Page 34 of Mutual Desire

Before Damien could say anything, a soft ringtone broke through the silence. Nabokov’s phone. He glanced at the screen, frowning slightly. “Excuse me, I have a conference call,” he said, picking up his phone without sparing Damien another glance.

Damien slumped back into his seat, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief flooded him. He wasn’t ready to discuss Nick’s software yet, not while his mind was this jumbled. Not while Nabokov was still in control. He glanced out the window again, trying to lose himself in the city’s twinkling lights.

Fifteen minutes passed. Damien’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Craig’s name flashed across the screen when he took it out, but he ignored it. Not now. Not while Nabokov was so close, even if the man seemed to be deep in conversation. Another ten minutes went by before Nabokov finally ended his call, the silence in the SUV growing thick again.

Damien tensed. This was his chance, the moment he needed to speak up about Nick’s software. He couldn’t afford to waste it. He shifted slightly in his seat, gathering the courage to break the quiet.

“Sorry about that,” Nabokov’s deep voice rumbled, startling Damien once again. The Russian barely looked up from his laptop, his fingers still moving rapidly across the keys.

“No worries,” Damien mumbled, feeling utterly small. He watched Nabokov, whose complete focus remained on his work, barely acknowledging Damien’s existence. The sight annoyed him more than it should have. How could he feel so ignored and yet crave even a shred of this man’s attention?

It was irrational. Absurd. Why should it matter if Nabokov treated him like he wasn’t even there? Damien shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the window. He fought the strange pull of wanting Nabokov to look up, to notice him, even though he knew better.God! Why do I care so much?

But the frustration kept building, as did the gnawing desire to somehow make Nabokov see him. Again, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the growing tension in the air making the confined space of the limousine feel even smaller.

Damien cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hum…” he mumbled, trying to get Nabokov’s attention.

“Yes?” Nabokov replied without lifting his eyes from the screen.

Damien hesitated, the words he wanted to say stuck somewhere in his throat. The only sound in the car came from the rhythmic tapping of Nabokov’s long fingers on the keyboard and the classical musical playing in the background. After a beat of silence, Nabokov tossed his head toward Damien, his sharp gaze now fixed on him. That look was all it took to push Damien into speaking.

“About Nick’s software…” Damien began, his voice tinged with nervousness. “Nicolas…”

“Yes, what about it?” Nabokov’s tone was casual, yet it carried an undertone that made Damien second-guess every word. The Russian’s attention was suffocating, leaving Damien no room to think. Damien’s mouth felt dry. He tried to steady his nerves.

“Is your decision final?” Damien asked, his voice wavering slightly.

He regretted the question as soon as he said it. Nabokov’s gaze sharpened, and for a moment, he seemed to analyze Damien’s every thought. The pause stretched painfully long before he answered.

“Well,” Nabokov began, his eyes narrowing, “When I make a decision, I rarely retract it. But… it has happened.”

Damien swallowed hard, lowering his head in an attempt to hide his disappointment. Nabokov’s answer didn’t surprise him, but it didn’t ease the tension either.

“Why do you ask?” Nabokov probed, after the silence had stretched on a little too long.

Damien raised his eyes, forcing himself to meet Nabokov’s penetrating gaze.

“Nick made some changes today. I thought maybe they were worth looking at. It could change your mind.”

Nabokov studied him, his eyes unreadable, his silence unnerving. “So, you want me to give Nicolas another chance?”

“Yes,” Damien replied, his voice a little stronger now. “He worked incredibly hard on this.”

“And his colleagues? Do they deserve the same?” Nabokov asked.

The question caught Damien off guard. “Yes. They all do.” Damien’s gaze held steady, proud.

Nabokov's eyes flashed with what seemed like amusement. “You believe in second chances. Admirable.”

“I believe in perseverance. There’s no limit to how many times someone can fail—or succeed,” Damien said, his voice laced with determination.

Nabokov’s lips quirked into something that resembled a smile. “I couldn't agree more. But I am a busy man. Reviewing all the projects might not be feasible.”

Damien’s heart sank. It wasn’t a clear refusal, but Nabokov’s evasion felt like a cold rejection. He sensed his earlier boldness—his arrogant remarks in the elevator— hadn’t benefited him. For a moment, silence stretched between them, electric and thick. Nabokov’s gaze swept over Damien, calculating, intrigued.

“You are persistent, I’ll give you that,” Nabokov murmured, his voice dangerously smooth. “But don’t mistake persistence for power. It’s a lesson worth learning.”

Damien swallowed, but he couldn’t hide the thrill that accompanied Nabokov’s veiled warning.

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