Page 6 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The Spectator

If there was ever a moment Damien wished he could vanish into thin air, it was this one. Knowing the man he had “assaulted” with coffee—twice—was still in the room didn’t help. That the man remained seated, seemingly unbothered, only made Damien’s anxiety worse.

He couldn’t leave. Not without jeopardizing Nick’s career, and Damien couldn’t do that to his friend. Not to mention, the idea of standing up in front of all these people and making a swift exit was laughable. So, Damien remained rooted to his chair as presentation after presentation dragged on, his stomach twisting with every passing moment. Nick’s colleagues stayed even after they presented, which only worsened Damien’s predicament. Were they genuinely curious about the other projects, or were they just being polite?

The seven men leading the session peppered each presenter with questions and criticism, their feedback merciless. They took turns asking brutally honest questions, offering criticisms so harsh that Damien wondered if they took pleasure in tearing people down. Only one of them offered occasional compliments. The rest didn’t hold back. Their brutal honesty left one of Nick’s female colleagues on the verge of tears after a particularly scathing remark.

Yet, despite the harshness, the gray-eyed man remained silent throughout. Damien couldn't decide whether or not that was a good thing. But the heavy tension in the room grew with every wordless second Gray-Eyes spent watching the proceedings, like a predator observing its prey.

Finally, Nick’s name was called. The moment had arrived. Damien caught his friend’s eye, exchanging a nervous, tight-lipped smile before they rose from their seats. Nick grabbed his closed laptop, and Damien clutched his iPad like a lifeline as they made their way to the front of the room.

As Damien turned to face the audience, his gaze briefly locked onto Gray-Eyes. The man sat in his chair with the casual ease of a king on a throne, one leg crossed over the other. He was positioned farther back than the other executives—an observer more than a participant. Yet somehow, his presence filled the room.

Nick’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he pulled up the PowerPoint, and Damien switched off the lights, leaving only the screen to illuminate the room. The familiar glow gave him a momentary sense of comfort. He was a teacher, after all. Presentations were second nature to him, right?

But just as Nick began to speak, two soft knocks interrupted.

The door creaked open, revealing a tall blonde. “Apologies, Mr.…” She hesitated, addressing the gray-eyed man. “Mr. Crawford is on the line and requesting to speak with you. He says it’s regarding the meeting which was canceled today .”

The man barely reacted. His eyes remained on the front of the room, cold and unreadable.“I’m busy,” he replied coolly.

The blonde shifted nervously. “Should I tell him you’ll call back later?”

“Yes,” the man said simply, dismissing her without another glance.

Damien’s stomach twisted. The way the blonde had spoken to him—the deferential tone, the implied importance—sent a flicker of unease through Damien’s mind. Who exactly was this man? Another high-ranking executive as he thought, or someone more dangerous?

One of the other executives—an older man with a stern face—cleared his throat. “If you need to take the call, we could take a short break,” he offered, his voice slightly deferential as well.

“No need,” the gray-eyed man replied smoothly. “They’ve waited long enough.”

The blondegave a slight bow and exited, leaving the room heavy with unspoken tension. Damien felt a chill crawl up his spine. Whoever this man was, he seemed to carry more weight here than Damien initially thought. But he didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on that terrifying possibility—he had a presentation to execute flawlessly.

Nick cleared his throat awkwardly. “Let’s… let’s begin.”

Damien returned to his spot beside Nick, pretending to scroll through his iPad as Nick kicked off the presentation. He kept his eyes firmly on the screen, trying to focus, but his mind raced with questions.

The man’s presence at the far end of the table, his silent command of the room—none of it aligned with what Damien had assumed. Was he just another senior executive? Or was there more to him? Damien’s unease deepened.

As the presentation unfolded, Damien contributed when necessary, adding brief explanations to support Nick’s points. For a moment, he allowed himself to slip into the familiar rhythm of teaching. But every so often, his gaze would flicker toward the man—gray eyes glinting in the dim light, lips set in a faint, unreadable curve.

The room felt heavier each time Damien glanced his way, as if the man’s presence consumed all the air. And then the thought hit him, a sudden realization that made his stomach drop: What if he was the boss of the seven men?

