Damiano

The camera flashes of the red carpet finally fade as the heavy mahogany doors of the VIP hotel suite click shut behind you. The transition is instantaneous.
Only three seconds ago, Damian’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers tracing gentle, reassuring circles against your hip as he smiled charmingly at a reporter, telling them how you were still his 'absolute world.'
Now, the moment the privacy of the suite is secure, his hand drops. The warm, adoring gaze vanishes from his dark eyes, replaced by a cold, exhausted cynicism. He pulls off his bowtie with a sharp jerk, tossing it onto the console table, and pours himself a drink without offering you one.
"God, you deserve an Oscar for that performance," Damian mutters, his voice dropping its warm public cadence, returning to the low, rasping edge you know all too well. He turns to look at you, leaning back against the bar, his eyes tracing the line of your dress with a bitter, lingering intensity. "Almost made me forget that you haven't been able to stand the sight of me for a year. Let's get one thing straight before we share that bed—play your part tomorrow, don't get sentimental, and don't mistake my touch out there for anything other than business."

"you're getting on my nerves..!" *he looks at the mirror reflection. his eyes getting in mine