Mysterious Destiny of Us

Lena's POV

Some mornings taste like honey.

And then some mornings taste like ash.

I used to believe our mornings were dipped in gold waking in silk sheets, tangled in Damian's arms, kissed awake by a man who made me feel cherished. Loved. Chosen.

But this morning, the warmth beside me felt foreign. His body was a furnace against mine, yet the heat did nothing to melt the chill creeping into my bones. I felt his hand at my waist before I even opened my eyes slow, possessive, warm. His lips brushed the back of my neck, soft as silk, and I exhaled, my body arching instinctively against him. The air smelled faintly of cedar, spice, and sin.

"You're warm," he murmured, voice husky with sleep.

"I'm always warm when you do that," I whispered, a faint smile pulling at my lips.

His hand slid under the hem of my nightgown, his fingertips grazing my bare thigh. My skin tingled in anticipation. I turned to face him, blinking the sleep from my eyes. He was already watching me. Heavy-lidded, lashes cast shadows across those ice-blue eyes, heat pooling in the way they raked over me like I was something to be devoured.

Damian Lancaster.

My husband.

My addiction.

My illusion.

He kissed me slowly like he had all the time in the world like there was no one else on the planet but us. His mouth was warm, confident, and familiar. The kind of kiss that reminded me why I fell in love with him. The kind of kiss that blurred lines and erased doubts.

I moaned softly into his mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue finding mine in an unhurried rhythm that stole the breath from my lungs.

His hand slid higher between my thighs, coaxing a tremble from me as he touched me like only he could like a man who knew every edge and curve of my body, every weakness, every secret place.

"Damian," I whispered, threading my fingers into his dark hair as he trailed kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, and down to where my nightgown slipped off my shoulder.

He looked up at me, pupils blown wide. "Say the word, Lena. And I'll worship you until you forget your name."

I didn't say a word.

I just pulled him down and let his mouth remind me.

And for a while, I let myself believe in the illusion again. I let myself believe I was still the only woman he wanted to touch. That his hands only ached for me. That his moans only had my name on them.

He made love to me like he was sorry. Like he needed to prove something. And maybe I needed to feel needed more than I cared to admit.

After, I watched him dress. He stood in front of the mirror, knotting his tie like he wasn't the same man who had just made me fall apart with nothing but his mouth and his name in my ear.

He adjusted his cufflinks, his reflection all polished power, and practiced perfection. Damian Lancaster: billionaire CEO, kingmaker, husband.

"I'll be home late tonight," he said casually.

My smile faltered. "Late again?"

"There's a board dinner. You know how these things go."

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, wearing nothing but his shirt. "You said that last week."

He turned and gave me the same smile he always did when I pushed gentle, indulgent, rehearsed. "You know I'd rather be here."

That was the moment I saw it.

The pristine white collar of his shirt.

And just below the knot of his designer tie... a faint smudge of red.

My heart skipped.

I hadn't worn lipstick this morning. I hadn't worn lipstick in days.

"You've got something here," I said carefully, stepping forward. My fingers trembled as I brushed my thumb against the mark.

Damian looked down, barely reacting. "Probably yours."

My chest tightened. "It's not."

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to my forehead, grabbed his briefcase, and turned toward the door.

"You're overthinking again," he said, and just like that, he was gone.

Overthinking.

That was his favorite word when I questioned anything.

He left behind the scent of expensive cologne and a thousand unspoken doubts. Left me standing there, wrapped in his shirt and the cold ache of something I didn't want to name.

Overthinking.

Or seeing the truth for the first time?

I stood in our penthouse, heart thudding in my chest like a war drum. The polished marble, the crystal vases, the artfully curated décor it all felt like a stage set. A beautiful lie.

I paced the length of the bedroom. Every step echoed with memories. His absences. The sudden trips. The disinterest in our plans. The way he touched me like he was trying to remember how.

I needed proof.

So I went where I'd never gone before.

His study.

The door was always locked, but I knew where he kept the spare key tucked behind the liquor cabinet. I'd seen him retrieve it once, drunk and careless, laughing about something I no longer remembered.

I took the key.

The lock clicked open with a soft, traitorous sound.

My heart beat louder than my footsteps as I stepped inside.

The study was everything Damian was sleek, clinical, and controlled. Dark wood. Black leather. No clutter. Not a single paper out of place. It smelled like amber and spice, sharp enough to sting.

I moved quickly. Drawer after drawer. Files. Bills. Reports. Legal memos. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate.

Until I found it.

At the bottom of the last drawer, beneath a false panel, an envelope.

Unlabeled. Unmarked.

I pulled it out with fingers that didn't feel like mine.

Inside:

 • A plane ticket to Paris.

 • A hotel reservation at the Shangri-La.

 • A photograph.

My breath caught as I stared at the image.

Damian.

With a woman.

Red hair. Long legs. Dressed in black.

Vivienne Blake.

Her lipstick matched the smear on his shirt. Her hand was on his chest. His head was tilted toward hers, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted.

It was intimate. Familiar.

Too familiar.

I flipped the photo over.