Chapter Three

Four years ago

M y eyes scan the hall as I take a step back. Then one more, hoping like hell nobody catches me sneaking out of my own birthday party.

I turned eighteen today. And Dad threw a huge party to celebrate it. He personally appointed the best planners to decorate our mansion. Not only that, he invited countless people. From his business associates to Hollywood celebrities he likes to mingle with, he invited them all.

It’s safe to say that he spent a fortune to make my day special. And I am sneaking away, leaving all this behind.

I take a cautious step back, merging with the shadows. As soon as I'm out of view, the forced smile I’ve worn for the past two hours melts away.

It’s tiring. To pretend. I can’t do it anymore. Because not one person who’s present here really cares about me. Except for my dad. I crane my neck to find him in the sea of the ridiculously rich people.

A genuine smile lifts the corner of my lips when I spot him. Standing tall in a black tuxedo with a flute of champaign in hand, Dad talks to a group of men surrounding him. At fifty-five he looks years younger. All thanks to the strict fitness regimen and disciplined lifestyle he’s adhered to. The gray hair only makes him more handsome.

Christopher Gibson—my father—commands a level of respect in the business world that most could only dream of. A multi-billionaire with a reputation for being powerful, and precise.

But to me, he’s simply Dad—the man who’s always made sure I felt safe, loved, and cared for, even if it meant doing things I didn’t ask for. Like these grand gatherings. He hosts them, filling our home with strangers, because he’s convinced I need a bigger social circle.

He can’t seem to accept that I’m a shy introvert, his total opposite. He thinks I’m lonely. But I’m not. I’m perfectly content with my life. I’ve always had everything I needed in my own little world. Still, that doesn’t stop my father. He believes my lack of a social life is something he can fix, something he’s responsible for.

He still believes my loneliness is his fault. He thinks that the seven years he spent avoiding me after my mother’s death shaped me into the introverted person I am today. And maybe he’s right. Back then, I was just a baby, completely unaware of why my father—my only living parent—refused to see me, hold me, or even acknowledge that I existed. But now, I understand.

My mother, his wife, died giving birth to me. I was the baby who took her life, the reason she wasn’t here anymore. He never said those words to me, but he didn’t have to. His actions spoke for him. In those early years, he couldn’t bring himself to look at me because every time he did, all he saw was the person who took her away. So, he stayed away, drowning himself in his work while I was left to be raised by nannies and housekeepers.

For seven years, I grew up in a house full of people but still felt completely alone. Birthdays were the hardest. He never forgot them, not once, and he made sure I had everything a child could dream of—extravagant gifts, expensive dolls, even a pony once. But none of it ever mattered to me. I didn’t want any of those things. I just wanted him. I wanted my dad to be there, to tell me he loved me, to hold me and make me feel like I wasn’t some awful mistake. But he didn’t.

Even after all these years I still remember how I used to act out, throwing tantrums just to force him to notice me.

I didn’t understand it back then, why he ignored me so completely. He barely glanced my way, no matter what I did. I used to watch him smile and laugh with his business partners and their families when they came over. Especially with the kids. It stung. He could show them warmth, but not me. I was invisible to him unless I misbehaved. Because even if it meant being scolded or punished, those moments of his attention felt like a lifeline.

It was when I was eight that everything shifted. It wasn’t anything grand or sudden gesture of affection. He simply allowed me to sit with him in his study. I still don’t know why he said yes that day. Maybe he was too busy to care or too distracted to refuse. All he did was nod when I asked timidly if I could stay while he worked. But for me, that single nod was monumental.

I sat quietly on the floor, careful not to make a sound as he worked. With crayons and paper clutched in my tiny hands, I was so happy.

My heart felt light in years. I was determined to make something special for him—a picture of the two of us. I could’ve simply given him one of the hundreds I made over the years but I wanted to make him a new one.

I worked hard on that drawing, pouring every ounce of my love into it.

When I finished it, I nervously approached his desk, clutching the picture so tightly my fingers ached. My heart pounded as I took small, hesitant steps toward him. But in my nervousness, I accidentally knocked into his desk, and his coffee cup tipped over, spilling across the important papers he’d been reading.

My heart froze as he looked up, his face twisting in fury. His eyes blazed with anger, and before I could even stammer an apology, his hand lashed out. His hand struck my cheek with such force that I blacked out, crumpling to the floor.

I woke up later that night, feverish and weak. My cheek throbbed, and my heart felt even worse. That was the day I learned that love couldn’t be forced, no matter how desperately you wanted it.

