The night was a heavy veil across the city skyline, the kind of dark that made glass towers look like black monoliths with blinking eyes. Damian Blackthorn didn't notice. His hands were steady on the steering wheel as he glided through the streets in silence.
There was no music.
No news.
Just the hum of the engine and the distant ache behind his temple.
He should've gone straight home after the meeting, but something kept him driving in circles—like some part of him didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. Or maybe it was already too late for that.
Every time he blinked, he saw her face.
Not Elena's.
Charlotte.
He hadn't said her name aloud in years, but tonight—tonight her memory was an open wound he couldn't stop touching.
Three Years Ago
He was twenty-five. Still sharp, still ambitious—but with fewer scars. Fewer reasons to be suspicious.
Charlotte Lake had been sunshine in human form. Or at least, she played the part well. Blonde, brilliant, and effortlessly charming. She'd laughed like he was the only man in the room. She made him feel like he mattered. She made him believe love didn't have to come with contracts or clauses.
Damian fell. Hard. Stupidly.
He let her into his world.
Let her into his secrets.
Paid off her brother's debts. Funded her startup dreams. Bought her silence when tabloids started sniffing around about the Blackthorn heir's personal life.
She said she loved him.
He believed it.
Until one night, half-asleep, he heard her on the phone, giggling in the kitchen with a glass of his scotch in her hand.
"Of course I don't love him," she whispered. "He's a walking bank account with nice arms."
That was all it took.
He didn't confront her.
He didn't give her the satisfaction of a fight.
He let her wake up to locked doors and disconnected numbers.
And ever since, Damian had operated on one rule: love is leverage. Nothing more.
Present
He pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse building, engine still purring. His chest felt tight—not from Charlotte, not even from Elena, but from the realization that no matter how much time passed, some betrayals never faded.
Damian stepped out of the car, his jaw clenched as he walked to the elevator. Elena had looked at him tonight like she meant every word she said. Like she believed him when he told her he cared.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
She was innocent, warm-hearted, painfully sincere. The kind of woman who believed marriage meant something real.
And that made her perfect.
Not for love.
For strategy.
Elena was the kind of woman the board would approve of. The kind of woman his mother would be satisfied with. The kind of woman who wouldn't question why he was pushing for a sudden engagement and a two-month honeymoon right after.
She had no idea what she was stepping into.
Damian took the elevator to the penthouse. When the doors opened, the lights were already on.
And someone was waiting.
Not Elena.
But Victoria Blackthorn.
His mother.
She stood in the center of the room like she owned the air itself, a glass of red wine poised in one manicured hand, her heels echoing softly against the marble floor.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
He shrugged off his coat. "You're trespassing."
She smiled—sharp, amused. "It's my building."
"Not this unit."
"Semantics." She took a sip, then finally turned to him. "We need to talk."
"Do we?" Damian walked past her to the bar, poured himself a drink. Neat, no ice. "If this is about the board meeting, I've already dealt with it."
"It's not about the board." She paused. "It's about your life."
He didn't look at her. "Be more specific."
"Marriage."
The glass in his hand stilled just shy of his lips.
"I saw the photos, Damian. You and that girl—Elena." Her tone was light, but he knew that voice. Calculating. Strategic. "She seems... unpolished. But sweet. Real."
"She's manageable," he said coolly.
Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you want? Manageable?"
"I want what works," he said.
"What works," she repeated. "You used to believe in love."
"I was twenty-five and stupid."
She didn't flinch. "You still are. Just less naïve."
He sipped his whiskey. "Then you should be proud."
Victoria walked to the window and gazed out at the city. "You know the board is watching. You know your uncles are circling like vultures. You need more than quarterly numbers to keep control."
"And a docile wife would solve that?" he asked dryly.
"A loyal one would," she replied. "Marry someone who won't betray you. Someone who will stand beside you when the old men start sharpening their knives."
Damian didn't answer.
His mother turned. "Elena's face is all over the media now. You've given the public a narrative. Make it real. At least long enough to silence the doubters."
He downed the rest of his drink. The taste burned, but it wasn't enough.
"I'll handle it," he said.
"I'm sure you will." She moved toward the door, heels clicking like a metronome. "Just don't wait too long. Love is expensive. But betrayal..." Her eyes flicked to him. "...costs more."
When she was gone, Damian stood in silence.
His gaze drifted to the untouched side of the couch. The place where Charlotte used to sit.
And then to the memory of Elena's soft smile.
It wasn't real.
It couldn't be.
He wouldn't let it.