Chapter One — “No Distractions”
POV: Damon Voss
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The first rule of Damon Voss’s world: feelings were liabilities—and he didn’t do liabilities.
Not in boardrooms. Not in bedrooms.
And certainly not in his goddamn living room where a half-burnt newspaper lay, with his face splashed under the headline:
“Cold-Hearted Billionaire Exposed for Buying Silence in Scandal.”
Damon stared at it from across the room. The corners still curled with smoke. He’d lit it up ten minutes ago, and it was still smoldering like the acid boiling in his chest.
He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His glass of scotch sat untouched in his hand, ice slowly melting into gold. The city glittered behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows—unbothered. Unforgiving.
Just like him.
“Sir,” Max’s voice cracked the silence. Damon didn’t turn.
“The agency sent someone. Ivy Carter. Last-minute recommendation. Background clear, references quiet. No family interference. And she signed the NDA.”
Damon didn’t answer right away.
He finally sipped the scotch, letting it burn down his throat like punishment.
“I said no replacements,” Damon muttered.
His voice was sandpaper and steel.
“You also said no distractions,” Max countered gently. “And right now, the estate’s a mess. You need someone. Just until the press dies down.”
Damon exhaled slowly, like it physically hurt to allow even that.
“Fine. One week. Keep her out of my way.”
---
IVY CARTER — 2 HOURS LATER
She hadn't planned on ending up in a billionaire’s penthouse that smelled like money and menace, but hey—rent was due, and her mom’s meds weren’t gonna pay themselves.
The elevator doors hissed open, and Ivy’s breath caught.
Marble, glass, and shadows. That was the vibe.
As if luxury had swallowed emotion whole.
She clutched her worn canvas tote tighter, trying not to wrinkle the black shirt she’d borrowed from Sabrina. Her worn-out sneakers squeaked across the polished floor as she stepped into the lion’s den.
Max, the only face that seemed even remotely human, gave her a quick nod.
“This way. Don’t make noise unless spoken to. And don’t touch anything he hasn’t asked for.”
Ivy raised a brow. “Is this a job or a hostage situation?”
Max didn’t laugh. Just led her into the massive, cathedral-like kitchen.
“You’ll stock the fridge, tidy the public areas, and keep everything ready for photo-safe appearances. He doesn’t like clutter. Or people. Or anything unpredictable.”
Ivy snorted under her breath. “Sounds delightful.”
A door opened behind them.
She turned—and saw him.
Damon Voss wasn’t what she expected.
Not in the “billionaire” sense—sure, the sharp suit and brooding eyes were stock standard—but it was the energy that hit her.
Cold. Precise. Dangerous.
Like a storm in a custom suit.
His stare pinned her in place.
“You’re the replacement?”
Ivy swallowed. “Temporary house staff. Ivy Carter. I can mop and organize like nobody’s business. And I don’t talk to the press.”
A flicker of something—amusement?—twitched at the corner of his mouth. But it vanished before she could name it.
“I don’t need small talk. Or charm. Just obedience.”
His tone wasn’t cruel. It was worse—impersonal.
Ivy held her ground. “Then we’ll get along fine. I hate small talk. And charm’s overrated.”
That earned a longer pause. He studied her like she was a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
She didn’t flinch. Even when her heart stuttered like a faulty engine.
“You’ll stay in the east wing. Do not enter my office. Do not speak unless it’s necessary. And never—never—wake me.”
“Right,” Ivy said. “So basically... pretend you don’t exist.”
“Exactly.” He turned. “Max will show you to your room.”
And with that, Damon Voss disappeared, leaving Ivy staring at the place where a man should’ve been.
---
MIDNIGHT
Ivy couldn’t sleep.
Maybe it was the fact she was in a penthouse larger than her entire childhood apartment. Or maybe it was the man who moved through it like a ghost.
She wandered toward the kitchen barefoot, craving coffee.
That’s when she heard it.
A noise—not loud, but wrong. Something… broken.
She followed the sound carefully until she reached a room she hadn’t seen before. The door was slightly ajar. She shouldn’t. But she did.
Inside, Damon sat in the dark. Shirt unbuttoned. Elbows on knees. A photo frame lay shattered beside his feet. His chest rose and fell with effort, as if breathing had become war.
Ivy didn’t speak.
He didn’t look up.
Then—so quiet it felt sacred—he whispered,
“You should leave.”
She stayed.
After a long pause, he finally turned his head just enough to catch her shadow in the doorway.
“I don’t need a savior.”
“I’m not one,” Ivy said softly. “But you looked like you could use a witness.”
Another silence. Deeper.
Then, slowly, Damon picked up the broken frame, tucked it behind him, and stood.
All calm. All mask. The man she’d met returned in seconds.
“You saw nothing,” he said.
“Sure,” Ivy replied. “But that nothing looked a lot like grief.”
---
NEXT MORNING
Ivy made coffee extra strong, not sure if it was for her or the storm she’d just walked into.
Damon entered, impeccably dressed, unreadable as ever.
He said nothing as he grabbed a cup—but paused just before drinking.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Ivy blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t run. Most people do.”
She looked at him square.
“I want my mom to get better. I want to stop counting pennies. I want to wake up and not feel like I’m sprinting uphill. What I don’t want is to pretend I didn’t see you hurting.”
His eyes darkened, but not with anger. Something else.
Something that scared even him.
“You keep pushing, Miss Carter,” he said quietly, “you’ll find what’s behind the mask. And you won’t like it.”
She leaned forward, smile soft but unwavering.
“Maybe I already do.”
He told her no feelings.
But her presence wrapped around his ribs like warmth he didn’t remember needing—until he couldn’t breathe without it.
