Chapter 4 Passion and Collapse

# Chapter 4: Passion and Collapse

A week passed. Then another. Damon's promise of "one week" had long expired, but neither of us mentioned it. Whatever this was between us had evolved beyond any arbitrary timeline.

Our days fell into a strange rhythm. By day, I gathered information on Victor Whitlock's questionable business practices, building a case against him with Damon's help. By night, we explored this dangerous attraction that had ignited between us.

"You're different," Ava observed over coffee one morning. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

I nearly choked on my latte. "What makes you say that?"

"Besides the fact that you just went crimson?" She smirked. "You've got that look. The one that says you're doing something you know is complicated but can't stop."

She wasn't wrong. Being with Damon was like standing at the edge of a cliff—exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Every touch was a negotiation, every kiss a battle for control neither of us was willing to relinquish.

"It's not just physical," I admitted, surprising myself with the confession. "He understands parts of me I've never shared with anyone."

Ava's expression softened. "That's what scares me, Em. He's had access to your personal information. He knows things about you because he invaded your privacy, not because you chose to share them."

Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. Despite our growing intimacy, I couldn't forget how this had started—with his obsessive pursuit, his deliberate disruption of my life.

"I know what I'm doing," I insisted, though I wasn't sure I did.

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're diving headfirst into something that could destroy you professionally and personally."

"It's more complicated than that."

"It always is." Ava sighed. "Just promise me you'll be careful. Men like Damon don't play by normal rules."

That evening, I sat in Damon's penthouse, surrounded by documents we'd gathered on Victor. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan, glittering in the dusk like a jewelry box of lights.

"We have enough," Damon said, joining me on the sofa. He handed me a glass of wine. "The offshore accounts, the forged documents, the silenced whistleblowers. It's all here."

I took the glass, our fingers brushing. Even that casual contact sent electricity up my arm.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked. "Once I publish, there's no going back. Your family name—"

"Needs cleaning." His expression hardened. "My father has turned Whitlock into a synonym for corruption. I want to change that."

"Even if it means public scandal?"

"Even then." His eyes met mine. "Sometimes you have to burn everything down to build something better."

I took a sip of wine, studying him. "You're not what I expected."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "What did you expect?"

"A spoiled heir who'd never faced consequences. Someone shallow, entitled."

"And now?"

I set down my glass. "Now I see someone willing to sacrifice everything for what he believes is right. It's... unexpected."

He moved closer, his hand finding mine. "You've changed how I see myself too."

"How so?"

"Before you, I thought control was everything. Now I realize there's power in vulnerability." His voice dropped lower. "In letting someone see the parts of you that you keep hidden."

His words resonated deeply. For all his intensity and dominating presence, Damon had shown me glimpses of genuine vulnerability—his complicated relationship with his father, his fears about the company's future, his determination to right past wrongs.

And I had begun to share my own truths—about my father's abandonment, my mother's illness, my fear of being left behind. Things I rarely discussed with anyone.

He leaned in, his lips finding mine in a kiss that started gentle but quickly ignited into something more urgent. I melted into him, my body responding with a need that still surprised me in its intensity.

Later, tangled in his sheets, my head on his chest, I felt a strange sense of peace. This man who had stormed into my life like a hurricane had somehow become my harbor.

"Stay," he murmured against my hair.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow."

"Cancel it."

I laughed softly. "Some of us have bosses, Damon."

"Call in sick." His hand traced patterns on my bare back. "Spend the day with me."

The temptation was strong. But a small voice warned me against becoming too dependent, too absorbed in this all-consuming relationship.

"I can't. Charlotte's expecting the first draft of the Victor piece."

He tensed slightly beneath me. "You haven't told her who your source is?"

"No. Just that I have irrefutable evidence." I propped myself up to look at him. "Do you not trust me?"

"I trust you." His eyes searched mine. "It's everyone else I'm wary of."

The next morning, I arrived at the office to find Charlotte waiting anxiously by my desk.

"We have a situation," she said without preamble.

"What's wrong?"

"Victor Whitlock called again. Says he has proof that you're involved in a 'compromising relationship' with his son and that any story you write about him would be a conflict of interest."

My stomach dropped. "He's trying to discredit me before I can publish."

"Is he wrong about the relationship?"

I hesitated. "It's complicated."

Charlotte rubbed her temples. "Jesus, Emery. Do you have any idea how this looks? You're sleeping with your subject's son while writing an exposé about him?"

"Damon isn't my subject. Victor is."

"They're part of the same family, the same company!" Charlotte lowered her voice as curious colleagues glanced our way. "The board is concerned about legal liability. They're talking about killing the story."

Panic rose within me. "They can't. This is important, Charlotte. Victor Whitlock has ruined lives with his business practices."

"Then you need to distance yourself from Damon. At least publicly." Her expression softened slightly. "I'm trying to protect you here. Your reputation is on the line."

I spent the rest of the day distracted, torn between my professional integrity and my feelings for Damon. By evening, I was exhausted and confused.

My phone buzzed with a text from Damon: "Dinner?"

I replied: "Not tonight. Need to think."

His response came immediately: "About?"