No. That couldn’t be right. Could it? Nick hadn’t mentioned no one like him.Yet the respectful way the other executive had spoken to the gray-eyed man—the way even the blonde woman had addressed him—suggested something more.

Damien’s hands grew clammy as the implications set in. If this man really was the superior of Nick’s superiors, Damien might have just jeopardized his best friend’s entire career with that ridiculous coffee incident. He had assumed the eight executives — Nabokov included — would collectively decide, perhaps through some kind of democratic vote, on which project to greenlight.That assumption had offered him some comfort—until now. His pulse quickened, and he struggled to focus on Nick’s words as his mind spiraled.

The presentation neared its end, and the seven senior executives launched into their questions. Nick fielded them easily, his confidence shining through. Damien tried to mirror Nick’s composure, but the weight of his mistake hung over him like a storm cloud. As Nick finished answering the last of the questions, an older executive sitting near the front adjusted his glasses and leaned slightly toward the gray-eyed man. His tone was careful, almost submissive, as he addressed him.

“So, Mr. Nabokov, what are your final thoughts on the presentations?”

Damien’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of the name.

Nabokov .

Now he had a name to put to the striking, arrogant man with those piercing eyes. For reasons Damien couldn’t quite explain, the discovery of Nabokov’s last name made him feel oddly happy—like solving a riddle that had been bothering him all day. But that fleeting sense of satisfaction quickly dissolved when it hit him: Nabokov is the boss. The boss.

Not just some executive in the room, not another high-level suit—he’s the one in charge of all of this. The realization sent a cold shock down Damien’s spine, the weight of it settling uncomfortably on his chest.

Oh, shit .

He hadn’t just spilled coffee on some important guy—he’d practically assaulted the man who held Nick’s entire career in his hands. The man with the final say on every project in the room, not some democratic vote nonsense among the executives. Any illusion of shared decision-making shattered in an instant, leaving Damien with the sickening realization that he might have just screwed over his best friend in the worst way possible. Damien’s stomach churned, and the guilt washed over him in a heavy, relentless wave.

What had he done?

The memory of that smug smirk, those cruel gray eyes, and the casual way Nabokov had talked down to him earlier all came crashing back. And now, knowing who he was, Damien felt the rising panic. He had been reckless. Stupid. What if Nabokov held a grudge? What if Damien had just jeopardized everything Nick had worked for?

How the hell am I going to fix this? Damien’s mind raced as he forced himself to remain still, pretending to listen as Nabokov responded.

Nabokov’s cool, dispassionate gaze slid over the room before landing briefly on Damien, sending a shiver down his spine. His lips curved slightly, as if amused by a private joke only he understood.

“The presentations were... competent,” Nabokov said with infuriating calm. “Some will require further consideration.”

There was an unsettling weight behind Nabokov’s words. No harsh criticism, no immediate rejection. But the way he said it, the cold detachment in his tone, left Damien feeling like he was walking a tightrope, one misstep away from disaster.

I need to fix this, Damien thought, his chest tightening. But how?

His mind raced, searching for a way to smooth things over. Maybe he could pull Nabokov aside before the man exited the conference room, apologize—beg if he had to. He couldn’t let Nick’s project go up in flames because of a petty argument —especially one the poor guy hadn’t even caused. But the thought of facing Nabokov again made his heart pound. How do you even apologize to someone like that?

Damien stared down at his hands, wishing more than anything that he could turn back time. But there was no way out now. He had to figure out how to clean up the mess he had made—and fast.

“Will there be a follow-up meeting for these projects?” one of the suited men asked, his voice tentative.

“While coming here, I encountered a situation that was quite... hot to handle. I was a little shaken by this. So, I don’t think I can make any rational decisions right now,” Nabokov announced, his voice carrying a dangerous calmness.

Damien's heart dropped. Was that a dig at him? No one else spoke, the room thick with tension. Damien glanced at Nabokov, searching his expression for any hint of mockery, but the man’s face betrayed nothing. If anything, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes—as if this whole situation was just a game.

