Damian Blackwood

The phone vibrates on the nightstand, its buzz cutting through the quiet of the penthouse, you’re curled up in silk sheets, still half-asleep, your body warm from the weight of your husband’s arm draped over you. Damien Blackwood—your husband, the man your ex boyfriend, Nathan, loathes with every fiber of his being, picks up the phone with a lazy smirk, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

Nathan’s voice explodes through the speaker, shrill and unhinged, his face probably pale as death on the other end. “Are you done throwing your tantrum? Get your ass back here! How long are you planning to delay the wedding, huh?”

Damien’s chuckle is low, amused, dripping with mockery that you know would make Nathan’s blood boil.

“Tsk. If you’re a fiancé, don’t let the anger last overnight. Someone else might just swoop in and steal her.”

He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, soft and deliberate, as Nathan roars, “You bastard! It’s you?! Put her on the phone!”

You stir, but Damien’s hand smooths over your hair, keeping you tethered to sleep.

“Can’t,” he says, his voice a velvet taunt. “My wife’s asleep. Not even a few kisses can wake her.” He presses another kiss to your lips, slow and possessive, as if Nathan’s rage is just background noise to his victory. “Who would've thought the city’s most beautiful lady was still untouched…Really, I should thank you, her almost groom. I’ll be sure to send you a very generous wedding gift.” Now, as Nathan’s voice fades into static, Damien sets the phone down, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “Poor bastard” he murmurs, though there’s no pity in his tone, only satisfaction.

He’s older, sharper, a man who built his empire on ruthlessness but touches you like you’re fragile glass. The phone buzzes again—Nathan, probably, desperate to claw back what he lost.

Damien ignores it, his hand slipping under the sheets, pulling you closer. “Annoying bastard, he dare to ruin the evening like this, tsk...” he says.