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Chapter 61 – An Unexpected Invitation and a Healing Touch
“Hazel?” Damien’s deep voice came through the phone, sending an inexplicable warmth through me despite the mundane greeting.
“Hey,” I replied, trying to sound casual while quickly saving the design sketch I’d been working on. “How are you?”
“I just got back from my business trip,” he said. “Are you free for lunch? I’m near your
office.”
My heart leapt. “You’re back already? I thought you’d be gone until Friday.”
“I wrapped things up early,” he explained, his tone neutral but somehow still making me feel like I was the reason he’d rushed back. “There’s a rooftop garden restaurant across from your building. I can meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
The rooftop garden? That was where we’d had our first meal together, where everything between us had begun to shift. The significance wasn’t lost on me.
“That sounds nice,” I managed to say, glad he couldn’t see the ridiculous smile spreading across my face. “I’ll see you there.”
After hanging up, I flew into a flurry of activity. I checked my reflection in the small mirror I kept in my desk drawer, quickly refreshed my lipstick, and rummaged through my bottom drawer for the red–soled heels I kept for client meetings. They were a splurge from my first big commission, and I only wore them for special occasions.
This felt like a special occasion.
As I smoothed my pencil skirt and grabbed my purse, I tried to calm my racing thoughts. Why was I so excited? It was just lunch with Damien. Lunch with the impossibly handsome, unfathomably wealthy man who had mysteriously inserted himself into my life, rescued me repeatedly, and seemed to genuinely care about my wellbeing.
Just lunch. Right.
The hostess at the rooftop restaurant recognized me immediately. “Ms. Ashworth, Mr.
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Sterling is already seated. Please follow me:
She led me to a private corner of the terrace where Damien stood as I approached. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, making me itch to sketch him just as he was, backlit by the city skyline.
“You look lovely,” he said simply, pulling out my chair.
“Thank you.” I sat down, hyperaware of his proximity as he pushed in my chair. “How was your trip?”
“Productive,” he said, taking the seat across from me. His eyes lingered on my face for a moment longer than necessary. “But I’m glad to be back.”
The waiter appeared with two glasses of sparkling water, clearly having been briefed on Damien’s preferences beforehand. After taking our orders, he disappeared, leaving us in a moment of charged silence.
“Your message last night mentioned the blue fabric for my suit,” Damien said, his fingers lightly tapping the stem of his water glass. “I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
“It’s perfect for you,” I said, relaxing into the comfortable topic of my work. “The shade will bring out your eyes.”
A hint of a smile played at his lips. “Is that why you chose it?”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “I choose fabrics based on what will best complement the client,” I said professionally, then added with more honesty, “But yes, that was a factor.”
His smile widened slightly before his expression shifted to something more serious. “How’s your arm?”
The abrupt change of topic caught me off guard. “My arm?”
“Where Julian cut you yesterday,” he clarified, his eyes darkening.
“Oh, that. It’s fine, really. Just a scratch.” I instinctively touched my forearm where a small bandage covered the wound.
“May I?” Damien reached across the table, his hand extended.
I hesitated before slowly offering my arm. He took my wrist gently, turning it to examine the bandage with a clinical precision that reminded me he wasn’t just a
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businessman but also had a background in medical research.
“The bandage isn’t properly applied,” he said, frowning. “Did you clean it thoroughly?”
“I washed it and put some antibiotic cream on it,” I said, feeling oddly defensive. “It’s really nothing.”
His expression remained serious. “Even small cuts can become infected. Did you get a tetanus shot?”
I involuntarily flinched at the mention of shots. “No, it wasn’t deep enough to need
one.”
His eyes caught my reaction, studying me intently. “You’re afraid of needles.”
It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact. I blinked, surprised by his perception.
“How did you know that?”
“Your pupils dilated when I mentioned shots, and you tensed,” he explained matter–of–factly. “Julian never noticed, did he?”
The question hung in the air between us. Julian had, in fact, never noticed my fear of needles, despite the fact that I’d donated blood for him multiple times over our
relationship, each time struggling with my phobia.
“No,” I admitted quietly. “He didn’t.”
Something like satisfaction flickered across Damien’s face before he returned his attention to my arm. His thumb brushed lightly over the bandage, sending an unexpected shiver through me.
“This needs proper treatment,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’m calling my personal physician. He can bring appropriate medication.”
“Damien, that’s really not necessary,” I protested, pulling my arm back gently. “I have antibiotic ointment at home.”
He ignored my protest, already speaking into his phone. “Dr. Chen, I need you to bring wound care supplies to the rooftop garden at Hazel Tower. Yes, now. It’s for Ms. Ashworth.”
I stared at him, caught between annoyance at being overruled and a strange, warm
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feeling at being cared for so thoroughly. No one had ever been this concerned about my well–being before, certainly not over something as minor as a scratch.
Damien hung up and met my gaze unapologetically. “He’ll be here shortly.”
“You know, most people would have just said ‘put some Neosporin on it‘ and moved on,” I said, trying to sound exasperated but hearing the fondness in my own voice.
“I’m not most people,” he replied simply.
Our food arrived, momentarily distracting us. As we ate, Damien steered the conversation to safer topics – my latest designs, a gallery opening next week, a documentary we’d both watched recently. But I could feel the undercurrent between us, something powerful and unspoken.
When Dr. Chen arrived twenty minutes later with a small medical bag, I felt simultaneously mortified and touched. The doctor, a distinguished–looking man in his fifties, greeted Damien with obvious respect before turning to me with a kind smile.
“Ms. Ashworth, may I?” He gestured to my arm.
With a resigned sigh, I extended my arm again and allowed him to remove the bandage. As he cleaned the wound with much more thoroughness than I had, applying a specialized ointment and a proper dressing, I glanced at Damien. His eyes were fixed on the process, his expression a mixture of concern and something else – something possessive and protective that made my heart race.
“Thank you, Dr. Chen,” Damien said when he’d finished.
“Of course, Mr. Sterling. Ms. Ashworth, please change this dressing tonight and apply more ointment.” He handed me a small tube before departing as discreetly as he’d arrived.
“Was that really necessary?” I asked once we were alone again.
“Yes,” Damien said without hesitation. “Your health is important.”
The simple declaration hit me with unexpected force. When was the last time someone had prioritized my well–being this way? My mother had died when I was
basic dignity. young, and my father had never shown much concern for me. Even Julian, for all his early sweetness, had ultimately prioritized Ivy’s desires over my
“You’re overthinking,” Damien observed, taking a sip of his water.
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“And you’re overreacting to a tiny scratch,” I countered, but I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
He set down his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I take
Hazel.” care of what matters to me,
The words hung between us, heavy with implication. What matters to me. I was what mattered to him. The realization left me breathless, unsure how to respond to such a direct, tender declaration.
Before I could formulate a response, Damien’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression shifting subtly.
“I apologize, but I need to take this,” he said, standing. “Please, finish your meal. I’ve already taken care of the check.”
As he stepped away to answer the call, I sat there with my newly bandaged arm, wondering at the strange path my life had taken. A month ago, I was nursing a shattered heart and humiliated pride. Now I was having lunch with Damien Sterling, who’d just called in his personal doctor to treat a scratch on my arm because I “mattered” to him.
I watched him across the terrace, his tall figure silhouetted against the city skyline, and felt something shift inside me – a wall beginning to crumble, a heart starting to hope again despite all my best defenses.
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