CHAPTER 1

The auction house hummed with quiet luxury—soft strings playing in the background, murmured conversations wrapped in expensive silk and champagne. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the polished floors, illuminating the wealth of the city's elite as they bid on rare art pieces and historical relics. Phoebe moved through the crowd with effortless grace, a practiced smile on her lips, though her mind was elsewhere.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not that anyone would question her presence—she belonged in a place like this. The poised, successful woman she'd built herself into fit seamlessly among the elite. But if she'd known Damon Blackwood would be here, she would've never stepped foot inside.

And yet, there he was.

Across the room, just past the marble columns, standing near the main bidding floor. He was exactly as she remembered, yet somehow sharper. Dark hair styled to precision, broad shoulders filling out an immaculately tailored suit, the kind of presence that commanded attention without him needing to say a word.

Phoebe felt the shift in the air the second she saw him.

Damon must have sensed it too, because his gaze lifted, cutting through the crowd like a blade. And then, just like that, he found her. Their eyes locked, and the years that had passed between them collapsed into nothing.

Her heart clenched, but she forced herself to keep walking. Past him. Past whatever this was. Past the mistake she had sworn never to make again.

He didn't stop her.

Not yet.

---

The auction continued. Phoebe kept her expression cool, her hands steady as she raised her paddle for a piece she didn't even care about. It wasn't about the art—it was about control. About reminding herself that she was unaffected. Damon was just another face in the crowd.

But she felt him. Every glance. Every shift of his stance.

And when the auctioneer announced the final bid of the night, she knew there was no avoiding him any longer.

Because when she turned to leave, he was there. Waiting.

Alone.

The private viewing hall was quiet, tucked away from the main event. It was supposed to be a place for discretion, for negotiations behind closed doors. But as Phoebe stepped inside, she realized it had become something else entirely.

A battlefield.

Damon stood near the window, hands in his pockets, watching the city lights beyond the glass. He hadn't spoken yet. Neither had she.

The silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren't saying.

Finally, he turned, his gaze settling on her with the same unreadable intensity that used to unravel her. "Phoebe."

Just her name. A test.

She lifted her chin, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Damon."

The room felt smaller. The air, heavier.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said smoothly, like this was nothing. Like they were nothing.

She smiled, practiced and polite. "Neither did I."

A pause. A careful one.

Damon studied her, and for a moment, she thought he might say something real—something that mattered. But then, his lips curved, almost amused. "Still have a habit of outbidding people just because you can?"

Phoebe tilted her head. "Still have a habit of thinking you know me?"

Another pause. The words between them weren't sharp yet, but they were precise. Calculated. Neither willing to show their hand first.

But something flickered in his gaze. Something dangerously close to familiarity.

And that was the problem.

Because even after all this time, she still knew him too.

—

Phoebe held Damon's gaze, her expression poised, unreadable. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way his eyes traced over her like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe, that she was still the same woman he had walked away from.

But she wasn't.

She crossed the room, deliberate and unhurried, until she stood near a display case, pretending to admire the antique watch inside. She wasn't giving him the satisfaction of being the first to crack.

Damon didn't move at first. But then, as if drawn by the same force neither of them wanted to name, he took a step closer. The air between them shifted, tightening.

"I heard you're doing well," he said finally, his voice smooth but distant.

Phoebe's lips curved slightly. "And I heard you don't keep up with the past."

Damon let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "Some things are hard to ignore."

Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten. But she wouldn't let him see that.

She turned slightly, facing him now, meeting his gaze head-on. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order. You finally learned to acknowledge mistakes."

A flicker of something crossed his face.

It was quick, but she caught it. The faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his side.

He wasn't as unaffected as he wanted to be.

Good.

"I don't regret everything, Phoebe." His voice was quieter now, almost too careful.

She tilted her head, studying him. "No?"

Damon held her gaze, his expression unreadable again. And then, in a move so small it could have been accidental, his fingers brushed against hers.

Barely there. A whisper of contact.

But it was enough.

Enough to send a jolt of something dangerous through her.

Enough to make her remember things she had no business remembering.

Phoebe inhaled slowly, steadying herself. She should pull away. She should end this conversation before it unraveled further.

But she didn't.

Instead, she did the one thing she shouldn't have.

She let her fingers linger. Just for a second.

A silent acknowledgment.

A mistake waiting to happen.