Miranda lay in Damian's bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as his scent lingered in the sheets. The room felt colder, emptier, now that he had walked out. She could still feel the heat of his touch, the ghost of his lips on her skin, and it only deepened the ache in her chest.
But there was no time to dwell. He was gone, and she wouldn't let herself be reduced to a shattered mess—not again. She forced herself to sit up, brushing the tousled strands of her hair from her face. Her eyes scanned the room, and her gaze landed on her discarded clothes.
The crimson dress lay crumpled on the floor where it had fallen hours ago, a striking contrast against the sleek hardwood. Miranda slid off the bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor as she picked up her lace panties. They felt delicate in her hands, a faint reminder of how vulnerable she had been tonight.
She slipped them on slowly, the fabric hugging her hips as she took a steadying breath. Next, her hands reached for her bra, the black lace still warm from earlier. The straps slid over her shoulders, and she fastened the clasp at her back with practiced ease.
Miranda glanced at herself in the mirror as she retrieved her dress. The woman staring back at her looked raw, her cheeks flushed and her lips slightly swollen from Damian's kisses. There was a fire in her eyes, though—a determination that hadn't been there before.
She pulled the dress over her head, the fabric cascading down her body and molding to her curves. Adjusting the hemline and smoothing out the wrinkles, she stepped into her heels, their familiar height grounding her. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gave herself one final look in the mirror.
No tears. No hesitation.
She grabbed her purse from the nightstand, her fingers brushing against the cool leather as she took a deep breath. The apartment was silent, the only sound her heels echoing softly against the floor as she walked toward the door.
The elevator ride down was a blur, her mind spinning with thoughts of Damian—his touch, his voice, the way he had looked at her tonight before telling her it was over. Anger flared in her chest, fueling her resolve.
The drive back to her house felt longer than it should have, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly. The city lights blurred as her thoughts spiraled. She couldn't shake the memory of him—his hands on her waist, his lips tracing her collarbone, the raw passion they had shared.
When Miranda finally stepped into her home, she kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the couch, her body tense and restless. She tried to close her eyes, but sleep refused to come. Every time she drifted, she saw his face, heard his voice, felt the weight of his body pressing against hers.
It wasn't just desire—it was obsession. Damian Cross had carved himself into her soul, and she couldn't imagine a world where he wasn't hers.
Miranda sat up, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she stared into the darkness. If she couldn't have him, no one would.
The thought settled over her like a shadow, dark and consuming. She wouldn't let him go so easily. Damian belonged to her, and no one else had the right to touch him, to experience what she had.
Her fingers clenched into fists as she stood, pacing the room in agitation. Memories of his smirking face, the way he had claimed her with every kiss, every touch, filled her mind. He was hers—completely, utterly hers.
Miranda's lips curved into a smile, sharp and dangerous. If Damian thought he could leave her behind, he was wrong. If he thought he could move on, she would remind him of exactly who she was.
"You're mine, Damian," she whispered into the stillness, her voice dripping with conviction. "And I'll make sure you never forget it."
The night stretched on, the hours blending together as Miranda's resolve solidified. She didn't know what her next move would be, but one thing was certain: Damian Cross would regret ever trying to let her go.