Chapter 26 The Flashing Lights
THE FLASHING LIGHTS
DAMON
The flashing lights of the paparazzi blind me momentarily as I step out of the limo, offering my hand to Emery. “Ready?”
She hesitates for a second, swallowing. She should be relaxed right now. Sedated. I gave her what she wanted, what she needed, and yet the anxiety has returned to her eyes, clouding them in fear.
“Let’s go,” she finally says, releasing a steady breath and steeling herself. Her fingers briefly glide against mine as she gets out of the limo, but then that’s it. No more contact. She looks back at me. “Well?”
I can’t stop myself. I can’t help it. Placing my hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the red carpet, I whisper, “Remember to smile.”
With her hands elegantly clasped together, she works the cameras like a professional as we make our way up the carpeted stairs toward the ballroom.
Unease tugs at me. She’s a good actress, talented in her ability to play the part.
All the anxiety she exuded in the limo dissipates, almost as if it was fake.
But it wasn’t. This is. This version she’s presenting to the media, to the reporters, to fellow guests.
All eyes are on her. And I fucking hate it.
I’m serving her up on a silver platter, giving her beauty and grace a stage on which to shine.
“Mr. Cavanaugh! Mr. Cavanaugh! Darren Keller from The Times! Where have you been the last two years?” A reporter shouts, waving his hand. “How are you handling the recent plummet of CVH stocks?”
I try to ignore him. I want to ignore him, but Javier’s voice floods my thoughts. The more they speculate, the more they write their own version of the truth, the more my company suffers. I veer closer to the swarm of media, Emery shooting me a skeptical glance.
“Come with me.” My tone is desperate. I can’t do it alone. I need her beside me. She hesitates. “Please.” She blinks at me, taken aback by the rarity of my request, but gives me a nod. “Thank you.”
The reporter holds out his microphone as Emery and I approach the media pit.
“I know there have been many rumors circulating regarding my whereabouts the past two years,” I say, keeping my tone even, verging on charismatic, just like I was taught.
“And I hate to disappoint the people, but no, I didn’t join a cult, I was not kidnapped and held captive for ransom by terrorists, and I definitely wasn’t in jail.
” I offer the reporter a disarming smile.
“I’m afraid the truth isn’t as juicy as you’d hope.
I—” God, I hate this. “I needed time. I’m sure anyone who has ever lost a family member knows what I’m talking about.
” Guilt flashes across the reporter's face. “I lost my entire family. I was grieving. That’s what I’ve been doing the past two years. ”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” the reporter mutters. “And, uh, and the company—”
“Cavanaugh Industries is thriving,” I state, glancing at Emery, the heat from her body serving as a security blanket against the hyenas. “We’ve recently made some strategic personnel changes that I believe will further enhance our growth and success in the coming months.”
“Miss Jones, you previously worked for CJ Piers, is that correct?” the reporter asks.
Emery stiffens beside me but nods. It’s public information but unsettling that they already know who she is nonetheless.
“What incentives did Mr. Cavanaugh offer you to leave a successful firm like CJ Piers and join Cavanaugh Industries?”
My blood boils at the not-so-subtle jab at my company’s health. Bastard.
Emery’s gaze flits to me, glowing with the dirty truth of her transfer. I lift a curious brow, interested to see how she’ll reply. Saying she was coerced and bribed with endless pleasure hardly seems like an appropriate response.
She gives the reporter a sly and flirty smile. What is she doing?
“Success is subjective, Mr. Keller,” she coos. “I didn’t need much incentive to leave Piers.” She shoots me a bold look. “Given how well Mr. Cavanaugh takes care of his employees, it was an easy decision.”
I rein in a grin. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”
“Anytime, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
“One more question…” The reporter swallows. “Mr. Cavanaugh, what can you tell us about VenCore LLC?”
My face pales. How does he know about that? No one should—Quinton. That fucker. If he wants a war, I’ll give it to him.
“VenCore?” I ask coolly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before.”
“But—”
“Let’s go.” I gently grab Emery’s elbow and lead her away from the media. “I hate reporters. Bunch of opportunistic scum.”
“What’s VenCore?” she asks softly, continuing to smile for the cameras as we quicken our pace up the stairs toward the entrance. “Damon?”
“Nothing,” I grunt, nodding at the attendant as he ushers us inside the gala. “After you.”
“Wow,” Emery hums, fiddling with her necklace as we’re greeted with the sound of clinking glasses and murmured conversations. “He really goes all out.”
I scowl at the sheer grandeur of the ballroom.
Quinton in a nutshell. Intricate crystal chandeliers adorn the high ceilings, casting a soft, warm glow over the room.
Floor-to-ceiling black velour curtains drape from the walls.
In the center of the room is a massive white marble dance floor, a full orchestra perched on the grand stage.
The smell of freshly cut flowers fills the air, large arrangements of white roses and lilies scattered throughout the room, the scent almost sickeningly sweet.
“Damon! Is that you?” I turn my head to the sound of a familiar voice.
Ophelia Myers, a friend of my parents, waves at me, her husband in tow.
