Emma's Pov
I was packing up my files when I saw the black car pull up through the office window. My heart did this ridiculous flip even before the door opened and Damian stepped out, looking as composed and untouchable as ever in a dark suit.
He didn't text or call, he never does but I knew the look on his face. It was his 'we're going somewhere, don't argue look'
Jenna from reception peeked in. "Uh, Miss Lawson? Mr. Cross is here to see you."
I blinked. "He's… here?"
She nodded, wide-eyed. "In person."
That made me stand. Damian Cross doesn't pick people up.
I grabbed my coat and stepped out. He was leaning against the reception counter, one hand in his pocket, talking quietly with someone on the phone. The moment he saw me, he hung up.
"Ready?" he asked.
"For what?"
"Dinner," he said simply.
I blinked. "Dinner?"
He raised a brow. "That's usually what people eat around this time of day."
Despite myself, I smiled. "You could've texted."
"I prefer surprises," he said, guiding me toward the elevator.
By the time we got to the car, I had stopped trying to guess what he was thinking. The city lights slid past us in silence for a while, his hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearm.
"So," I finally said, "are we celebrating something?"
He glanced at me. "Surviving the week."
"That's… unusually optimistic of you."
"Don't get used to it," he said dryly.
I laughed softly. The tension that had been in my chest all week began to ease.
When we pulled up to La Vigne, one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, I nearly choked. "Damian, this place….."
"Has good food," he interrupted, getting out and circling around to open my door.
I stared at him. "You just… opened the door for me?"
He gave a small, almost shy shrug. "Don't make it weird."
Inside, the restaurant was warm and golden, the kind of place where conversations happened in low tones and everything smelled like butter and wine. A waiter guided us to a private booth near the window.
The moment we sat, I exhaled. "So what's this really about?"
"Do I need an agenda to have dinner with you?" he asked.
"With you? Absolutely."
That earned me the faintest twitch of a smile. "Maybe I just wanted a quiet night."
I leaned forward. "Damian Cross doesn't do quiet nights. You're allergic to peace."
He arched a brow. "You analyze everyone this much or just me?"
"Just you," I admitted. "You're more fun."
The waiter returned with menus. Damian ordered steak and wine for both of us before I could even look.
"You didn't even ask what I wanted," I said.
"You always pick the same thing," he said. "Medium steak, no sauce."
I blinked. "You remember that?"
He didn't answer, just poured the wine and handed me a glass. "You've been working too much," he said quietly.
"So have you."
"That's different. I like it."
"Liar," I teased. "You tolerate it. That's a big difference."
He looked at me then and the corner of his mouth curved. "You think you know me that well?"
"I don't think. I know."
Our food arrived before the air between us got too heavy. For a while, we ate in silence. The wine loosened the edges of my thoughts, made everything softer.
He finally broke the silence. "How was work?"
"Long," I said. "But at least no one tried to sabotage my therapy sessions."
He smirked. "You'd be surprised what passes for sabotage in my world."
I tilted my head. "Speaking of which… how was your day?"
"Productive," he said, slicing into his steak. "I reminded a few people who's in charge."
I raised a brow. "Clara?"
He didn't answer immediately. "She overstepped."
"Damian…"
"Don't," he said quietly. "I'm not discussing her with you."
"Fine." I sipped my wine. "So what can we talk about?"
He looked at me, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Anything else."
"Okay." I leaned on my elbow. "Favorite movie?"
He frowned. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
He thought for a moment. "The Godfather."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course."
"What's wrong with The Godfather?"
"Nothing, except it's every powerful man's favorite movie. You all think you're Michael Corleone."
He smirked. "And you'd be who?"
"Probably Kay," I said. "The one who keeps pretending she doesn't know what she's gotten herself into."
His smile faded slightly. "Do you regret it?"
"What?"
"Working with me."
I hesitated, the question cutting through the playful rhythm of our talk. "Sometimes," I admitted. "You make it difficult."
He nodded slowly. "Good."
"Good?" I echoed.
"If it were easy," he said softly, "you wouldn't be the right person for the job."
There was something in his tone that made my chest tighten.
The rest of the evening flowed easier. We talked about ridiculous things—his inability to cook ("I can make coffee." "That doesn't count."), my old college mistakes, his first failed business venture ("I called it 'CrossTech.' Don't laugh." "I'm already laughing.").
For once, Damian wasn't the sharp-edged CEO. He was just… him. He was human, tired, funny, even.
When the check came, I reached for it automatically. "Split?"
He gave me a look. "You're kidding, right?"
"I'm serious."
"Put your card away, Emma."
I sighed and did as he said, though not without rolling my eyes. "You know, some men find it attractive when women pay for themselves."
"I'm not some men," he said, getting up.
Outside, the night air was cool. We stood by the car, the city humming softly around us.
"Thank you," I said.
He looked at me. "For dinner?"
"For not being Damian Cross for a few hours."
He almost smiled. "Don't get used to it."
"I won't," I said, smiling back.
But as he opened the car door for me again, something in the way he looked at me made me think maybe I already had.