Page 28 of Mutual Desire

If he had any courage, he would confront the absurdity of Nabokov’s inquiry. But in this elevator, under the weight of the man’s gaze, his cheeky side felt dormant, silenced by an overwhelming sense of dread.Pull yourself together, man!

“You’re not very convincing,” Nabokov observed, the barest hint of irritation threading his voice. “Besides, I am talking to you and yet you refuse to look at me.” Nabokov’s voice sharpened, tinged with displeasure.

The change in tone sent alarm bells ringing in Damien's mind. This wasn’t just idle banter; this was an interrogation. Damien clenched his jaw.Keep it together. He forced himself to respond, the spark of defiance breaking through his anxiety. It only heightened it, yet, oddly enough, it also ignited a flicker of defiance within him.

“That’s not stopping us from talking, right?” Damien shot back, irritation bubbling to the surface.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor, refusing to acknowledge the man behind him. He had no intention of facing the source of his discomfort, even if it meant appearing cowardly.

Nabokov’s voice sharpened, now tinged with a subtle challenge. “When someone speaks to you, it’s considered polite to look at them.”

Damien's pulse quickened. He chewed his gum faster, desperately avoiding eye contact.

“Turn around and look at me, Damien,” Nabokov commanded.

The command was quiet, but it carried weight. A shiver ran down Damien’s spine. He knew this wasn’t just a request—it was a dare, a test. Against his better judgment, he took a breath, gathering every ounce of courage, and slowly turned to face the man.

The instant their eyes met, he was struck. Nabokov’s beauty was otherworldly, almost disarming. It hit Damien like a sucker punch. His chiseled features, flawless and severe, radiated an effortless power. But it was those storm-gray eyes—cool, unreadable, and utterly magnetic—that pinned Damien in place. For a brief moment, he tried to gauge the man’s age. Nabokov had the kind of face that was both ageless and impossibly refined—youthful in its sharp perfection, yet carrying the weight of experience in the way he held himself. He looked older than he probably was, but maybe that was just the power he exuded, the kind that made it seem like he had already seen and conquered everything.

“Happy?” Damien smirked, his bitter bravado returning in an instant. But Nabokov’s expression remained impassive, a mask of cool indifference. He stared with unsettling calm, as if Damien’s sarcasm was of little consequence.

“Where are you going?” Nabokov asked, the question deceptively casual, though his gaze held a disconcerting intensity.

Damien raised an eyebrow, puzzled by the audacity of the question. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.” The words spilled from his mouth, more confident than he felt. Perhaps his insolence would rouse some reaction, maybe even a flicker of vulnerability from Nabokov.

Nabokov arched a brow, his lips curving into something between amusement and menace. “Considering you’re inmybuilding, inmyelevator... I’d say it’s a bit of my business.”

The suffocating weight of Nabokov’s presence felt like a thick fog, smothering Damien’s bravado. Each sarcastic remark now seemed futile in the face of Nabokov’s blatant dominance. The Russian man’s authority wasn’t just implied—it was absolute.

“I’m going to the fifteenth floor.”

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “And?” Nabokov pressed, his voice growing taut, as if the air surrounding them crackled with unspoken tension.

“Heading to see Nicolas.”

The mention of Nick's name seemed to soften Nabokov's steely facade, but the chill remained.

“Oh! That’s perfect then. You’ll be able to tell him I made some decisions. Unfortunately, his software didn’t make the cut.”

Time froze as Damien processed the words, his breath hitching in his throat. The words hit Damien like a punch to the gut. His heart dropped into his stomach. So, this was it. The worst fears he had harbored were confirmed. The bastard’s revenge. Nabokov was going to take his revenge through Nick. He was going to crush Nick's career, and it was Damien’s fault.

Damien’s fists clenched at his sides. Anger and guilt tangled inside him, battling for dominance.I won’t let him win. Not like this.

Damien’s disdain boiled within him, yet silence lingered in the air. What could he possibly say? What could he do? Plead for mercy? Like hell he would.Over my dead body. He opened his mouth, a protest on the tip of his tongue, when the elevator doors slid open to reveal Nabokov’s floor. But instead of stepping out, Nabokov remained, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“I won’t tell him anything,” Damien snapped, his voice low but firm.

Nabokov raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “I thought the news would be easier to swallow if it came from you, but alright then.”

“I’m not telling him because I know you’re lying.” Damien stared straight into Nabokov’s eyes, defiance burning through the fear in his chest.

A flicker of intrigue sparked in Nabokov’s gaze, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Oh? Calling me a liar now, are you? And what makes you so certain?”

Damien’s heart thundered in his chest, but he kept his voice steady. “Because you’re not stupid enough to let a personal grudge get in the way of making money. A man like you? You see opportunities, not obstacles.”

For a moment, something flickered in Nabokov’s expression—something dangerously close to admiration. His lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, a predator recognizing another creature willing to fight back.

“You think highly of me, Damien.” Nabokov’s voice was almost a purr, laced with amusement.

---