Nickolai.
Angel's Point Of View
The morning sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden strokes across the penthouse. I blinked against the light, stretching my limbs beneath the soft sheets.
The city below was already alive, traffic humming, people moving like tiny dots in a complex dance. For a moment, I just lay there, absorbing the stillness before the day officially began.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand and sent a quick text.
Me: Luca, I’m coming.
Luca: Bring coffee.
Me: Already planning to.
With a sigh, I pushed off the bed and made my way to the closet, picking out a sleek black blouse and high-waisted pants.
Simple, elegant, professional. I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, smoothed a hand over the fabric, and grabbed my purse.
By the time I stepped out, a sleek black car was already idling at the curb. No surprises there. I knew who was responsible for it.
“Good morning.” I greeted the driver as I slid into the backseat without waiting for his response, buckling up as the driver pulled away from the penthouse.
I had the driver stop by a small café near the hospital, grabbing two cups of coffee, one for me and one for Luca.
Then, I made a quick detour to a Chinese takeout place, ordering his favorite—orange chicken and chow mein.
When I finally stepped into the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic mixed with the lingering scent of the food in my hands. It was painfully familiar. Too familiar.
I walked past the front desk, nodding at the nurse on duty. She recognized me instantly.
"Goodmorning, Angel. Your mom is awake,” she informed me, her voice kind, and a smile plastered on her face.
“Thank you." I murmured, shifting the coffee cups in my hands.
Luca and I had been accompanying our mom to the hospital for years, yet seeing her in that bed never felt any less unsettling.
She had always been the heart of our home—warm, strong, sometimes controlling, and impossibly perfect. But I’d take that version of her over this—pale, fragile, and barely clinging to her usual spark.
She looked smaller, and the sight of her like this sent a sharp ache through my chest. But her smile, as always, was full of light.
“Sweetheart,” she breathed, reaching for my hand.
I carefully set the food down and leaned in, wrapping my arms around her in a gentle hug.
"Hey, Mom.”
She squeezed my fingers, her touch weak but reassuring. “You look beautiful, as always.”
I smiled. “And you look better than the last time I saw you.”
She chuckled softly. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
I pulled the chair closer and sat down, exhaling.
“I got Luca his food, so he won’t whine when he sees me.”
“That boy,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I miss having you both under one roof.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. This was the part where the conversation always turned heavy.
“I saw the apartment,” she continued, her voice softer now. “It’s nice. But I still don’t understand why you had to move so suddenly.”
I forced a smile. “Work, Mom. The new job came with a lot of changes.”
She gave me a look—one that told me she wasn’t entirely convinced but wouldn’t press further.
I quickly steered the conversation to safer waters, talking about my job, Luca’s college life, anything that wouldn’t lead back to the real reason we had to move.
Too soon, it was time to leave.
“Mom, I’ll see you next week.” I stood, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
She held onto my hand for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Take care, sweetie.”
“Yes, Mom.” I smiled and waved as I stepped out.
I had barely taken a step into the hallway when I collided with something—no, someone. A solid chest.
I looked up to find Luca staring down at me, a cone of ice cream in one hand, his phone in the other.
“You’re leaving already?” He arched a brow, barely looking up from his screen.
“Yeah, I need to get to the office now. I don’t want my boss to—”
He smiled, cutting me off with a nod. “I understand, sis. I’ll come visit over the weekend.”
"Luca, I may not be free on Saturday.”
“Then I’ll visit on Sunday evening.”
“That’ll be fine, I guess.” I moved past him, but something made me pause. I turned back.
"Luca.”
He looked up. “Yes?”
I studied him for a second before asking, “How’s college here?“
The way his face lit up said everything I needed to know.
“Life in L.A. is beautiful. I love it, and college is good.”
I smiled, relieved. He had only been there for a few days, but hearing that he was adjusting well made me feel lighter.
“I’m happy to hear that,” I said, before narrowing my eyes at his ice cream. “And one more thing before I go.”
Before he could react, I leaned in and took a full scoop of his ice cream into my mouth.
Luca gasped, his mouth hanging open. “You bitch.”
I smirked, licking the corner of my lips.
“Be careful, Luca. Mom might hear you.”
His glare could have melted the remaining ice cream, but I only chuckled and dashed out of the hospital before he could retaliate.
And just like that, the burden on my shoulders felt a little lighter.
I arrived at the company and made my way to his office, needing to get the key to the room he had promised me for rehearsal.
Standing before the door, I knocked, but no response. I waited a moment, expecting it to open on its own as usual, but the silence stretched.
Sighing, I reached for the silver knob, only to find it locked.
“Hola, cariño". (Hello, sweetheart.)
The voice was familiar—deep and smooth, eerily close to Raul’s. But it wasn’t him.
The scent was different, and Raul’s voice carried a sharper, more commanding edge.
I turned, already knowing who I’d find.
Nickolai.
I hadn’t seen him since my first day in Raul’s office.
He stood closer than necessary, the proximity making something tighten in my stomach. I always felt unsettled around him—not in the way I did with Raul, but in a way that made my skin prickle.
The resemblance between them was striking, almost identical, except for their eyes.
Raul’s were hypnotizing—deceitful, mysterious, and soul-drowning. They could pull you in, swallow you whole before you even realized you were sinking.
Nickolai’s, on the other hand, were a sharp, unyielding gray—filled with nothing but desire, intensity, and something I couldn’t quite name. Something he was careful to hide.
They shared the same dark curls, the same chiseled features, long lashes, perfectly arched brows, and those maddeningly attractive lips.
Their bodies were built alike, strong and refined, but Raul was slightly taller.
“Uhm… hello, Mr. D’Amano,” I broke the silence, my voice coming out more formal than I intended.
“No need for that, Querida. Call me Nickolai.” His smile was slow, lazy, devastatingly beautiful.
I swallowed, unable to stop my mind from wandering—imagining Raul smiling like that. That would be the end of me, a peaceful way to die.
The past few days had been a relentless storm. Avoiding Raul at all costs. Seeing him plastered across tabloids with the woman he was legally bound to.
Having forbidden, sinful dreams about him every damn night. Fighting against the way my body reacted to him.
It was all too much.
“O-okay, Mr.— I mean, Nickolai,” I corrected.
His gaze darkened with amusement.
“I love the sound of my name on your lips, Amoré.”
His voice dipped lower, heavy with implication. The look in his eyes confirmed it.
A tense silence stretched between us before I forced myself to break it, shifting uncomfortably.
"Raul isn’t around,” Nickolai said, casually leaning against the doorframe. “He went overseas for a shoot—with his wife.”
He emphasized the last word, something strange flickering across his expression.
It was subtle but intentional, as if he was hinting at something I wasn’t supposed to know.
A sharp pang twisted in my chest, but I masked it with a nod. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for letting me know, Nickolai.”
I offered a small smile and turned to leave, but before I could take a step, his fingers wrapped around my wrist.
“You’re just going to leave like that?” His brow arched.
I glanced down at where he held me, then back up. “There’s nothing I can do, Nickolai.”
“Come on, I’ll take you out,” he offered smoothly.
I was already opening my mouth to decline when he flashed that signature D’Amano smile—the kind designed to make people bend to their will.
“I insist.”
It was phrased as a choice, but something about the way he said it made it feel like I didn’t have one.