London's sky was a brooding slate grey when Zara arrived outside the Parliament annex building the location chosen for the government's newly assembled Media Ethics Committee.
The air smelled like wet pavement and winter wind.
The kind of morning meant for introspection and dread.
Zara wasn't dreading the committee.
She was dreading the man already inside it.
Damon Huxley.
She exhaled once, gathering herself before stepping through the security doors.
The committee meeting room was modern glass and steel, with a sweeping panel table and tall windows overlooking Westminster.
Zara's heels clicked sharply as she entered, her tailored navy suit immaculate, her hair slicked into a firm bun that promised zero nonsense.
A few members were already inside.
And there he was.
Damon sat at the far end of the long table, reviewing notes like he owned the oxygen in the room. His suit was charcoal today, fitted, expensive, his shirt crisp white against his deep skin. His jaw carried the shadow of morning stubble and somehow that made him even more dangerous.
He didn't look up immediately.
But the moment he felt her presence he did.
Their eyes colliding felt like two storms meeting mid-sky.
She stood taller.
He leaned back slightly, watching her like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
His gaze slid slowly too slowly from her eyes, down her neck, lingering at the soft dip of her collarbone before rising again.
Zara inhaled sharply.
She hated how her body responded.
"Ms. Bennett," he said smoothly.
"Mr. Huxley."
Her tone was polite, cool, precise.
He smirked like her restraint amused him.
The committee chair, Lord Davenport, stood.
"Ah, Ms. Bennett. Welcome. Your seat is… just here."
He gestured to the chair beside Damon.
Zara froze for a fraction of a second.
Beside him.
Directly beside him.
No escape.
No distance.
No safety.
Damon settled his elbow on the table, jaw angled just slightly toward her a silent invitation, threat, or promise. She couldn't tell.
She lowered herself into the chair.
His cologne warm, smoky, masculine wrapped around her instantly.
She stiffened.
Damon noticed.
Of course he noticed.
"Shall we begin?" the chair announced.
Zara nodded, eyes forward.
Damon leaned back, eyes on her.
The meeting began.
As the committee discussed guidelines, violations, loopholes, and reform, Zara offered sharp, intelligent commentary with surgical clarity.
Damon remained mostly quiet but his presence beside her was a steady hum of heat.
Every time she lifted her hand to gesture, her sleeve brushed his.
Every time he turned a page, she felt the movement through the table.
Their breaths existed in the same air.
Their thoughts circled the same arguments.
Their bodies sat too close for sanity.
At one point, she leaned forward to reach a file.
Damon leaned forward at the same time.
Their arms brushed.
She didn't move.
He didn't move.
Just the slightest contact but the shock of it struck through her like static.
Her hand froze mid-air.
His fingers paused above the page.
He looked at her.
Something tightened low in her stomach.
She snatched her hand back.
Damon's lips curved.
Infuriating man.
During the tea break, Zara went to the hallway alone, needing air.
She leaned against the wall, breathing evenly, eyes closed.
A moment.
Just a moment to reset.
Footsteps approached.
Her eyes snapped open.
Of course.
Damon. He stopped in front of her, hands in pockets, expression unreadable.
"Running away?" he asked softly.
"I'm taking a break," she replied. "From chaos."
"Am I the chaos?"
His voice dipped teasing, intimate.
"You know you are," she said.
Damon stepped closer. Too close.
She didn't move.
"You keep doing that," he murmured.
"Doing what?"
"Pretending I don't affect you."
Her breath hitched a small, involuntary betrayal.
His eyes darkened with awareness.
Before she could reply, someone called from the room:
"Ms. Bennett! We're resuming!"
She turned relief and regret mixing in her chest and walked away.
Damon exhaled slowly, watching her go.
She was going to destroy him.
By evening, most committee members had left. Only Zara remained typing, revising, annotating documents with surgical focus.
She needed silence.
Clarity.
Control.
But the door opened again.
She froze.
Damon entered, jacket off, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
His forearms were distracting.
He held a stack of folders.
"You're still here," he said.
"I work efficiently," she replied.
He smirked. "So do I."
He walked to the far side of the table.
She exhaled.
Then he walked back and placed his files right beside her stack. Close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Her pulse jumped.
"This is unnecessary," she said, moving slightly away.
He moved exactly one inch closer.
"Calm down," he murmured. "I'm not here to fight."
"You're always here to fight."
"Maybe I'm tired of fighting."
That made her look up sharply.
His eyes were softer today.
Not kind Damon didn't do kind but less guarded.
"Why are you still here?" she asked quietly.
"Why are you?"
She looked away.
He had a point.
The silence between them stretched slow, warm, charged.
It felt like standing next to a fire.
A dangerous fire.
Damon leaned back in his chair, studying her.
"Do you ever stop?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Thinking. Planning. Strategizing."
"That's my job," she said.
"It's not normal," he murmured.
She stiffened.
He noticed.
Regret flickered across his face. Momentary. Human.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower now.
"You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"My mother."
Zara blinked.
Damon rarely spoke of family.
Rumours about his childhood were vague, cold, broken pieces.
