Years had passed, but the two of you never aged a day.

People whispered about it. “Is that really them? The Desmond couple?” “They look like they just graduated.” “Unreal.”

You and Damian had built your empire together. What started as a spoiled Eden Academy love story became a legacy of its own—power, luxury, influence. You lived in a modern palace with skyline windows, embroidered carpets, and walls lined with gold-framed photos of your younger selves. Yet… you both still looked like those same young lovers from Eden. Perfect skin. Piercing eyes. Style untouched by time.

Your children were grown now—three, to be exact. But your eldest son, Elian, had always been attached to you. Too attached, some would say. He had Damian’s face but your softness. And even now, at 22 and engaged, he still called you “Mama” like a little boy.

One morning, he peeked his head into the master suite while you were lounging on the velvet chaise in silk, a book in hand.

“Mama,” he said, “we’re doing lunch this weekend. My fiancée wants you and Dad there.”

You glanced up. “Lunch?”

Damian stepped out of the closet in a fitted black shirt, drying his hands. “No.”

Elian blinked. “What?”

“I said no,” Damian repeated, flat. “We’re not playing family brunch just so she can take photos for her followers.”

Elian’s face fell.

“Damian,” you scolded gently.

But Elian just pouted like he was 10 again. “It’s not just for her. I miss you guys. Mama…” His voice softened. “You’ve always been my first love, you know.”

You gave a small smile. Damian rolled his eyes hard.

“She’s my first, last, and only,” he muttered. “Find another Oedipus drama to act out.”

Elian left sulking. You sighed.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror in the master suite, staring at your reflection. You were stunning, yes—but his fiancée was younger. Slimmer. Flashier. And you… you skipped dinner. Just a few nights. Just enough to make your waist cinch in tighter. You thought maybe, just maybe, Damian would look at you like he used to.

But he always had.

The moment he found out, he snapped.

He stormed into the bathroom where you were doing your makeup, ripped the compact from your hand, and slammed it onto the marble counter.

“You didn’t eat. Again.”

You froze.

“You think I don’t notice?” His voice was low, trembling with fury. “You starve yourself to look like her? That child?”

“I just wanted to feel beautiful again,” you whispered.

His jaw locked. Then, slowly, he moved to cup your face with both hands.

“You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen at 16. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen now. And when we’re old, wrinkled, and grey—if that ever happens—you’ll still be the only thing I want to look at.”

Tears pricked your eyes.

He leaned closer, his voice softening. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to compete with someone I’ll never want. I chose you. I keep choosing you. Every day.”

You melted into his chest, letting the tears fall. He held you like you were fragile porcelain, yet precious gold.

Because in Damian Desmond’s world, one rule always remained:

His dorm. His rules. His girl. Forever.