But then, the next morning, something happened that I never expected. He came into my room. His face was drawn, his eyes filled with something I had never seen before—regret. He sat at the edge of my bed, silent at first, as though the weight of his guilt made it hard to speak. When he finally apologized, his voice trembled, and I felt my chest ache.

I opened my arms to him, instinctively, and the moment I did, he broke. He pulled me into his arms and held me tightly. He cried quietly against my shoulder, his grief spilling over after years of being buried. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew it was important. It was the first time he had truly let me in.

That was the day he finally accepted me. Not as some painful reminder of the wife he had lost, but as his daughter. I remember feeling so happy I thought I might burst. For the first time, I felt like I truly had a father. And that changed everything.

My world is small, just me and my dad, but it’s mine, and it’s enough.

Making friends has always been a struggle for me. The truth is, I learned at a young age that most people only care about what they can take from you. The so-called friends I managed to make were more interested in my dad’s wealth than in me. I was just a way to access luxury, a walking invitation to fancy dinners, expensive gifts, and exclusive parties. Once I realized that, I gave up on the idea of friendship altogether.

Instead, I found solace in pottery. It became my escape. It was calming and honest in a way people never were. I spent hours at it, perfecting the craft, preferring the solitude of my art.

Dad, on the other hand, was bothered by this. He saw my isolation as his failure. He blamed himself for my lack of social skills, convinced his years of neglect had made me this way—distant, withdrawn, unwilling to connect with others. I think his guilt ate away at him more than he ever let on.

To ease his worries, I became what he wanted me to be: the perfect daughter. I threw myself into lessons, classes, and etiquette training to mold myself into the ideal socialite heiress. I learned how to mingle with the right people, make polite conversation, and flash a charming smile on cue. I worked hard to keep my grades up, too, because being obedient wasn’t enough—I had to be exceptional.

After all, being the daughter of an influential billionaire comes with responsibilities. Big ones. Even on my birthday, I’m expected to carry myself a certain way, to play the part flawlessly because all eyes are on me.

And I’ve done just that. All evening, I’ve been pretending, mingling, making small talk as though I enjoy every second of it. But it’s exhausting. My face aches from the forced smiles, and my head is pounding from the constant chatter. I just can’t keep it up anymore.

That’s why tonight, I’m doing something different. Something for myself. Earlier, I spotted an uncorked bottle of red wine, and now it’s in my hand. I know, I’m only eighteen, and this isn’t exactly proper behavior for the daughter of Christopher Gibson. But tonight, I don’t care. For once, I want to feel like I’m the one in control.

Gripping the bottle tightly, I head toward the grand double doors leading outside. The soft shimmer of my golden sequined mermaid gown catches the light as I pause under the chandelier. Turning back for a brief moment, I glance at Dad. Sorry, Dad , I whisper under my breath. Then I step through the doors and vanish into the night.

The gardens are alive with soft light, thanks to strings of fairy lights twinkling along the tree branches. The music from the orchestra indoors drifts faintly into the open air, mingling with the murmurs and laughter of the guests outside. To my surprise, the place is packed.

Just how many invites did he send out for my birthday? My eyes widen when I recognize few of my classmates among them. What are those girls doing here? They don’t even like me.

When one of them turns my way, I scurry and hide behind a tree. I lean against the thick trunk and begin pulling the pins from my hair. The stylists would faint if they see me messing their art—my updo—which they spent hours perfecting.

The mass of dark glossy curls falls down like a drape all over me. I weave my fingers into the roots and shake the curls apart and push them over my shoulder. It cascades down my back until it touches the small of my back. Much better.

Next, I lean down to slip off my heels, the bottle of wine balancing precariously in one hand. But as I tug off the first heel, the bottle wobbles in my grip. My eyes widen in panic as it slips through my fingers. “Oh no!” I squeak, lunging forward just in time to catch it. Relief washes over me but in a split second the imbalance of standing on one heel sends me tumbling. I crash down onto the grass with an ungraceful thud, the bottle still clutched tightly in my hands.

A wide grin spreads across my face. “Well, at least you’re safe,” I murmur, holding it up triumphantly.

I place a hand on the ground to push myself up, but the dampness seeps through my fingers. My grin vanishes as realization dawns. My stomach sinks when I look down and see the wet grass clinging to my gown.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, brushing futilely at the ruined dress. This is why I don’t do bold things. Why I don’t take risks. It always ends like this. Awkward. Clumsy. A mess.

I scramble to get up but the gown is skin tight and it’s making every movement difficult. The more I struggle, the more the delicate fabric snags against the wet grass, leaving streaks of green and dark stains in its wake.

