Damien slowed when he noticed Isabelle changing course toward the counter. His brows lifted slightly, and he turned to face her directly.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She didn’t pause. "To pay. This time, it’s on me."
Damien blinked, then followed a step behind her, voice more puzzled than annoyed. "Why? I also studied with you. Why are you paying?"
"Because," she said without turning, "you already covered everyone’s meal earlier. This time it should be mine."
He huffed softly. "Come on, Rep. I volunteered for that."
"Well," she said firmly, glancing back at him, "this time I’m volunteering."
And just like that, she stepped up to the counter.
The digital panel brightened as she approached. A soft chime announced her presence, and the receptionist—an older woman with silver pins in her hair and a crisp uniform—gave her a gentle nod.
"Good evening. What’s your booth number?" she asked.
Isabelle answered evenly, "Twelve-C."
"And will this be a single payment or split?" the receptionist asked, fingers poised over the touchscreen.
"Single," Isabelle said, pulling out her card.
Her grip on it was steady, but she could already feel the weight beginning to settle in her chest. She was calculating silently—what expenses she could trim for the next few days, whether she’d need to ask for help, how to space out the leftover groceries in her dorm.
Still, she didn’t flinch.
She wouldn’t let herself.
The receptionist’s brow rose in mild surprise as she peered down at the interface, tapping lightly.
"I’m so sorry, Miss Moreau," she said, voice calm, "but your bill... has already been covered."
Isabelle stiffened mid-breath, lips parting as shock and irritation warred across her expression. She looked up—frown tight—and turned toward Damien.
Immediately, his finger pressed against the tip of her nose, gently but firmly halting her movement.
"Didn’t I tell you before, Rep?" he murmured, thumb brushing the sensitive line. "When you’re with me, you never worry about money."
Her shoulders froze. She opened her mouth to protest, to yank at his hand—but then found herself trying to grab it, quietly desperate, and he moved with smooth precision, retracting his hand and straightening. Then, before she could think, he reached out and gave her head a light, casual pat.
"Silly girl," he said softly, voice quiet enough for only her to hear, "with your pride—don’t you think I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours?"
Her face flamed—not from embarrassment, but the confusion of emotions that clawed through her chest. She stepped forward, trying to voice the anger and gratitude at once.
"If you know what’s going through my head," she said firmly, "then you know I wanted to pay. That this isn’t what I want."
Damien looked genuinely still, as if processing her words for the first time. His gaze softened beneath the glow of the signage.
He held her gaze with a quiet, steady force, the curl of his mouth fading into something more grounded.
"Is that really the case, Rep?" he asked, his tone softer than before. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... level. "Is this what you really want?"
Isabelle narrowed her eyes. "I just told you—"
"No," he interrupted gently. "Not what you’re saying now. I mean what you actually want. Not what you’ve been trained to want. Not what life’s cornered you into wanting."
She went still. Her hand clenched faintly at her side.
Damien didn’t push, but his words kept coming, quiet as the hum of the building’s ambient tech.
"Is it truly what you want," he said, "or is it what you’re forced
Isabelle didn’t answer.
"You’ve been holding the line so hard," he went on, "for so long, you don’t even realize the weight of it anymore. Always budgeting. Always calculating. Always proving that you’re not a leech, not dependent, not the girl who needs help." His voice lowered even more. "I see that."
"And I’ve said this already," Damien continued. "But I’ll say it again. Even if you want to worry about money—just to keep that grip tight—I’m someone who upholds his promises."
He took a step forward, just enough to meet her eyes again without a barrier between them.
"In my presence, you’ll never need to. Ever."
"I’m Damien Elford," he added with a lopsided smirk, light returning to his voice. "I’ve got stupid amounts of money, remember?"
Isabelle stared at him, every part of her expression caught between exasperation and something else she didn’t want to name yet.
But one thing was clear.
This wasn’t about wealth. Not really.
Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him, sharp and unmoved. "I don’t ."
Damien grinned. "Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that before."
She let out a small breath—half a sigh, half a huff of surrender—and turned on her heel. He followed without another word, letting her have the last one this time. The air between them settled into a familiar current—tense but no longer combative. Like something had shifted, but neither of them was quite ready to name it.
By the time they reached the car waiting outside, the sky had dipped into deep lavender. The booth-studded complex behind them glowed like a sleeping circuit board. Isabelle’s eyes flicked to the vehicle—and then paused.
Elysia was already seated inside.
The black-haired woman sat in the passenger seat, posture composed, tablet balanced neatly against her lap, her expression still and unreadable. No hint of fatigue. No trace of boredom. Just that same polished attentiveness, like she’d been monitoring a military op instead of waiting for her boss to finish flirting through a study session.
Isabelle blinked. She hadn’t seen her once during the entire four-hour stretch. Where had she been? What had she been doing?
’She really is a professional,’ Isabelle thought.
Elysia offered her a faint nod in greeting. "Good evening."
Isabelle nodded back, hesitating slightly before sliding into the back seat.
Then the driver’s side door opened—and Damien got in.
Her eyes widened a touch. "You’re driving?"
"Rush hour’s over," he said, buckling his belt with one hand. "And I was in the mood."
He glanced at her through the mirror, that familiar smirk playing at his mouth again.
Isabelle frowned, arms folding instinctively. "You don’t even have a license yet. You shouldn’t be driving."
Damien’s hands moved confidently over the console. "I’m getting it this week. Don’t worry about it."
"That’s not the point," she said sharply. "You’re still breaking the rules. If you’re caught, there’s a penalty."
He let out a quiet laugh. "A money penalty? Oh no, how terrifying. That’ll really change my life."
Her glare sharpened—but the words caught in her chest.
Because as smug as he sounded... he wasn’t wrong.
A money penalty wouldn’t mean anything to Damien Elford. He could get fined five times in one night and brush it off before breakfast. To him, it was just a number. A tax for doing things his way.
She imagined it—getting fined for something as reckless as driving without a license. A few hundred credits, maybe more. That was groceries. That was weeks’ worth of living. That was meals skipped and tight budgeting and maybe even borrowing from family.
And suddenly, the disparity felt like more than wealth.
It felt like freedom.
Damien didn’t just have money. He had margin. Room to make mistakes. To break rules. To bend them and still land on his feet.
And that realization settled over her like a quiet pressure—one she hadn’t noticed before but had always been there.
’We don’t live by the same rules,’ she thought, watching him ease the car out into the empty road. ’Not really.’
It was a strange realization....