It's supposed to be the truth."
My heart wouldn't slow down. My skin felt like a live wire.
"Why are you out here?" I asked, voice unsteady.
"Because you walked out here." His gaze didn't waver. "And I followed."
The admission hit me like a physical touch.
"You followed me?" I breathed.
"If you had wandered to the edge of the earth," he said softly, "I'm not entirely sure I would've stopped."
My knees almost gave out.
This man was dangerous.
Every word he spoke pulled me deeper into something dark, warm, consuming. Something I didn't understand yet but absolutely felt.
"Damion…" I whispered, "why do you look at me like that?"
His expression shifted — not softened, not hardened — but sharpened into something breathtakingly honest.
"Because I can't help myself."
The world tilted.
The wind stilled.
And he stepped closer again, so close his chest brushed mine when I inhaled. He lifted his hand again — slower this time, giving me every opportunity to move away, pull back, break the moment.
I didn't.
I couldn't.
His fingertips reached my cheek.
Warm. Gentle. Reverent.
Like touching me was something he'd imagined for a long time.
"Mira," he said, voice barely a whisper, "if I were wise, I'd keep my distance."
"Then why don't you?" I whispered.
His thumb traced just below my cheekbone.
"Because wisdom has nothing to do with what I want."
My breath trembled so hard it hurt.
"What do you want?" I asked, even though my heart already knew.
He leaned in — slowly, unbearably slow — until his forehead nearly rested against mine, his nose brushing mine, his voice a dark whisper I felt against my lips.
"You," he murmured.
Lightning.
Every nerve lit up.
But instead of kissing me — instead of closing that infinitesimal distance — he stopped. Held perfectly still, breath mingling with mine, tension pulled so tight between us I could feel it vibrating under my skin.
"You're trembling," he said softly.
"I'm not," I lied.
"You are."
He didn't move away.
Didn't push closer either.
He held me suspended in that breathless in-between where desire felt sharper than touch.
"Mira," he murmured, "if I kissed you right now… I wouldn't stop."
My pulse stuttered.
"I didn't say you had to stop."
His inhale was slow, sharp, strained.
"Don't tempt me," he whispered. "You don't know what you're playing with."
I did.
God, I did.
But before I could speak, footsteps echoed faintly inside the building.
Damion pulled back — just an inch — but every degree of distance felt like losing warmth I didn't know I'd claimed.
"You should go back inside," he said, voice smoothing back into something controlled but not cold.
"What about you?" I breathed.
He watched me with a hunger he refused to touch.
"I'll follow," he murmured. "After I regain my composure."
A flush raced over my skin.
I stepped back slowly, my heart still pounding, my body still humming where he'd stood so close.
Before I turned to leave, I looked back at him one last time.
His eyes were burning.
Not warm.
Not angry.
Something else.
Something ancient.
Something possessive.
Something impossible to name.
"Goodnight, Damion," I said softly.
His voice was velvet and menace.
"Goodnight, Mira."
I stepped inside.
But it felt like I left a piece of myself on that balcony — right there in his hands.