“Stop.”

The single word cuts through the night, deep, low and commanding.

I freeze.

A pair of legs, clad in impeccably tailored black trousers, suddenly appears in front of me. My breath hitches as the figure lowers to one knee in front of me.

I lift my gaze slowly, startled, and then the world seems to tilt on its axis. My lungs forgetting their purpose and everything inside me comes to a shuddering halt when my gaze collides with eyes as dark as the night.

His eyes hold me captive, pulling me into their depths, and for a moment, I forget where I am, who I am. All I can register is he’s the most striking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

The clouds picks that exact moment to make way for the moonlight to fall over his chiseled features.

Is he human? How can he be so beautiful yet terrifying at the same time? I’ve heard angels are said to look like this. So perfect… charismatic but carrying an intimidating aura.

Even kneeling, his towering frame makes me feel small in comparison. His features are striking, almost unreal in their perfection. His jawline could cut glass, sharp and defined, leading to cheekbones that looks sculpted.

His glossy black hair glints in the moonlight, almost appearing midnight blue. “Here,” he extends his bronze hand out to me.

Still wide eyed, I place my hand in his. Taking in the stark contrast of my pale skin against his tanned complexion.

Gorgeous. He is utterly gorgeous like a movie star. In fact, he is so gorgeous my mind goes blank. He is dressed entirely in black, the tailored suit revealing he’s no stranger to wealth. The fine fabric of his pants stretches over his muscular thighs as he kneels.

Kneeling. On the wet grass. For me.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and before I can even think to apologize for ruining his suit, he stands in one smooth motion and pulls me up. It’s so fast that I stumble right into his chest. And that’s when his cologne hits me—spicy, intoxicating.

As if the universe is conspiring against me, the wind picks up and his scent swirls around me, making me lose focus.

“You okay?” he asks, his large, warm hands wrapping around my bare upper arms. I shiver, glancing up at him with wide eyes.

I am balancing on one six-inch heel and still barely reaching his chin. He is so tall. And… so hot. The observation makes my cheeks warm. I go ahead and do something I’ve never done before. I let my gaze roam over his face in pure admiration.

Starting with his mouth—those full lips, so sensual that just looking at them makes my heart beat faster. His sharp jawline is shadowed with stubble. It makes him look even more... irresistible.

I can’t seem to stop looking at him. His face is perfect, like someone painted him, and there’s not a flaw in sight. His lashes are impossibly long, like something out of a dream. And those eyes—dark, deep, like they’re pulling me in.

My stomach does a flip, but it’s not just the butterflies. There’s something... more. I didn’t expect this reaction—this ache that’s suddenly there, between my legs. I don’t know why it’s happening, and it makes me feel... embarrassed.

I try to pull my eyes away, but I’m so lost in him, I don’t even know where to look anymore. But then I find his brows furrowed in a frown. He is frowning at me. Why? Why does he look upset?

Confused, I stare at him.

“I asked you something,” he says, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. The simple gesture sends a wave of heat through me, and I blush fiercely. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the action causes my chest to rise and brush against something solid. His chest. My breath catches as I realize just how close I still am to him.

I gasp, stepping back in panic, immediately slipping off the heel to regain balance. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I mean, I’m fine. Actually, I just…” I stop myself, mentally wincing as I realize my body’s reaction to his nearness—my nipples now painfully sensitive.

I feel his gaze on me and I blush even harder.

“You just what?”

I shake my head, murmuring, “Nothing.” This good-looking stranger is so broad and muscled. Unlike the boys in my school. Well, that’s because they are boys. And this stranger… is a man. He looks older than me. He looks like he’s in his late twenties. I pray he doesn’t notice the effect he has on me.

I want to say something, anything, but the words catch in my throat.

This is my first time having a conversation with a man this close. Dad is awfully protective of me. While he always pushes me to make new friends, he also has his men guarding me. They were always dressed sharp and intimidating, driving any would-be suitors away before they could even look at me. I didn’t mind it all as no one interests me in school.

But this… is different. Good different. As I stand here with him, I realize that I want to spend some more time with him. He is making me feel things I never felt before. I can’t help but wonder if he’s one of my father’s colleagues. I have never seen him before, so he could be one of dad’s new acquaintances. Even if he is, I don’t mind.

“All right. Don’t wander in the dark alone.”

And then, just like that, he turns to leave.

I’m disappointed, more than I should be, so I blurt out, “Wait!”

He stops and turns back to me. I swallow, running my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. My voice is barely a whisper when I speak. “You can keep me company.”

