Chapter 53 Mr and Mrs Blackwood
JASMINE
While Damien drove, I kept sneaking glances at him.
Not deliberately at first—just quick, accidental flickers of attention that I pretended were meaningless.
The sharp outline of his jaw caught the corner of my eye. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the way his hand rested easily on the steering wheel, confident and steady, while the other was propped casually on the glove box as if the car itself bowed to him.
Each detail pulled me in against my will.
For a brief, dangerous moment, my imagination betrayed me.
I pictured that hand—not on the glove box, not on the wheel—but on my exposed thigh.
The thought struck so suddenly that I grimaced and shifted in my seat.
Was I really so easy?
I turned my face toward the window, watching the world blur past us. The sun had already begun to set, spilling a purple-golden hue across the road, painting the city in warm shadows and glowing edges.
Streetlights blinked on one by one, like stars rising from the ground instead of the sky.
Damien still hadn’t told me where we were going.
But the way I was dressed told me everything I needed to know—it was somewhere elegant, somewhere that demanded silence and posture and restraint. Somewhere expensive. Somewhere far from the chaos in my heart.
The car slowed.
Then stopped.
“We’re here,” Damien said quietly.
My pulse jumped.
He got out first, walking around to my side of the car. I watched him through the window as he opened my door and offered his hand.
For a second, I hesitated.
My eyes traveled up his form—his broad shoulders wrapped in his tailored suit, the confident tilt of his head, the way his emerald eyes regarded me patiently, without rush or pressure.
I placed my hand in his.
He helped me out, and before I could step back, he pulled me gently closer. His body was warm, solid, grounding. He leaned in slightly and his perfume invaded my senses—rich, dark, masculine.
I inhaled unconsciously.
Deeply.
Too deeply.
Then the car door shut behind me with a sharp click, and reality snapped back into place.
He had done that on purpose.
Damien pulled back just enough for me to see the smirk playing on his lips.
Heat rushed to my cheeks.
I looked away quickly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
Without a word, I linked my hand through his arm, needing the contact and fearing it at the same time. Together, we walked toward the entrance of the restaurant.
He handed his keys to the valet, who bowed slightly before disappearing with the car. Damien guided me inside, his hand firm but gentle at my waist.
The restaurant took my breath away.
It was drenched in extravagance.
Dark walls wrapped in velvet tones reflected the soft glow of candlelight. Crystal chandeliers hung from mirrored ceilings, their reflections multiplying endlessly above us, creating the illusion of a thousand tiny stars suspended in the darkness.
Gold-lined lamps stood at each table, casting warm halos over white tablecloths and delicate glassware.
Everything shimmered—wine glasses, polished silverware, the glossy surface of the grand piano positioned at the center of the room.
Heavy burgundy curtains framed tall windows that overlooked the city, and the entire space felt hushed, reverent, like a cathedral built for romance instead of prayer.
Soft melodies drifted through the air, played by a pianist seated beneath a spotlight. The music was slow and tender, wrapping itself around every corner of the room.
I swallowed.
Before we could reach the service table, a waiter appeared, already expecting us.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood,” he greeted with a polite bow.
His words pierced straight through my chest.
Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood.
I felt them like needles.
He led us to our table, tucked into a secluded corner beneath one of the chandeliers. After taking our orders, he disappeared quietly into the back.
I sat still for a moment, overwhelmed.
My eyes roamed the room again, taking in the glimmering chandeliers, the intimate candlelit tables, the way shadows danced softly along the walls. The piano’s melody swam through the air like a living thing, touching every thought I tried to hide. The restaurant reminded me of Uncle Tom's, I missed those days, I missed him.
Then my gaze drifted to Damien.
And immediately, I regretted it.
Because he was already watching me.
There was something unreadable in his expression—dark, intense, searching.
The silence between us thickened.
I had to break it.
“So…” I said softly, wrapping my fingers around my napkin. “How was your trip?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair. “It went well.”
“Where did you go?”
“New England.”
My brows lifted in surprise. “Really?”
He nodded. “I met with some family while I was there.”
That startled me more than I expected. He had never spoken about his family before. The only family I knew was Darcy.
“Oh,” I murmured. “I didn’t know you still kept in touch with them.”
“Some of them,” he replied calmly.
I decided not to pry.
The question that had been burning my tongue finally escaped. “Why did you bring me here?”
He studied me in silence.
I pressed on nervously. “I know part of the contract is public appearances, but… why the dress? And the flowers? You even remembered they’re my favorite.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
He simply watched me—calculating, assessing, as though weighing every word he was about to speak.
Then he said, quietly, “Because I missed you.”
The words knocked the breath from my lungs.
“I missed your scent in my house,” he continued. “The sound of your voice. Your touch.”
He reached across the table and took my hand in his.
My heart skipped violently.
There was no mockery in his voice.
No playfulness. Only sincerity.
“This wasn’t part of the contract,” he admitted. “But you’re mine, Jasmine. And I want you to feel like it. I want you to feel like you belong in my world. Because you do.”
I blinked, stunned.
Was I dreaming?
“I brought you here because I wanted to spend time with you,” he said. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. I don’t know why.”
My throat tightened.
Raymond’s face flashed through my mind.
“Damien…” I whispered.
“I want to kiss you,” he said softly. “I want to hold you. I want you to know you belong to me.”
The weight of his words settled heavily on my chest.
I was his?
Before I could respond, the waiter returned with a bottle of wine, interrupting the moment.
I exhaled shakily.
Grateful for the interruption, I pulled my hand away from Damien’s grasp. His eyes followed the movement, but he said nothing.
“Would you like our complimentary wine?” the waiter asked.
“Yes,” I replied too quickly.
He poured into our glasses and set the bottle down. “Your meals will be out shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
And then he left again.
Too soon.
The air between Damien and me felt thick, charged, suffocating.