"Us. The story. Everything."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally: "I'll come to you."

"No," I typed quickly. "I need space tonight."

No response came. I tried to focus on the article, reworking paragraphs and strengthening arguments, but my mind kept drifting to Damon. Had I made a mistake getting involved with him? Was I compromising my professional ethics?

Around 9 PM, my buzzer rang. Callista Reynolds, another journalist from a rival publication, stood outside my building.

"We need to talk," she said when I let her in, her voice urgent. "About Damon Whitlock."

I stiffened. "What about him?"

"I heard you're writing about Victor." She placed her designer handbag on my coffee table. "I have information that might help."

Callista was known for her aggressive reporting style and questionable ethics. We'd crossed paths at industry events but had never been friends.

"Why would you help me?"

"Professional courtesy." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "And I've had my own run-ins with the Whitlocks."

Something about her demeanor made me uneasy, but I gestured for her to continue.

"Victor isn't the only problem in that family," she said, pulling out a folder. "Damon's just as bad. Maybe worse."

She laid out photos and documents—evidence, she claimed, of Damon's involvement in the very dealings he'd attributed to his father.

"He's playing you, Emery," Callista said softly. "Using you to take down his father so he can take control of the company."

I examined the documents carefully. They looked convincing, but something felt off.

"Where did you get these?"

"Sources I've cultivated for years." She leaned forward. "I'm telling you this as a colleague. Damon Whitlock is dangerous. He seduces women, uses them, then discards them."

"Speaking from experience?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.

Callista's expression flickered. "Let's just say I know his pattern."

After she left, I stared at the materials she'd provided. Could Damon have been manipulating me all along? Using my journalism skills to eliminate his father while positioning himself to take over?

No. I refused to believe it. The Damon I'd come to know—the man who held me at night, who shared his fears and hopes, who looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life—he couldn't be faking that.

Could he?

My phone rang—Damon.

"I know I said I needed space," I answered, "but something's happened."

"Callista Reynolds visited you." His voice was cold, controlled.

I froze. "How did you know that?"

"Because she just texted me, gloating about how easily you believed her."

"I didn't say I believed her."

"You didn't have to." The edge in his voice cut like glass. "The fact that you're questioning me at all says everything."

"Damon—"

"I'll be at The Velvet Room in an hour. If you trust me at all, meet me there."

The line went dead.

The Velvet Room was an exclusive club in the Meatpacking District. By the time I arrived, I'd worked myself into a state of righteous anger. Who was he to test my trust this way?

I spotted him at the bar immediately—and Callista beside him, her hand on his arm, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

Jealousy, hot and unexpected, surged through me. I started toward them, but stopped when I saw her smile and run her fingers along his jawline—a gesture far too intimate for colleagues.

They hadn't seen me yet. I could leave, preserve what was left of my dignity.

But then Damon's eyes met mine across the crowded room. Something flashed in them—triumph? Relief? I couldn't tell.

I turned and pushed my way back through the crowd toward the exit. Outside, the cool night air did nothing to soothe the burning in my chest.

I'd made it halfway down the block when I heard him call my name. I kept walking.

"Emery!" His hand caught my arm, spinning me around. "It's not what you think."

"Isn't it?" I yanked my arm free. "You arranged this whole thing, didn't you? Set me up to see you with her?"

"Yes." His honesty caught me off guard. "To show you what she really is."

"What she really is?" I laughed bitterly. "And what am I in this scenario, Damon? Another woman you're manipulating?"

"No." He stepped closer. "You're the only one who matters."

Before I could respond, he pulled me into a shadowed doorway, his body caging mine against the wall. "She approached me weeks ago, offering to spy on my father. Tonight she offered herself to me, thinking she could drive a wedge between us."

"Maybe she succeeded," I said, trying to ignore how my body responded to his proximity.

His eyes darkened. "Did she?"

I said nothing, my pride still wounded.

Suddenly, movement at the club entrance caught my eye. Callista emerged, scanning the street. When she spotted us, she started walking toward us with determined strides.

Damon saw her too. His expression hardened. Before I could process what was happening, he pulled me from the doorway and back toward the club. Callista intercepted us, her smile falsely bright.

"Emery! I was hoping to catch you. There's more I wanted to discuss about Damon's—"

What happened next occurred so quickly I barely had time to react. Damon stepped forward, his hand connecting with Callista's cheek in a sharp slap that echoed in the night air.

"Stay away from her," he growled, his voice barely recognizable.

Callista stumbled back, her hand to her face, shock and fear in her eyes.

I stood frozen, horrified by the violence of his reaction. Before I could find my voice, Damon grasped my arm and pulled me toward a waiting car, practically shoving me inside before climbing in after me.

"What the hell was that?" I demanded as the car pulled away.

His eyes were wild, his breathing heavy. "If you're not trying to make me angry," he said in a dangerously low voice, "then you want me to kill her."

The words sent ice through my veins—not just for their content, but for the absolute conviction with which he spoke them.

In that moment, I glimpsed the darkness Damon kept carefully contained. And it terrified me as much as it thrilled me to know that his possessiveness of me could drive him to such extremes.

What had I gotten myself into? And more importantly, did I want to escape?