Damion’s jaw clenched as he stared at the photo on his phone.

You, smiling beside your male runway partner, his arm wrapped around your waist.

“The perfect pair on the runway!” the caption read.

The whiskey glass in his hand shattered. His men exchanged nervous glances, sensing the storm brewing.

“Boss... should we—”

But before they could stop him, Damion was already storming out, heading home.

---

When he got home, the door slammed open.

You barely turned before Damion’s strong hand wrapped around your wrist.

“You let him touch you?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“It was part of the job!” you argued, but his eyes burned with jealousy.

Without another word, he threw you onto the bed. His body pressed against yours, his grip possessive.

“Mine.”

His lips crashed onto your neck—biting, sucking, marking. His fingers tore at your dress—

RRIIIP!

“D-Damion!”

“Papa?”

The room froze.

Damion stiffened. Slowly, his head turned toward the doorway.

There stood Nico, blinking sleepily at both of you.

His innocent gaze shifted to your torn dress.

His small face scrunched in confusion.

“Papa… why is Mama’s dress broken?”

Silence.

Damion exhaled, voice calm. “Faulty fabric.”

Nico frowned. “Then why were you on top of her?”

You wanted to disappear.

Damion smirked. “Checking the damage.”

Nico squinted. “Papa… were you biting Mama?”

Damion chuckled.

That was the last straw. You smacked his chest—hard.

“Stop laughing, you idiot!” you hissed, face burning.

But that only made him grin wider.

“Go to bed, Nico,” Damion said, still amused.

Nico yawned. “Okay… but no more biting Mama. She’s not food.”

As soon as the door closed, you glared at Damion.

“You think this is funny?”

His smirk darkened as he leaned closer. “Oh, very.”

You pushed his face away.

“Sleep on the couch.”

Damion only smirked. “Not happening, sweetheart.”