The words leave me before I can stop them, and the embarrassment rushes in as soon as I realize what I’ve said. His brow arches, and I feel my face burn even hotter.

“Uh…” I try to justify it, my awkwardness only growing. “It’s my birthday today.” I lift the wine bottle, awkwardly. “I just thought… maybe… we…” I trail, offering a sheepish smile. It falters when he doesn’t return it.

I want to die. Why did I say that? Why did I think he’d want to stay with me when there are hundreds of beautiful women inside? He probably thinks I’m just some silly, desperate girl who doesn’t know how to talk.

Why did I let myself believe, even for a moment, that someone as incredible as him would spare a second for a girl like me? It’s foolish. I should have known better.

“N-Nevermind.” Shooting him an apologetic smile, I bend down to grab my heels before turning away in haste.

The chilly air alongside something close to emptiness penetrates my skin and rattles my bones. I clutch my shoes and the wine bottle tighter, my fingers numb as I break into a run.

As I reach the mouth of the woods that’s spread wide around the mansion, I halt abruptly. The thought that this might be the last time I ever see him, this beautiful stranger who’s already left a mark on me, hits me hard. And it hurts. A lot. I don’t even know why.

Unable to stop myself, I turn my head.

My breath catches when I find him already staring at me. My heart thrashes against my breastbone. I stay rooted on the spot; afraid I would lose his eyes on me if I so much as breathed wrong. And I don’t want that. I want him to watch me.

I choke in appalled horror at the thought. I’ve never wanted or craved anyone’s attention before. I liked being invisible to the world. I preferred it. But now… as I stand here, with a flushed face and heaving chest, I know something has changed inside me.

The way my body reacted to him, with such heat and urgency, it was something I’d never experienced before.

What is happening to me?

Before I could evaluate this foreign feeling, my classmate—a leggy blonde dressed in tight short dress—approaches him. My brows pull together when she touches his arm, probably to get his attention.

The grip on my shoes and the bottle tightens. I wait with a knot in my stomach for his response to her. But he continues to stare at me while she talks to him.

What is she saying? Is she flirting with him? Is she asking for his number? Would he give it to her? He might. Because she is really beautiful. She is the most popular girl in our school for a reason. She is a charmer and has no problem chatting up a handsome stranger.

Unlike me.

When her hand touches his arm again, my grip on the bottle tightens so fiercely I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. My sullen expression turns into surprise when he shrugs her off. Not so subtly.

Then he is striding in my direction. I’m so shocked by his powerful stance that I stumble a bit.

Quickly straightening, I watch with parted lips as he reaches me.

He doesn’t stop there. My mouth goes dry when his hand connects mine as he takes the bottle from me. Then he starts toward the forest.

“W-what?”

He stops and looks over his shoulder. “You wanted my company.” He says in a flat voice. He sounds pissed. Of course, he is. Because he thinks he has to babysit the birthday girl.

“Yes… but I…” don’t want to force it on you .

His shadow falls over me. Without any words, he offers his hand to me.

I stare at it. Then up into his night eyes. He is intimidating. And he looks like someone who can’t be forced to do things he doesn’t want to do. So does that mean he wants to come with me? No, no. That’s wishful thinking. He is probably one of my dad’s associates and is worried for my safety.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to—” my words get stuck in my throat as he reaches down and clasps my hand in his big one. My heart skips a beat.

Then he begins walking. As if he knows his way around the forest—my favorite hiding spot—better than me.

As he takes me farther and farther away from the mansion, my heart begins to sing. He rejected my classmate and chose me. Me. I duck my head to hide my smile.

◆◆◆

This is the best birthday of my life!

I’ve walked through the woods more times than I can count, but tonight, it feels like the very first. Maybe it’s because I’m not paying attention to the path at all. Because all I can focus on is him, the one walking beside me.

I bite back a smile when he halts and glances around, likely confused which direction to go. He doesn’t talk to me while he contemplates his options. And I like it. Not the silence. But the fact that he’s still holding my hand.

The touch of his large warm palm against mine feels so good. So right. Unconsciously, I squeeze his hand, making him glance at me. My cheeks heat. “Right this way!” I squeak and start toward my left, dragging him behind me. He lets me without question.

Disappointment hits me the moment we reach my destination and he lets go of my hand, shoving it into his pocket as his eyes scan the place.

I shrug away the hurt and glance around, trying to see the place through his eyes. Right in the heart of the forest is my little magical haven. “What do you think?” I ask, my voice brimming with excitement.

“Is this safe?” He asks gruffly and I can’t help it. I giggle softly.

