SIX YEARS LATER
The smell of burnt sugar filled the kitchen.
Merry Steele coughed, jolting out of her deep thoughts and waving smoke away with one hand as she yanked the pan off the stove.
The caramel had gone too far again. Bitter, blackened, useless. Just like her mood.
"Damn it," she cursed.
Her apron was dusty with flour. Her hair was tied in a messy bun that had started slipping hours ago.
The clock on the wall read 5:47 a.m. She had been up since four, fighting a failing oven and ringing the plumber over a leaking pipe, trying to prepare pastries that barely sold enough to keep the lights on.
Outside, the early winter sky was pale and cold.
She scraped the ruined sugar into the trash and leaned both palms on the counter, breathing slowly.
Rent was overdue. Her father's medication cost more every month. Her sister's college tuition reminder sat unread on her phone. And the landlord had already hinted that his patience was running thin.
She closed her eyes shut.
History seems to be repeating itself. Don't think about him.
The thought came anyway.
Snow. A voice. A face that hardly softened.
Her chest tightened.
She turned up the mp3 player to drown it out.
🌳🎄❤️🎶
🎶🎄🌳❤️
Damon Blackwell stood in front of a wall of windows seventy three floors above the street, fingers wrapped around a crystal tumbler. The city woke far downstairs with cars horning and people moving.
He felt nothing.
Behind him, a voice cleared. "You were late yesterday."
Damon didn't turn. "I own my time."
Jeffery sighed. "You also own responsibilities."
"Spare me that, Jeff."
Silence.
Damon finally turned. His suit was immaculate. His face beautifully carved from discipline.
The man had no softness left in him. No warmth. Just control.
"Board meeting's in an hour," Jeffery said. "They're watching you closely."
"They always are."
"You're still unstable, man. Your father's going crazy about it."
Damon's jaw flexed. "I'm keeping their money safe. That should satisfy them."
"It doesn't. You need to clean up your image," Thomas added. "No scandals. No explosions. They enjoy your diligence but...."
Damon's eyes darkened.
"Say what you mean." He said.
"I mean," Jeffery said carefully, "you need a woman."
Silence slammed between them.
"A fiancée. A wife. A presence. Someone who makes you look human."
Damon let out a slow, humorless breath. "I don't pretend to love."
"You said you did it once."
"Fuck you, Jeffery. I was drunk."
Jeffery grinned. "Think about it. I can always help with the preparations."
When the door shut, Damon finally moved—one hand gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles whitened.
His chest burned.
A familiar pressure crawled up his throat.
Not now.
He reached for the drawer and pulled out the pill bottle. Shook it once. Twice.
Empty.
His breath hitched.
The memory came uninvited.
Snow. A door. Her voice saying his name like it meant something.
He slammed the drawer shut.
He buzzed the intercom.
"Mrs Harvey. Send my pills in now."
🎶🌳🎄❤️
🎄🎶🌳❤️
Merry dropped a tray of cupcakes onto the display shelf just as her phone buzzed.
A message from the bank.
INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.
Her throat tightened.
She leaned against the counter, dizzy.
"Breathe," she whispered.
The bell above the door jingled as her waitress walked in late, offering a rushed greeting and apology. Merry nodded, barely hearing her.
She wiped her hands and checked her messages again.
A new message notification flashed across the screen.
From: BlackByte Corporate Affairs.
Her heart slammed.
She didn't open it.
Five years ago, she'd walked away from a boy who couldn't love her out loud.
Now the man he'become was suddenly knocking on her life again.
She stared at the unopened email, fingers trembling.
Don't.
She clicked it anyway.
"We would like to formally invite you to discuss a business proposition involving a private culinary contract…"
Her breath caught.
The name at the bottom burned through her eyes.
Damon Blackwell.
The room swam.
She closed her eyes—and for a split second, she could hear his voice again.
"I just need space."
Her hands shook.
"No," she whispered. "Not again."
Across the city, Damon stared at his reflection in the glass.
His phone buzzed.
A notification from his assistant.
"She opened the message. No reply yet."
His chest tightened painfully.
🎶🎄🌳❤️
❤️🎶🌳🎄
It was three days now and Merry Steele wasn't showing any sign of interest.
The phone buzzed.
Merry glanced at the screen, frowned at the unfamiliar number, then answered.
"Yes?"
A cold yet soothing tenor came in.
"Hello, Merry Steele. Damon Blackwell on the line. You're invited to BlackByte tomorrow...."
No greeting. No introduction.
She blinked once. "Pardon?"
A pause. Calm. Annoyingly sure of itself.
"You heard me, Steele."
Her mouth curved slightly — not a smile. More like disbelief.
"Ah...." she said. "Behold the audacity."
"Call it anything. You'll report to BlackByte by 12 today," he continued. "You'll be compensated well."
"You're calling a stranger and issuing commands. Is this how you usually introduce business?"
"I don't waste time."
"Sadly, you've wasted some today."
Controlled irritation slipped into his voice. Just a bit.
"Stop being difficult!"
Merry laughed softly. Dry. "No, I'm being sensible. There's a difference."
"You applied here...."
"Years ago," she corrected. "Stupidest attempt of my life."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I need someone competent," he said. "You'll do."
"You don't need me."
"You're overthinking this."
"And you're underthinking basic respect."
"You'll regret turning this down."
Her smile vanished.
"That line only works when I care. But, sadly, I don't."
A breath on the other end. Sharper now.
"Be at my office tomorrow."
"No."
Flat. Clean. Final.
She ended the call.
Her phone buzzed instantly.
She didn't look at it.
Merry exhaled slowly, irritation boiling all through her mind.
Not because he was intimidating.
But because he'd spoken like someone used to being obeyed, and she hated that it still made her spine straighten.