Page 14 of Mutual Desire

Oh, shit.

He hadn’t just spilled coffee on some important guy—he’d practically assaulted the man who held Nick’s entire career in his hands. The man with the final say on every project in the room,not some democratic vote nonsense among the executives. Any illusion of shared decision-making shattered in an instant, leaving Damien with the sickening realization that he might have just screwed over his best friend in the worst way possible.Damien’s stomach churned, and the guilt washed over him in a heavy, relentless wave.

What had he done?

The memory of that smug smirk, those cruel gray eyes, and the casual way Nabokov had talked down to him earlier all came crashing back.And now, knowing who he was, Damien felt the rising panic. He had been reckless. Stupid. What if Nabokov held a grudge? What if Damien had just jeopardized everything Nick had worked for?

How the hell am I going to fix this?Damien’s mind raced as he forced himself to remain still, pretending to listen as Nabokov responded.

Nabokov’s cool, dispassionate gaze slid over the room before landing briefly on Damien, sending a shiver down his spine. His lips curved slightly, as if amused by a private joke only he understood.

“The presentations were... competent,” Nabokov said with infuriating calm. “Some will require further consideration.”

There was an unsettling weight behind Nabokov’s words. No harsh criticism, no immediate rejection. But the way he said it, the cold detachment in his tone, left Damien feeling like he was walking a tightrope, one misstep away from disaster.

I need to fix this, Damien thought, his chest tightening. But how?

His mind raced, searching for a way to smooth things over. Maybe he could pull Nabokov aside before the man exited the conference room, apologize—beg if he had to. He couldn’t let Nick’s project go up in flames because of a petty argument—especially one the poor guy hadn’t even caused.But the thought of facing Nabokov again made his heart pound. How do you even apologize to someone like that?

Damien stared down at his hands, wishing more than anything that he could turn back time. But there was no way out now. He had to figure out how to clean up the mess he had made—and fast.

“Will there be a follow-up meeting for these projects?” one of the suited men asked, his voice tentative.

“While coming here, I encountered a situation that was quite...hotto handle. I was a little shaken by this. So, I don’t think I can make any rational decisions right now,” Nabokov announced, his voice carrying a dangerous calmness.

Damien's heart dropped. Was that a dig at him? No one else spoke, the room thick with tension. Damien glanced at Nabokov, searching his expression for any hint of mockery, but the man’s face betrayed nothing. If anything, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes—as if this whole situation was just a game.

Damien’s stomach churned. He swallowed hard, the pit in his stomach deepening. This wasn’t just about coffee anymore—this was about whether Nick’s hard work would be tossed out because of his reckless moment of defiance. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, guilt gnawing at him like a parasite.

“Well, we thank you all for coming,” said the man who had asked for Nabokov's input, rising to his feet. “We’ll be in touch regarding the next steps.”

The room erupted in polite applause, but Damien could barely bring himself to clap. His nerves were wound too tight, his thoughts spinning out of control. As Damien and Nick returned to their seats, Nick’s voice bubbled with excitement. “We fucking nailed it, man! That went way better than expected, right?”

Nick's beaming smile lit up his face, but Damien couldn't muster the same joy. The weight of his earlier mistake hung over him like a storm cloud.

Damien forced a smile, nodding mechanically. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Damien’s mind was racing. He had to push aside his unease. Apologizing to Nabokov was the only way to fix this, right? Surely, Nabokov would understand—maybe even laugh itoff. But what if he didn’t? What if Damien had sealed his friend’s fate by being an arrogant smart-ass?

As the room emptied, Damien stayed rooted in his chair, his thoughts a chaotic tangle. He had just learned the man he had accidentally doused with coffee—twice—was not just anyone but Nabokov, the boss of this entire operation. The same man who now had the power to shape—or shatter—Nick’s future. As the executives filed out, Nick leaned closer, whispering, “There’s a small reception upstairs for the presenters. You coming?”

Damien’s stomach churned at Nick’s suggestion. The idea of facing Nabokov—the boss—in a more casual setting made his skin prickle with unease. He couldn’t shake the memory of Nabokov’s cool, detached gaze during the presentation or the way the other executives had been speaking his name with such reverence.

Damien felt like he’d been walking on thin ice all afternoon, with Nabokov watching his every step, waiting for him to fall through. Now, the prospect of mingling with him in a social setting? It felt like stepping directly into the lion’s den. Damien opened his mouth to respond, but his words faltered as he noticed Nabokov rising from his seat. The man’s movements were unhurried, his demeanor as composed as ever. With a faint nod to the remaining executives, Nabokov exited the room without so much as a glance in Damien’s direction.

For some reason, that stung more than it should have.

Nick gave him a nudge. “D, come on. You were great in there. Plus, it’s just a casual thing. Drinks, appetizers, no big deal.”

No big deal. Right. Damien bit back a groan. Nick’s optimism was both endearing and maddening.

“I don’t know…” Damien murmured, his pulse quickening.

Every fiber of his being wanted to retreat, to avoid the inevitable moment when he’d have to face Nabokov again. The man’s gaze had been haunting him throughout the presentations, and the thought of stepping into a more casual setting where Nabokov might approach him—might speak to him—set his nerves on edge.

“Come on now, D,” Nick said, standing and gathering his things. “It’s just a reception. Mingle, smile, maybe grab a drink or two. Actually, scratch that—definitely grab a drink. You’ve earned it, man.”

Damien forced a smile, though his stomach churned with unease. “Yeah. Sure.”

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