"She worked herself to death," he said quietly. "Trying to outrun the world. Trying not to repeat the mistakes of her own parents."
Zara swallowed.
His eyes lifted to hers.
"It didn't save her," he said. "Her walls didn't protect her. They buried her."
Zara's throat tightened.
Why was he telling her this?
She asked.
"Why are you telling me this?"
His voice softened.
"Because every time I look at you, Zara Bennett… I see the same walls."
Her breath trembled.
That was too close.
Too intimate.
Too raw.
She stood abruptly.
He rose too.
She stepped back.
He stepped forward.
"Don't analyze me," she whispered.
"I'm not," he said. "I'm trying to understand you."
"I don't want to be understood."
His brows lifted. "Why?"
"Because understanding makes people careless."
"And you can't afford that."
She shook her head, eyes burning. "No."
He didn't push.
He didn't challenge.
He did something she wasn't prepared for.
He softened.
"Zara," he said gently.
"Who hurt you so deeply that you don't even let yourself breathe?"
Her lips parted but no sound came out.
She looked away, blinking rapidly.
His gaze lowered not at her body.
At her hands.
They were trembling.
He stepped closer.
"Talk to me," he murmured.
She stepped back fast.
"No."
Damon stopped instantly.
Respecting the boundary.
Her pulse throbbed painfully as she forced herself to meet his gaze.
"Don't do that," she said shakily.
"What?"
"Make me trust you."
Damon's expression changed.
Slowly.
Deeply.
Painfully.
"Zara," he whispered, "I'm not your enemy."
She laughed bitterly. "You could have fooled me."
"But I'm not."
"Then why did you leak my client's past?"
His jaw tightened. "I didn't."
"Liar."
"I didn't," he repeated, voice low, raw.
She inhaled sharply.
Truth flickered in his eyes.
He stepped closer barely just enough that she felt his heat.
"Someone in my company crossed a line," he murmured. "Not me. I'm fixing it."
She held his gaze, unable to look away.
"You expect me to believe that?" she whispered.
"No," he said softly. "I expect you to feel it."
Her breath caught.
Her heart betrayed her.
He leaned in slow, careful and reached for a file beside her hand.
Their fingers brushed.
Her breath shivered.
His eyes fell to her mouth.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough for her knees to weaken.
The air between them thickened.
Slow.
Slow.
Slow
They leaned in…
Closer…
Closer…
Her eyes fluttered…
His breath touched her lips…
And…
A janitor slammed a cupboard somewhere down the hall.
They jerked apart.
Zara stepped back, shaking.
Damon took a slow breath, forcing composure.
Silence pulsed between them.
It felt like the aftershock of a near-disaster.
Or the beginning of one.
She finally spoke.
"This can't happen," she whispered.
"I know," he said.
They stared at each other.
Knowing.
Wanting.
Denying.
Hurting.
Then yet again Damon said the wrong thing in the right way.
"Tell me you don't want me."
Her mouth parted.
Her chest rose and fell.
Her eyes burned.
Her voice broke.
"I can't," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, jaw shattering with restrained desire.
"Zara," he breathed.
Her name on his tongue was sin.
She stepped back forcing air between them.
"We are enemies," she said.
"No," he murmured. "Not anymore."
"We shouldn't cross this line."
"We already did."
Her voice cracked. "We can't do this."
His gaze softened.
"Then stop me."
She couldn't.
She knew she couldn't.
She turned, grabbing her briefcase with shaking hands.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
He didn't move.
"Goodnight, Zara."
She left the room, breathing hard, heartbeat wild, almost stumbling.
Behind her, Damon sat heavily in his chair, running a hand over his jaw.
He'd nearly kissed her.
Nearly crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
And what terrified him most wasn't how much he wanted to…
It was how much she wanted him too.
Zara walked into the cold London night, her chest tight.
The city glittered.
Cars hummed.
The river shimmered like liquid glass.
But she felt none of it.
She felt…
His breath.
His nearness.
His voice whispering her name like a secret.
She leaned against a lamppost, trembling.
"What am I doing?" she whispered.
Because for the first time in her life, she wasn't in full control.
And Damon Huxley was the exact kind of man she had spent a lifetime avoiding:
Powerful.
Magnetic.
Dangerously curious.
Her father's ruin had taught her one truth:
Never fall for a man with empire in his blood.
But her body didn't care about lessons.
It cared about heat.
Chemistry.
Gravity.
She forced herself to straighten and walk to her car.
If she wasn't careful…
She would fall.
She would break.
And Damon Huxley was not a man who could catch her safely.
He'd burn her alive.
From the window above, Damon watched her walk down the steps.
Her posture was stiff.
Her steps uneven.
Her shoulders trembling.
She was running.
From him.
From herself.
From whatever existed between them.
He swallowed slowly.
He should let her run.
He should walk away.
He should focus on business.
But he couldn't.
He whispered her name under his breath a dangerous admission.
"Zara…"
His hands curled into fists.
She was going to be his ruin.
And somehow…
He wasn't afraid.
He was addicted.