Damien’s stomach churned. He swallowed hard, the pit in his stomach deepening. This wasn’t just about coffee anymore—this was about whether Nick’s hard work would be tossed out because of his reckless moment of defiance. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, guilt gnawing at him like a parasite.

“Well, we thank you all for coming,” said the man who had asked for Nabokov's input, rising to his feet. “We’ll be in touch regarding the next steps.”

The room erupted in polite applause, but Damien could barely bring himself to clap. His nerves were wound too tight, his thoughts spinning out of control. As Damien and Nick returned to their seats, Nick’s voice bubbled with excitement. “We fucking nailed it, man! That went way better than expected, right?”

Nick's beaming smile lit up his face, but Damien couldn't muster the same joy. The weight of his earlier mistake hung over him like a storm cloud.

Damien forced a smile, nodding mechanically. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Damien’s mind was racing. He had to push aside his unease. Apologizing to Nabokov was the only way to fix this, right? Surely, Nabokov would understand—maybe even laugh it off. But what if he didn’t? What if Damien had sealed his friend’s fate by being an arrogant smart-ass?

As the room emptied, Damien stayed rooted in his chair, his thoughts a chaotic tangle. He had just learned the man he had accidentally doused with coffee—twice—was not just anyone but Nabokov, the boss of this entire operation. The same man who now had the power to shape—or shatter—Nick’s future. As the executives filed out, Nick leaned closer, whispering, “There’s a small reception upstairs for the presenters. You coming?”

Damien’s stomach churned at Nick’s suggestion. The idea of facing Nabokov—the boss—in a more casual setting made his skin prickle with unease. He couldn’t shake the memory of Nabokov’s cool, detached gaze during the presentation or the way the other executives had been speaking his name with such reverence.

Damien felt like he’d been walking on thin ice all afternoon, with Nabokov watching his every step, waiting for him to fall through. Now, the prospect of mingling with him in a social setting? It felt like stepping directly into the lion’s den. Damien opened his mouth to respond, but his words faltered as he noticed Nabokov rising from his seat. The man’s movements were unhurried, his demeanor as composed as ever. With a faint nod to the remaining executives, Nabokov exited the room without so much as a glance in Damien’s direction.

For some reason, that stung more than it should have.

Nick gave him a nudge. “D, come on. You were great in there. Plus, it’s just a casual thing. Drinks, appetizers, no big deal.”

No big deal. Right. Damien bit back a groan. Nick’s optimism was both endearing and maddening.

“I don’t know…” Damien murmured, his pulse quickening.

Every fiber of his being wanted to retreat, to avoid the inevitable moment when he’d have to face Nabokov again. The man’s gaze had been haunting him throughout the presentations, and the thought of stepping into a more casual setting where Nabokov might approach him—might speak to him—set his nerves on edge.

“Come on now, D,” Nick said, standing and gathering his things. “ It’s just a reception. Mingle, smile, maybe grab a drink or two. Actually, scratch that—definitely grab a drink. You’ve earned it, man. ”

Damien forced a smile, though his stomach churned with unease. “Yeah. Sure.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Nick grinned, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s hit the lounge. I’m actually starving here. I haven't eaten anything for like two days straight.”

Damien was too nervous to feel like putting any food in his mouth. He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his iPad. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up,”Damien said, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

Nick frowned. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I just need a minute. All that coffee’s catching up to me,” Damien lied.

Nick chuckled. “Okay then. I’m heading to my office to drop my stuff first. Don’t take too long, D.”

Damien quicklytucked his iPad into his bag before handing it to Nick. “Here, take my stuff, too. I don’t feel like lugging it around.”

Nick raised an eyebrow but took the bag with a teasing grin. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

Damien smirked. “You owe me for helping you nail that presentation. Consider this one tenth of your payment.”

Nick laughed as he slung Damien’s bag over his shoulder. “Fine, fine. I’ll meet you later.”

As Nick exited the room, Damien lingered behind, his heart pounding. He needed a moment to collect himself, to process the fact that the man he’d dumped coffee on had not only been in the room but held sway over everything Nick had worked so hard for. The thought made his stomach twist.

He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling shakily. I just need to get through tonight without making things worse . He needed to pull himself together. It wasn’t like he could avoid Nabokov forever, especially if the man really was the one calling the shots.

