Damien came downstairs in silence, buttoning his jacket with slow, precise fingers. He didn’t eat. He didn’t say good morning. He moved through the kitchen like a sniper that had slipped from the night , all composed angles and controlled restraint, then vanished into his office with the same practiced calm. He returned only long enough to gather a file, and that was it. No apology. No tenderness. Just motion. Cold and calculated.
Gwen watched him go, her stomach knotted with the old, ugly recognition, the only time he uncoiled anything close to feeling was when he wanted to take her apart in the dark. Desire, to him, was a transaction, a tool to soothe whatever itch lay under his skin. Otherwise she was a fixture in his home, a face to warm his bed, a shape to keep things tidy, a possess
