Chapter 9

Willow's POV

"Bitch," I muttered as the call ended, shoving my phone back into my pocket. A customer waiting in my checkout line gave me a startled look. "Sorry, technical difficulties," I said, forcing a smile as I scanned her organic kale.

My hands moved automatically over the barcode scanner at ValueMart while my mind raced. The nerve of Chloe, threatening my parents' medical care. The sheer hypocrisy of her outrage. After she stole my rescue story, she had the audacity to be upset that I'd "stolen" her man?

Not that Damian Blackwood was anyone's man. He was a cold, calculating machine in human form. And I certainly didn't want him. What happened in that dressing room wasn't some passionate encounter—it was a violation that Chloe somehow twisted into a romantic betrayal.

Everything I'd said to Chloe about Damian moaning my name was pure fiction, designed solely to push her buttons. And boy, had it worked.

"That'll be $47.83," I told the customer, who swiped her card while texting on her phone, not even bothering to look at me. Typical.

I leaned against the register for a moment, no customers in sight. My feet ached from standing for five hours straight, and my head pounded from lack of sleep.

"Clark! What do you think you're doing?"

I straightened immediately at the sound of Ted's voice. My supervisor materialized beside my register, his perpetually sweaty face pinched with disapproval.

"Just catching my breath between customers, sir."

"Do that on your break. Which, I remind you, is only fifteen minutes, not the twenty you took yesterday." He glanced pointedly at the clock. "I've got my eye on you, Clark. One more unauthorized rest, and I'm docking your pay."

"Yes, sir," I said, the words tasting bitter in my mouth.

As Ted waddled away, I fantasized about telling him exactly where he could shove his time clock. But I couldn't afford to lose this job. Not with the hospital bills piling up.

Asshole, I thought, watching his retreating back.

Chloe's POV

I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, my hands still trembling with rage. How dare Willow speak to me that way? How dare that bargain-basement version of me even suggest she'd been with my Damian?

Because he was mine. Or he would be. Damian Blackwood—the most eligible bachelor in Los Angeles—deserved someone of his own caliber. Someone cultured, sophisticated, beautiful. Someone like me.

But beneath my anger lurked a sliver of doubt. Had he really been with her last night? The thought made my stomach turn.

I grabbed my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized despite rarely using it.

"Damian Blackwood," he answered, his voice cool and professional.

"Damian," I said, injecting warmth into my tone. "It's Chloe Sinclair. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all. What can I do for you, Chloe?"

"I was wondering if you'd join me for lunch today? I've discovered a bistro in Beverly Hills with an exceptional wine cellar—including some vintage Bordeaux I believe you might appreciate."

There was a brief pause. "I suppose I could move some things around. Why the sudden invitation?"

"After everything that happened at the river, I realized life is precious. We should make time for people who truly matter."

After a moment of silence, he said slowly, "OK. I'm free at one o 'clock this afternoon.

"Perfect! I'll text you the address."

I spent all morning researching his preferences, from his favorite wines to how he liked his steak prepared. I'd even called in a special favor with the bistro owner to secure the perfect table—private enough for conversation but positioned so Damian's back wouldn't be to the room.

I arrived early to ensure everything was perfect. The sommelier had decanted the Château Margaux 1995 I'd pre-ordered, and I'd requested the chef prepare his specialty truffle risotto.

When Damian walked in, every head turned. He moved with the confidence of a man who owned the world—or at least a significant portion of it.

"Chloe," he said, sitting across from me. His tone was polite but distant.

"Thank you for making time in your schedule," I smiled. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of selecting a wine. The '95 Margaux—if I remember correctly, it's one of your preferred vintages?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "You've done your research."

"I pay attention to details," I said lightly. "Especially when they concern people I admire."

We ordered our meals and made small talk about his latest business acquisition and my charity work. I waited until our entrées arrived before steering the conversation toward what I really wanted to know.

"So," I took a sip of wine for courage. "Do you ever find time to enjoy Los Angeles nightlife?"

Damian raised an eyebrow slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I drove by the Sunset Strip this morning," I finally said, trying to sound casual but hearing the slight tremor in my voice. "It's always so different in the daylight, don't you think?"

His expression remained completely impassive. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh? That's strange... someone mentioned they saw you there. Last night." I took a small bite of my salmon, eyes flickering between my plate and his face.

For just a fraction of a second, something flashed in his eyes—calculation. When he didn't immediately respond, I felt compelled to fill the silence.

"At the lounge, I mean. Not that I was checking up on you—"

"Is there something specific you're trying to ask me, Chloe?" His voice was deadly quiet.

I swallowed hard. "It's just that... there's been some talk. About you and one of the dancers. Someone called Wildfire?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Damian's gaze hardened, his eyes turning to ice. Without breaking eye contact with me, he reached for his phone.

"Excuse me a moment." He stood and walked a few paces away.

Though I couldn't hear his words, I could see his reflection in the window. His expression was thunderous as he spoke into the phone. When he returned to the table, his face had resumed its mask of indifference.

"To answer your unasked question," he said, sitting back down, "my private affairs are not open for discussion. Not even with the woman who saved my life."

I felt my cheeks burn. "Of course, Damian. I didn't mean to pry. I just... I was concerned that..."

"Let me be clear, Chloe. I appreciate what you did for me at the river. But that doesn't entitle you to information about my personal life."

"I understand completely," I said quickly. "It was inappropriate of me to ask."

The rest of lunch proceeded with careful small talk. When the check came, he paid without looking at the amount and stood to leave.

"Thank you for lunch," he said. "I have a meeting to attend."

I watched him walk away, his posture perfect, not once looking back. Despite the disastrous turn of the conversation, I felt oddly relieved. His reaction told me everything I needed to know. He hadn't denied the encounter, but he'd immediately moved to contain the damage—that brief phone call was undoubtedly to his assistant, ordering a media blackout.

Whatever had happened between Damian and my sister clearly meant nothing to him—it wasn't even worth discussing. It was a problem to be managed, not a relationship to be nurtured.

He was still very much available. And I, Chloe Sinclair, was the only woman in Los Angeles truly worthy of becoming Mrs. Damian Blackwood.