“What a surprise! We didn’t know if you’d be here or not.
” She stops in front of us, tilting her blonde head as she gives Emery a slow once-over.
“I’m Ophelia, Ophelia Myers. This is my husband, Fred. ”
“Emery Jones.” She holds out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Ophelia says, pursing her lips. Her attention shifts to me. “So, how have you been, Damon? I feel like we haven’t seen you since the funeral.”
“I’ve been fine,” I say, dreading the small talk. “And you?”
“Well, you know how it is—”
Emery leans over, whispering in my ear, “I’m going to get a drink. Be right back.”
My jaw clenches as I nod, watching her walk away, the heads of every man she passes turning in her direction. As Ophelia drones on about her latest European vacation, I keep my gaze locked on Emery as she waits for a flute of champagne.
Like a vulture, a goddamn scavenger, I sense Quinton’s presence. Emery does too. He smirks at her, and I want nothing more than to wipe it off his fucking face. He says something to her. Something that makes her laugh. She never laughs when she’s with me.
“It’s this charming little villa near—”
“Please excuse me,” I say, marching through the throngs of guests toward Quinton and Emery.
I know I’m losing it. I know that whatever spell she’s casted over me has turned me into a neurotic predator, possessive and jealous. But I can’t think straight when I see them together. I can’t control the primal urge to rip his fucking head off for looking at her the way he does.
He’s using her to settle the score, to get revenge after all these years. I wouldn’t break a sweat if it were another man. But Quinton and I have one thing in common—we don’t mind playing dirty.
“Ah, if it isn’t the warden,” Quinton chirps as I approach them. He casts me a hawkish grin. “What took you so long? Little Emery and I almost managed to finish a whole sentence uninterrupted.”
My body vibrates, his pompous tone damn near tearing my fragile facade in half.
“Quin was just telling me that he’s already raised thirty million dollars for the Children’s Hospital,” Emery says. “Isn’t that remarkable?”
I clench my fist as Emery tries to ease the tension between us. But her efforts are in vain. There is nothing she can say to defuse the bomb inside my chest, waiting to explode.
“Yes, it’s truly remarkable the length people will go for a tax write-off,” I seethe. The champagne in Emery's hand glimmers under the light of the obnoxious chandeliers. “I thought you didn't drink.”
“One glass won’t kill me,” she says in a clipped tone, defenses rising like a fortress around her.
“Let the young lady live her life, Cavanaugh,” Quin coos, clinking his glass against Emery’s, his gaze burrowing into her crinkled green eyes before shifting down to her necklace. He perks up a brow. “A Harry Winston. You’ve got expensive taste.”
Emery shrugs, a coy smile clipping her lips. “Just trying to fit in.”
“Well, you’re doing a marvelous job, darling,” Quinton says. “A beautiful woman like yourself should always have diamonds wrapped around her neck.” His gaze flicks to her bare right hand. “Necklaces are so much more symbolic than rings.”
Quinton’s smug smirk burns a crater in my fraying composure. The diamonds around Emery's neck glint like little shards of broken glass, mocking me, taunting me. And then it hits me. She didn’t buy that necklace. The truth gnaws at my insides. He did.
Emery blinks. “Are they?”
“Mhmm,” Quinton hums. “But Cavanaugh here has always been more drawn to rings.”
“Stop talking,” I seethe quietly, my hand curling into a fist, the rage building and building until it threatens to swallow me whole.
Flippantly, he ignores me, looking at Emery as he continues spewing his venomous lies like a snake hissing, “Which is ironic because he’s never been able to fully commit. At least, not in the way it matters.”
“Stop talking, Quinton,” I hiss, my breathing deep and heavy and conjuring. “Stop now.”
He shoots me a knowing side-eye, soldiering on. “But I suppose the barriers that were standing in your way are no longer with us.” My vision blurs as he adds, “Perhaps this time it’ll be different.”
Emery shrieks my name, but it's too late.
She is my downfall, and he, my demise. A destructive rage surges from the depths of my psyche, down to my arm, straight into my clenched fist.
I am powerless to stop it.
My knuckles connect with Quinton’s nose.
Blood spatters. Bone cracks. And I’m crippled. Crippled by my inability to think, to reason, to act with logic.
A blinding light explodes in my periphery, the camera’s clicks like fucking gunshots in my ears. Everything dims around me, voices muffled and muted as I stumble backward. Pain shoots through my fingers, and memories of the crash flood my mind.
Both crashes.
Emery stares at me bewildered, her frantic gaze searching mine for answers. But what can I give her? What words can possibly explain the madness that has driven me to this point?
The truth is that I don't know. All I feel is crushing loss, an emptiness that tears my soul in half. The lives that were lost. The dreams that were shattered. Everything that was taken from me in a moment of recklessness.
As Emery coils a hand around my elbow, dragging me away from the chaos, a deep sense of shame grips my chest. What the hell is wrong with me? What kind of man have I become? What kind of man have I always been?
"I..." My voice is barely a whisper, choked with emotion.
Emery's grip is fierce, her nails digging into my skin. "Air," she hisses, pulling me toward the balcony, "you need air."