For the first time, Damien invited Rhema to his private residence—a sprawling penthouse that overlooked the city from the 80th floor. It was a temple of minimalism: white marble, black leather, and walls of glass that made the city feel like a miniature toy set.
"My mother doesn't know I'm here," Rhema said, stepping into the vast living area. She felt small in the space, overwhelmed by the luxury.
"Of course she doesn't," Damien replied, pouring two glasses of vintage Cristal. "This is the only place where we don't have to play a part. No bosses, no daughters, no mothers."
He handed her a glass, his fingers lingering against hers.
"It's so quiet here," Rhema whispered, walking toward the window.
"It's a sanctuary," Damien said, stepping up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her
