Damian's Pov
The alarm snaps at 5:00 a.m. My body feels heavy, bracing for an impact that hasn't landed yet. Yesterday's mess is a dull ache in my chest.
A soft knock at the door. Ms. Vivian Harper steps in, her presence a quiet, practiced patience.
"Good morning, Ma."
Her eyes study me. "You're up early."
"I'm sorry for calling you in early," I say, my voice raspy. "There's a guest in the guest room. I need breakfast ready and the place spotless."
She nods. No questions. "I'll handle it."
Ms. Vivian has been the only constant since the accident twelve years ago. When the relatives scattered like dust, she stayed. She's the nurse, the cook, and the only person I trust more than myself.
I pull on my running shoes before she can starts checking if I'm dressed warmly enough and head out. The morning air hits, chasing the fog from my lungs. Two blocks in, I stop to retie my laces. Another two blocks, I see him.
Harrison. Stretching against a fence like he owns the damn sunrise.
"Board meeting moved," he calls out. "Eight instead of eleven. And congratulations on the big announcement, Nephew."
I keep my eyes forward. "News travel fast when you're the one leaking it, Harrison."
He falls into stride beside me, chuckling. "Ah, always brooding. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy the spotlight."
"Enjoy?" I scoff. "Please. Though if someone leaked details about my fiancée… I know exactly whose fingerprints I'd find."
He clutches his chest theatrically. "Predictable accusations. Nephew, I'm hurt. Though, I'd admit, " his smile turns into a grin, "She's a liability, Damian. Not exactly Blackwell material. But even I have my limits."
I don't look back. I just run until my lungs burn.
*****
I'm back home now, and the sweat on me feels like a second skin now, so I grab my towel and head for the bathroom to get ready for the rescheduled meeting. I haven't seen Elle all morning, so I guess she's still asleep.
I pull out my phone and dial a number. It rings but no answer.
"Skipping breakfast, sir?" Ma stands in the doorway, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"In a hurry," I say, buttoning my shirt.
She tilts her head, a knowing smile. "Thought so. Packed something for you anyway."
I take the brown-paper package from her hand, nod. "Thank you."
Garage. Engine starts as I dial the number from before, again.
This time, someone picks up.
"Come to my office. Now. I might have something for you."
"Finally, you..." I end the call.
*****
The conference room is already buzzing when I walk in; ties straightened, backs stiff. Everyone is pretending they didn't try to crucify me forty-eight hours ago. Conversations die as I take my seat at the head of the table.
"We owe you an apology, Damian," Chairman Lowell starts, his voice oily. "The board acknowledges we acted too slowly during yesterday's... turbulence. We stand with you now."
Murmurs of agreement circle the table. Heads nod. "We stand with you now," Mrs. Cole adds. "Unwaveringly."
Of course. Loyalty is a cheap commodity when profit is involved.
"Next agenda," Lowell continues. "Crest Global has confirmed interest in a strategic purchase. The projections exceed last quarter by fifteen percent."
Excitement stirs around the table. "Congratulations, Damian," Mrs. Keene adds. "Your leadership played a huge role in this."
"And the baby," someone chimes in. "A big step for the legacy."
I offer a tight meaningless smile. "Glad the company is suddenly optimistic about children."
A few laugh too hard.
Gerald Pike leans back, his smugness filing the room. "Impressive, I'll admit. ABut imagine the investment if you'd married Alexandra Beaumont. Her father would have tripled that overnight."
The silence thickens. Alexandra Beaumont; spoiled, dramatic, allergic to the word no. Perfect.
I flip a page in my file, letting the silence stretch until Pike starts to sweat. "Gerald," I say finally, "if I ever decide to sell my sanity for a check, I'll let you know. Until then, Crest's money spends just fine."
A few board members choke back laughter.
"Right. Well... meeting adjourned." Lowell announces. "Congratulations, son."
More congratulations fly around in the room.
Chairs scrape. People gather their files as they exit with warm smiles they didn't have yesterday.
I'm already halfway to my office when my secretary intercepts me, tablet clutched to her chest.
"Camila Rivera from PR, and… Lila Monroe. The blogger. They're both demanding to see you without any appointment."
I rub my jaw. "Camila first. Then Monroe. Cancel the rest. Shift all meetings two hours ahead."
"Yes, sir."
*****
Silence returns as I walk into my office, my safe space. I drop the files on the desk and scan the room, resetting myself while I reach out for the decanter. I need the burn of scotch, but a knock ruins the moment. Camila enters. Nervous, as usual.
"Is she okay?" she blurs out. "Elle?"
"She's fine. I left her asleep. She should be back home before the workday ends."
Camila exhales, her shoulders dropping. "Thank you. I was worried."
"Get back to work, Camila."
She slips out. A moment later, Monroe strides in. Too much perfume and makeup. Too much everything.
"Sit," I say, setting the glass down, untouched.
She sits, crossing her legs with a confidence she hasn't earned.
"I'll be honest," she starts, "I didn't think you'd call back. Last week you were..."
"Shut up."
The speed at which she obeys should embarrass her.
"I'm going to make you the loudest voice in New York," I tell her, leaning over my desk. "You'll get your headlines, break your stories and I'll get the truth. Mutual benefit."
Her eyes gleam. "What do you want?"
"Dig into my fiancée's life. Every piece she's hiding. Every person she talks to. Every ghost in her closet."
She blinks. "Marielle Morgan or should I say Seraphina Carrington?"
I don't flinch. "Both."
"You want to expose her?"
"No." I take a slow sip of the scotch. It burns. "I want to know who I've let into my house. You poke until she reacts. You report only to me."
She smiles, a predatory curve of her lips. "And the reward?"
"The story of the decade. But first, the NDA."
Her excitement is loud and obvious. "Done."
"My secretary will hand the papers to you."
She almost trips over herself rushing out to sign the papers.
The moment the door shuts, I finish my drink. I've just set a fire in my own home. I tell myself it's for the company. I tell myself it's for protection.
But as the scotch settles in my gut, I realize I'm just terrified of a woman who sees through me.