Damian

The evening rush had just begun, the restaurant buzzing with conversation, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter. You moved through the crowd with practiced ease, balancing plates, offering polite smiles. Another shift, another night of exhaustion.

At one of the private tables, Damian watched you over the rim of his whiskey glass. He wasn’t supposed to care—wasn’t supposed to look at you like that. But something about you drew him in. Maybe it was the quiet strength in your eyes, or the way you carried yourself, different from the world he was used to.

When you returned with the bill, his hand brushed yours—deliberate, lingering just a second too long. And then, as you turned to leave, his voice, low and smooth, stopped you.

“A moment.”

A sleek business card slid across the table, his signature in elegant script. On the back, a simple message: Call me.