Seven Years as a Secret Lover, One Month to Become His Regret

"All right, stop crying now. I'll put some medicine on it for you."

He patted my head gently, the way he always did when I broke, as though tenderness were a debt he could settle with his hands. Then he rose and crossed the dim bedroom toward the bathroom where the first-aid kit was kept, muttering over his shoulder as he went.

"Look at you—such a big girl, but still afraid of pain and always crying. What would you do without me?"

I stared blankly at the red burn mark on my wrist. The skin around it had already begun to swell, glossy and tight under the low lamplight of the penthouse suite. Beyond the window, the city stretched in disciplined lines of amber and black, the Valenti-owned blocks visible from every angle, as though even the skyline existed to remind me whose roof I lived under.

Yes, I'd been spoiled for a full seven years. What would I do without him?

"But, Damien, I don't want you anymore. I don't want this fake love anymore," I said to myself, the words no louder than a breath. My thumb rubbed once over the inside of my wrist—above the burn, where the pulse still beat steady—before I lifted my chin and composed my face into the neutral mask he expected to find when he returned.

That night, I couldn't sleep well and woke up covered in sweat. The sheets clung to my skin like something alive, and for a disoriented moment, the faint hum of the building's security system sounded like a voice whispering from very far away. The guarded penthouse was silent the way places controlled by armed men are silent—not peaceful, just held.

Just as dawn was breaking, Damien pulled me out of bed.

I grumbled, trying to push him away, but he just chuckled and leaned in to kiss me. His mouth was warm and unhurried, and his hand found the back of my neck with the casual possession of a man who had never once questioned his right to touch me.

Instantly, all my sleepiness vanished. I almost slapped him, but barely managed to hold myself back. My fingers curled into the pillow instead, knuckles white for a single second before I released them.

Luckily, it was just a quick kiss.

"Awake yet, my Sleeping Beauty?"

I turned away, wiping my mouth in disgust. "It's the weekend. Why can't you let people sleep in?"

Damien looked helpless. "Did you know you had a fever last night? Get up; I'm taking you to the hospital."

Although I felt mostly fine—a low ache behind my eyes, a heaviness in my limbs that could have been grief as easily as illness—I couldn't argue with him, so I reluctantly got up. He was already dressed, dark trousers and a charcoal pullover that made him look like any other wealthy man heading out for Saturday brunch, not the underboss of a family whose name made federal prosecutors lose sleep. A soldier waited by the front door without a word, keys already in hand.

The drive was short. Damien kept one hand on my knee the entire way, his thumb drawing absent circles against the fabric of my coat. I let him. Habit was a muscle I hadn't yet learned how to unclench.