I touch the ladder and stare up at the treehouse fondly. “It is. Dad had it made by professionals.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Hmm?” I turn my head to him distractedly and freeze. He is towering over me with a clenched jaw.

“Do you bring strangers with you here?”

My heart lurches. “No…”

“That doesn’t sound so sure to me, angel.”

Why does the nickname sound more intimidating than endearing? My skin prickles when I stare up at him through my lashes. He sounds jealous. Instead of irritation, excitement fills me. A series of romantic scenarios begin playing in my head. All of them starring me with him.

My pulse throbs in my neck. “You’re the first.” The first to step into my sanctuary, the one place I escape to when the world feels unbearable.

He’s also the first person to ease the feeling of utter loneliness in my chest.

“I brought you here because for the first time in my life, I…” Inhaling a long breath, “wanted to share this place with someone. With you.”

“Why?”

I shrug my shoulders, giving him a small smile.

He doesn’t say anything. Dropping my heels on the ground, I grab hold of the ladder and start climbing up. Once I’m settled inside, I glance down, expecting to see him still standing below. But instead, he’s already halfway up, his massive frame effortlessly making its way up the rickety ladder, even in that perfectly tailored suit.

He manages to ascend with ease, the wine bottle still firmly gripped in one hand.

He’s ducking his head to step inside when the darkness registers. I’d completely forgotten how pitch-black it gets in here, so I rush over to the corner where I stash the scented candles, fumbling a bit as I quickly light one.

He sits beside me, on the old cushions, his presence dwarfing the space. When his arm brushes against mine, a shiver runs through me. He notices it and shrugs out of his jacket. Then drapes it over my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say breathily.

He inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. I clutch the jacket with both hands and bury my nose in the fabric and inhale deeply, my eyes fluttering shut. As I pull away, I realize too late that he’s watching me.

God, I can’t believe I just did that. I probably look like a complete weirdo, sniffing his jacket like I’m obsessed with it or worse, with him.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry.” My cheeks burn as I add, “I never asked your name.”

When he remains silent, I bump my shoulder with his. “That was your cue to tell me.”

“Damian.”

“I’m River.” I offer him my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He stares at it for a beat then takes it. Electricity shoots through me like I touched a live wire. And I want more of it. The temptation to hold on longer is strong. Earlier, when he was holding my hand, I squeezed it but I can’t do it again. I jerk my hand away, forcing the sensation to fade, before it has a chance to consume me. “Shall we begin?”

He passes me the bottle. But when I reach to take it from him, he doesn’t release it. “You’re not old enough to drink.”

That wasn’t a question. Still, I answer. “No, I’m not.”

“What’s the reason behind this little rebellion?”

“I’m tired of being a good girl.” My smile is wry.

He finally releases the bottle, and I take a long sip. The wine is rich, smooth, like velvet sliding down my throat. My eyes close for a beat as I savor it. I can’t help the little hum of appreciation that escapes me.

I glance at him, then hold the bottle out, offering him a taste.

He takes it from me, and brings the bottle to his lips. My breath catches in my chest as I watch him, unable to look away.

He tilts the bottle, and my eyes follow the line of his neck, watching his throat work as he swallows. God.

His lips glisten when he passes it back to me. The wine doesn’t hold my interest any longer. It’s latched on the ruby droplets clinging to his lips. My mouth goes dry and I try to swallow.

I still want to taste the wine but now I want to do it from his lips. The sinful thought makes my toes curl.

To hide my emotions from reflecting in my eyes, I lift the bottle and chug, trying to drown the fantasy of him kissing me passionately. I keep taking healthy swigs until the bottle is ripped from me.

I cough. His hand lands on my back, rubbing and patting gently while frowning down at me. With his free hand, he tilts my chin up. His gaze slides down on my wet mouth. Still frowning, he touches my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and wipes it.

A thrill soars through me and I find myself inching closer to him. My chest heaves from my shallow breathing as my hand lands on his chest, my fingers digging into his shirt.

“River,” he warns and I lift my eyes, now heavy-lidded, meeting his gaze.

Ignoring his warning, I inch closer to his lips. His fingers fist my hair at the nape, stopping me. “You’re being reckless.”

I lick my lips as I stare at his. “I told you I’m done being a good girl.”

His face darkens. “Be careful, angel. I’m not the man you should trust.”

My breath hitches. But I don’t let his words sway me. It may be the alcohol or it might be his intoxicating scent. All I know is, I’m not going to shy away from taking what I want. At least not tonight.

“I’ll take my chances,” I murmur before touching my lips to his.

Happy Birthday to me .