Page 73 of Mutual Desire

“I’d love to stay, really,” Damien said lightly, masking the storm within. “But I have to cook a nice dinner for a dear pal of mine.”

The soft smile stayed on his lips, but his eyes were sharp as a blade.

Nabokov shrugged with infuriating nonchalance. “Well, in that case, you can leave.”

Damien blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of the response. His hand hovered near the bottle of wine on the table, as if waiting for the punchline to drop. He knew better than to believe Nabokov would let him go that easily.

“You’re serious?” Damien asked, narrowing his eyes.

Nabokov went back to his scattered papers, resuming his reading as if Damien’s presence no longer mattered. The indifference was more cutting than any insult.

“You can go, Damien,” Nabokov repeated, not looking up from the page.

Damien stayed rooted to the spot, a growing knot of disbelief tightening in his chest. He knew this game—knew that leaving would mean giving Nabokov the upper hand. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

“So,” Damien said, crossing his arms and leaning slightly toward the billionaire, “you brought me here just to waste my time?”

Nabokov’s eyes lifted from the paper slowly, with the kind of deliberate care that made Damien’s skin crawl. His gaze was as steady as a hunter sizing up prey.

“No,” Nabokov replied smoothly, his voice dipping into something dangerously intimate. “I brought you here because I wanted to see you. Spending time with you was the first thing I wanted to do when I got back from Ireland.”

The raw simplicity of the confession sent a shiver through Damien, though he refused to let it show. Instead, he smiled bitterly and slammed the bottle of wine onto the table with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the empty diner like the crack of a warning shot.

“If you think cheesy lines will make me stay,” Damien spat, “you’re sorely mistaken.”

Nabokov leaned back into his seat, utterly unbothered, as if Damien’s anger were nothing more than white noise. “Go ahead. I’m not holding you back. You can leave.”

Damien stared, his mind racing to find a hidden meaning behind Nabokov’s disarming response. This wasn’t adding up—there was something he was missing.“You’re giving up already?” Damien mocked, a sharp grin spreading across his lips. “I thought you were more persistent than that, Alexander.”

A slow, crooked smile curled at the edges of Nabokov’s mouth, and for the first time, Damien felt a chill settle over his skin.

“Maybe,” Nabokov mused, his voice warm with amusement, “you enjoy the chase more than I do.”

Damien scoffed, snatching the wine bottle and gripping it as if it were a lifeline. This conversation was spiraling into absurdity, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop playing along. If words wouldn’t work, maybe it was time to enact the backup plan he’d kept tucked away—a desperate gambit, but it was all he had left.

“Thank you for the lovely evening, Alexander,” Damien said, his tone dipped in venom. His eyes were as cold as winter frost.

He turned on his heel, intent on walking away, the bottle of wine in hand—one he had no shame in stealing from Nabokov. The man had practically coerced him into coming to this sketchy dinner spot, wasting precious time Damien would never get back. The least Nabokov could do was part with a bottle of undoubtedly expensive wine—one that would pair perfectly with the meal Damien had planned to cook for Dimitri.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Nabokov said casually.Nabokov’s voice, as smooth as silk, slid through the air behind Damien.

Damien stopped, already regretting it, but something in the man’s tone forced him to look back. There was an edge to Nabokov’s words—a baited hook that Damien knew better than to bite yet couldn’t resist.

“How much did your laptop cost?” Nabokov asked, as if discussing the weather.

Damien blinked, thrown off-balance by the strange question. “What?”

“The Mac,” Nabokov clarified, tilting his head slightly. “How much did you pay for it?”

Damien frowned, his confusion deepening. This had to be a trick—a way to prolong their encounter.“Three thousand,” Damien answered cautiously. “Why do you—”

“Three thousand,” Nabokov echoed thoughtfully, cutting him off. A strange, detached expression crossed his face, as though he were cataloging the information for some future use.

Damien’s stomach sank. A slow realization crept over him like a chill down his spine.“Wait—” Damien narrowed his eyes. “My Mac. I think I left it in your office, right?”

“Yes,” Nabokov confirmed, his voice maddeningly neutral.

“Well, do you have it with you?” Damien asked, his irritation growing. Something was off, and Nabokov’s calm only made it worse.

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