Damien slipped out of the conference room with the others, his steps slowing as the hallway stretched ahead of him. The hum of voices faded into the background, the prospect of heading to the reception tightening a knot of unease in his chest. He pulled out his phone, his stomach twisted when his thumb hovered over Craig’s name. The argument the night before replayed in his mind—the sharp words, the palpable hurt in Craig’s voice. The memory of it gnawed at him, a festering wound he hadn’t yet addressed. He hadn’t been fair to Craig. But what could he say to fix it?

With a shaky breath, Damien veered away from the elevator bank, finding a quiet alcove near a window overlooking the city. The view blurred as he stared at his phone, thumb poised to hit “Call.”

Just do it. Apologize .

He pressed the button, his heart hammering as the line rang. It surprised Damien when Craig picked up after just two rings.“Yes, Damien,” Craig answered, his tone clipped and distant.

Damien’s chest tightened at the formality, but he couldn’t let himself falter. “Oh! Did you just remember you had a boyfriend?” he shot back, sarcasm coating his words, though his anger simmered just beneath the surface.

“If you’re calling just to argue, I’d rather hang up,” Craig replied, his voice calm but edged with weariness.

The silence that followed was heavy. Damien took a breath, willing himself to rein in his emotions. This wasn’t how he wanted this conversation to go—but the wounds from their last argument still felt fresh and raw.

“I…” Damien hesitated, searching for the right words, but nothing came. Finally, he blurted out, “I want to see you.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The quiet stretched, and Damien’s anxiety clawed at him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Craig said finally, his tone careful, as though he were walking on eggshells.

Damien’s grip on his phone tightened. “Why?”

“It’s too early,” Craig replied, his words deliberate. “I think we both need some time apart to figure things out.”

Damien clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling over. “Well, I disagree,” he said, his voice sharper than intended. “A day apart is already too much, considering how little time we’ve spent together lately.”

“Damien—”

“No,” Damien interrupted, his emotions spilling out. “Listen to me, Craig. I won’t let this shit drag on. I’m coming to see you, whether you like it or not.”

“Damien—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

Before Craig could respond, Damien ended the call, his hand trembling slightly as he lowered the phone. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. The weight of his own impulsiveness pressed down on him, but he didn’t regret it—not entirely. The adrenaline from the call still coursed through him, but he pushed himself away from the wall, letting his feet carry him to the large floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hallway.

The city stretched out before him, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon. Skyscrapers stood like sentinels against the sky, their glass facades reflecting the light. Down below, tiny cars crawled along the busy streets of Manhattan, the world moving on, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He stayed there for nearly thirty minutes, staring at the view and letting its vastness quiet his racing thoughts. The adrenaline ebbed away, leaving a familiar ache in its place—the ache of uncertainty.

Craig’s words replayed in his mind, each one a thorn pressing deeper into his already conflicted heart. Why was it so hard to find balance? To give enough without giving too much? To love without suffocating?

And then there was Nabokov. The thought of him—his piercing gray eyes, his commanding presence—interrupted Damien’s spiraling reflections. He didn’t know what to make of the man. Was he genuine, or was this all some elaborate game? And why couldn’t Damien stop wondering about him?

His gaze shifted to the horizon, where the sun began its slow descent. The shifting colors of the sky mirrored the tumult inside him—vivid and intense, refusing to settle.

Time slipped by faster than Damien had anticipated. He had stayed at the window far longer than he’d meant to—long enough that Nick was probably wondering where he was. Surprisingly, there was no text or call from his friend demanding to know his whereabouts, a fact that left Damien both relieved and slightly guilty.

He glanced at his phone, half-expecting a missed notification, but the screen was blank save for the time. Thirty minutes. Had it really been that long? It felt as though he’d been frozen in place, trapped between the magnetic pull of the view and the maelstrom of thoughts swirling inside him.

With a soft sigh, Damien adjusted his tie, straightening his posture. His reflection in the glass was sharper now, his expression more composed. The city beyond him continued its steady rhythm, a stark contrast to his disarray. Nick would be waiting. And so would Nabokov. It was time to face the reception.