Damian Cross wasn't used to chasing women. But this one—this mystery—had done something to him.
Days passed, and yet the memory of her still clung to him like a haunting melody. He tried to distract himself with work, with other women, but nothing felt the same. No one came close to the way she had made him feel—alive, desperate, satisfied yet craving more.
So he did what any man with limitless power and resources would do.
He went looking for her.
"Find out everything you can about the woman I met at Noir last weekend," he told his private investigator, Marcus Reed.
Marcus, an ex-detective with a sharp eye for details, narrowed his gaze. "Do you have a name?"
Damian clenched his jaw. "No."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "A picture?"
"No."
A smirk tugged at Marcus's lips. "So, you want me to find a woman in a city of ten million people, with no name, no photo, and no information?"
Damian exhaled slowly. "I don't care what it takes. Just find her."
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn. She must've really done a number on you."
Finding Her Again
It took three nights.
Three nights of searching, of calling in favors, of following whispers in the underground world where she existed.
And then, finally—he found her.
She was walking out of a sleek, high-end hotel, her black dress hugging every curve, her heels clicking against the pavement like a woman who feared nothing.
Damian stepped out of his car, leaning against it as he watched her approach.
She noticed him immediately, but unlike most women who would have gasped or smiled, she simply stopped, tilting her head. "Took you long enough."
Damian smirked, pushing off the car. "You were waiting for me?"
"I knew you'd come looking."
His smirk faltered. She was too calm, too unreadable. He wasn't sure if she was impressed or amused by his obsession.
"Who are you?" he asked, stepping closer.
She let out a soft laugh, the sound sending a strange heat through his veins. "Why does it matter?"
"Because no woman has ever made me feel the way you did." He hadn't meant to say it—hadn't meant to sound so vulnerable. But it was the truth.
Her expression flickered—just for a second, just long enough for him to catch it. A moment of hesitation, of something real. But then it was gone, replaced by the mask she wore so well.
"You think I'm special because I know how to touch you?" she whispered, stepping so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. "Because I can make your body surrender?"
Damian's chest tightened. "No," he admitted. "Because you made me feel something."
Her smirk faded, her eyes darkening. For a second, it looked like she might let her walls down. But then she stepped back. "That's dangerous, billionaire."
"Tell me your name," he demanded.
She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a slow, teasing smirk, she said, "Eve."
Was it her real name? He didn't know.
But it was something.
And Damian Cross wasn't about to let her slip away this time.