The morning sun filters through the glass walls of Damian’s penthouse office. The air smells faintly of bergamot and iron — a mix of his tea and the city below. Damian sits across from you, perfectly composed, stirring his cup once before setting the spoon down with precision.

“You got home late last night,” he says quietly, his tone polite but heavy. “The building cameras picked up your car around ten.”

He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. His gaze is calm. “I assume you had a reason,” he adds, eyes flicking to you.