Chapter 14

Kayna’s POV

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood frozen in the middle of my hotel suite, my pulse still hammering.

Ixora.

That was the name I’d seen flash across his screen. Bold, undeniable.

I tried to steady my breathing, but the silence of the room seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. One moment, Damian had been there, towering, sharp, yet oddly vulnerable as he lingered in my space and the next, he’d pulled the shutters down. His voice had gone cold, his eyes unreadable, and he’d left as if I’d imagined everything else.

I pressed my palms against my face. Why had he come in the first place?

It wasn’t about the Cosmo project. I knew it in my gut. The way he’d looked at me, the way he’d asked why I pushed myself so hard, that wasn’t a boss checking in on an employee.

That was… something else. Something I couldn’t name.

And yet, it all crumbled with that phone call. That name.

Who was she? A colleague? A client? Or worse, someone from his past that still had a claim on him?

Was she the woman from the office? I thought silently to myself.

I wandered back to the desk, staring at the pages of notes I’d left scattered there. They looked foreign now, meaningless. I couldn’t concentrate even if I tried. My brain kept looping, pulling up every interaction I’d had with him, every charged silence, every flicker of softness that didn’t match his reputation.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. God, what was I doing? Why did it matter? Damian Marshall was my boss. Nothing more. He was wealthy, powerful, untouchable. I was… me. Just a girl with bills stacked high back home, a mother whose health was faltering, and a father behind bars. A woman who should be grateful just to be in the room, let alone noticed.

So why did it hurt?

I curled up on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, trying to make sense of myself.

I’d spent so long teaching myself not to need anyone, not to hope for things I couldn’t have. And yet, when Damian showed up at my door tonight, part of me had… hoped. Hoped it meant something more.

But then one call had shattered it.

The effect that name had on him was too obvious not to notice. It was as though cold water had been poured over the little moment we were having and he no longer wanted to be In the same space.

Whoever she was, she reminded me of something I couldn’t compete with: his world. The world of polished socialites, old money, and legacy names that carried weight. A world where someone like me; fresh out of school, patched together with grit and sheer desperation would never belong.

My throat tightened, and I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes until the tears receded. I refused to cry over Damian Marshall.

But even as I promised myself that, I couldn’t stop the ache spreading through me.

The night dragged on endlessly. I tossed and turned, slipping between restless dreams and tired wakefulness. By morning, I felt tired out, like I hadn’t slept at all.

Still, I tried to be as professional as possible. I dressed in the navy pencil skirt and cream blouse I’d packed for the meeting, slipped on low heels, and stood in front of the mirror until I looked composed. Presentable. Like nothing had cracked open inside me last night.

But the mirror didn’t lie. My eyes were faintly swollen, a shade too dull. My smile—the one I practiced in case I had to use it—looked shaky at the edges.

I squared my shoulders anyway. No one had to know.

……

When I entered the hotel’s private conference lounge that morning, Damian was already there.

He stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear, the sharp lines of his suit cutting an intimidating figure against the Los Angeles skyline. His voice was low, clipped. His jaw tight.

I forced myself not to linger on him, moving to the table to organize the files Ava had couriered over from New York.

“Good Morning” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He gave the faintest nod, still absorbed in his call.

The tension in the air was palpable. Not the subtle, unspoken tension that had hovered between us before, but something harsher. Colder. As if he’d built a wall overnight and wasn’t letting me or anyone through it.

I focused on my task, aligning the documents, double-checking the agenda, rehearsing in my mind the notes I’d prepared. But my thoughts kept sliding sideways, back to last night. To the look in his eyes before the phone rang. To the way he’d left without explanation. To that name.

Ixora.

“Everything ready?” Damian’s voice broke through my spiral.

I glanced up. His call was over, but his tone carried the same edge, controlled, precise, but sharper than usual.

“Yes” I said quickly. “I’ve cross-checked the numbers against the revised segmentation, and I’ve prepared a condensed briefing for tomorrow’s session.”

His eyes flicked over me, unreadable. “Good.”

He moved past me to the table, his presence overwhelming in the small space. My pulse jumped, but I forced my hands to stay steady on the papers.

“Anything else I should know?” he asked.

I hesitated, caught between the professional answer and the personal one pressing at the back of my throat. Who is Ixora? Why did you come to my room last night?

But I swallowed it down. “No. Everything is under control.”

He gave a short nod, already turning his attention back to his phone. Conversation over.

The rest of the morning blurred into silence and clipped exchanges. Damian was sharp, efficient, but his words carried a bite they hadn’t before. Every correction landed like a sting, every glance reminded me of the wall between us.

And yet, despite the sting, I couldn’t shake the memory of last night—the version of him that had looked at me like he wanted to know more. Like he’d seen me.

Was that real? Or had I just imagined it?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, leaving me restless and off-balance.

By the time lunch rolled around, I excused myself under the pretense of needing to review my notes. In truth, I just needed air.

Out on the terrace, the California sun pressed warm against my skin. I leaned on the railing, staring out at the city.

I should focus on the project. On proving myself. On the reason I was even here.

But instead, all I could think about was that name and the previous night.

And the question that refused to leave me:

What did she mean to Damian Marshall?