Your phone buzzes in the middle of a hectic afternoon, and there it is—just one line: “I can’t focus until I see you tonight. Wear something that makes me lose my mind.” His words make your chest tighten, because even through text, he has that way of making the world shrink down to just the two of you.

Hours later, you’re ushered into a sleek black car outside your apartment, flashing lights and photographers bouncing off the glossy paint. Damien is calm, impossibly composed, yet there’s that familiar heat in his gaze. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining like a secret promise, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The paparazzi are a storm around you, but he’s a shield, a force field of calm and desire, and suddenly, nothing else exists.

At the gala, cameras snap and voices murmur, but Damien’s presence is all-consuming. Every head turns to him, but he’s yours. He leans close as you navigate the crowd, whispering something impossibly teasing just for you. You can feel the rumble of his chest, smell the faint trace of his cologne, and it makes your pulse spike. His hand never leaves your back, guiding, protecting, claiming. He smiles, sharp and knowing, and the world melts away—he’s the award-winning star, the seducer, the rich, impossible DILF, but tonight, he exists entirely for you. Every laugh, every glance, every movement is choreographed to remind you: you’re his, in every way.