Chapter 155: You’ve never worn formal clothes. Never.

The next day dawned with an almost deceptive calm.

That kind of morning that seemed ordinary… but carried an underground, almost electric vibration, as if the air knew something important was about to happen.

Damon, for his part, didn’t seem to feel any of that. He walked down the capital’s commercial avenue with his usual lazy tranquility, hands in his pockets, indifferent gaze. The only discordant detail was Ester’s presence beside him.

Ester, thin, pale, her hair tied in an impeccable bun, walked with the rigid posture and sharp gaze of a noblewoman who secretly judged every fabric in the city. She never showed much—neither emotion nor warmth—and precisely for that reason, when she was irritated, it became even more evident.

And at this moment…

She was very irritated.

“Honestly,” she murmured, her voice low but cold, “I don’t know how you’ve survived until now.”

“Hm?” Damon raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve never worn formal clothes. Never.” Her gaze swept Damon up and down, as if he were a mathematical dilemma. “You don’t know how to choose fabric. You don’t know how to choose color. You don’t know how to choose cut. You don’t know how to feel texture. You…” she sighed, frustrated. “Damon, your casual clothes are all black. All of them.”

He shrugged.

“It works.”

“To scare people? Yes. For a noble event? NO.”

They entered the tailor shop.

Ester immediately transformed.

It was like watching a machine start up.

Her gaze sharpened, her posture became even more impeccable, and every detail her eyes met was analyzed, measured, calculated.

The tailor, a short and absurdly polite man, smiled as he saw the couple enter.

“Welcome! Are you looking for something specific for the Arven Mansion ball?”

Ester smiled back—that cold, polite, perfectly courteous smile… that didn’t extend a single millimeter beyond her lips.

“Yes. My… husband needs a suitable formal suit. Nothing extravagant. Nothing flashy. Just something that makes him look less… dangerous.”

The tailor looked Damon up and down and paled slightly.

“Uh… sure.”

Damon just tapped the counter lightly with his fingers, looking bored.

Ester, on the other hand, was already examining fabrics.

“Black, no,” she decreed immediately. “Nor very dark blue. You already look like a murderer, we don’t need to reinforce it.”

The tailor almost choked.

Damon raised an eyebrow, amused.

“You think I’m a murderer?”

“I think you’re many things,” she replied, completely neutral. “Murderer is on the list, but not at the top.”

He smiled.

Ester pretended not to notice.

She pulled out three rolls of fabric, placing them on the table:

“Deep gray, graphite, and dark wine. Choose one of these.”

Damon touched the fabrics.

“They’ll all do.”

Ester took a deep breath.

“Damon… choose. One. Just one.”

“Whatever.”

“Not whatever.”

“Yes, it does.”

“NO, it doesn’t.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if trying to control a headache.

The tailor watched the scene as if observing a highly functional couple… and simultaneously on the verge of murder.

Finally, Ester pushed the dark wine fabric closer to Damon.

“This one. It will enhance your eyes.”

“You like my eyes?” he asked in a light tone.

“I like it when you stop making everything difficult,” she retorted dryly.

The tailor coughed, uncomfortable.

Ester ignored him.

She turned to another attendant.

“I want a black satin shirt, high collar. No lace, no frills. And a blazer with a tailored cut. He has better posture than any nobleman in this country; we’re not going to hide that with excessive fabric.”

The tailor smiled nervously.

“Of course, of course! Immediately!”

Damon observed the whole process with the calm of someone who was only there because he had been dragged there.

Ester crossed her arms.

“The ball is tomorrow. We need to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

He turned his face away.

“It won’t.”

The tailor returned with the semi-finished pieces to adjust the fit.

When Damon took off his shirt to try it on, Ester looked away for exactly two seconds… before resuming her gaze with the same cutting neutrality.

“Stand still,” she said. “You never stand still.”

He stood still. The tailor trembled.

Damon watched the stitching as if he didn’t care at all.

Ester checked every fold, every detail, every shadow of the fabric.

With each adjustment, she murmured:

“Too wide…”

“The hem is crooked…”

“The sleeves should follow the movement, he moves very fast…”

“Don’t try to impress anyone, Damon. The goal is for you not to draw attention.”

He smiled slightly.

Ester frowned.

“Don’t smile like that. Smiles like that draw attention.”

“Hm.”

“STOP with the ’hm’ for everything.”

When the suit was finally ready for the final sewing stage, Damon turned to her:

“You’re tense.”

“You’re about to enter a ball of hostile nobles and risk looking someone in the wrong way and provoking a duel. I’m DEFINITELY tense.”

He brought his face closer, just enough to let her know he was near.

“I’ll be back in one piece.”

Ester blinked.

Just once.

But for her, that was already an emotional display.

She stepped back immediately, straightening her posture.

“Make sure of that,” she said. “I’m finished.”

The tailor smiled in relief, as if he had just survived a test.

Damon looked at the suit that awaited him at the end of the day.

Simple.

Elegant.

Perfect for disappearing among arrogant nobles.

Ester was right.

He needed to appear harmless.

At least until the moment he wasn’t.

Later…

The door had barely clicked shut behind them—literally a step inside the house—when Damon reached out, grabbed Ester by the waist, and pulled her to him with a quick, precise movement.

She gave a small start, more out of surprise than fear.

“What are you doing?” she asked immediately, with that automatic coldness she used as a defense. She wasn’t trying to break free… but she wasn’t exactly relaxed either.

Damon tilted his face, drawing closer, so close that she felt the warmth of his breath even before the touch.

“You were quite cold to me,” he murmured, his voice low, raspy, almost deliberately hoarse.

Ester blinked, not understanding for a moment.

“I was… helping you with your clothes. I was being professional.” She tried to sound firm, but the answer came out shorter than usual.

Damon didn’t answer.

He simply lowered his face and pressed his lips to her neck—slowly, calculatedly, not aggressively… but intentionally. A provocation that burned slowly.

Ester stiffened her body, gasping for air.

“Damon… Aria is home,” she whispered, though her voice faltered slightly mid-sentence.

He smiled against her skin, which was too warm.

“She’s not.” His fingers tightened slightly around her waist. “I checked before coming in.”

Then he kissed her neck again, even slower, as if savoring every reaction she could barely hide.

Ester raised her hand, gripping his shirt, not to push him away—but to steady herself.

“Damon…” Her voice was different. Not cold, not firm. Just… unsteady.

He moved up slightly, brushing his lips against the curve between her neck and ear.

Then he gently bit her ear.

Ester gasped.

Literally.

It was a short, almost inaudible sound—but one that Damon understood perfectly. Her body arched slightly, uncontrollably, without her own mind’s permission.

Damon held her tighter, bringing his mouth close to her ear as he spoke softly, as if whispering a secret.

“That’s better.”

Ester felt something strange run down her spine. It wasn’t fear. Nor anxiety.

It was that warm, electric sensation that started in her chest and spread through her arms and neck… a shiver that mixed irritation, desire, and that pleasant discomfort that only he seemed able to provoke.

She tried to regain her composure.

She tried.

“Damon… t-that’s not how I am…” she murmured, almost frustrated with her own body.

He tilted his head and kissed her neck again, much more gently now—as if compensating for the previous provocation.

“Isn’t it?” He let a smile touch his voice. “Then why are you trembling?”

Ester closed her eyes for a moment.

Damon didn’t wait for an answer.

He didn’t wait for her to catch her breath.

He didn’t wait for the coldness to return to her face.

He simply pulled her close.

Really.

Forcefully.

A single movement—firm, sure, inevitable—that made Ester’s body slam against his as if that were their natural position. His hands slid to her back, gripping her waist and the base of her ribs, holding her as if she might try to escape… and he wouldn’t allow it.

Ester let out a sigh that she tried—really tried—to swallow, but which escaped nonetheless, betraying every inch of the impeccable self-control she always displayed.

“D-Damon…” she murmured, but her voice died in the air.

He lifted her chin with his thumb.

Slowly.

Almost gently…

…until the moment his mouth met hers.

The kiss wasn’t light.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It wasn’t calculated like the touch on her neck had been.

It was deep.

Strong.

The kind that steals your breath, your reasoning, and your spine all at once.

Ester gripped his shirt as if she needed it to stay upright. The usual coldness vanished—evaporated—replaced by an intensity she didn’t know how to control. Her body yielded, molding itself to his, as the kiss deepened, hot and full, as if Damon were dismantling, layer by layer, every wall she had built.

His fingers traced the sides of her back, firm, guiding her body into an even tighter embrace. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss with a predatory calm, exploring, provoking, demanding a response Ester didn’t know if she wanted… or if she simply couldn’t stop it.

She finally responded.

For real.

A returned kiss, intense, almost desperate, as if her body were tired of pretending it felt nothing.

Damon smiled against her mouth—a slow, satisfied smile that she felt more than she saw.

Because now she was kissing him back.

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