Chapter 2 Damian
DAMIAN
I smell antiseptic long before I smell champagne. It’s all alcohol to me.
That’s how I know I’m not meant to be here.
The Baylock New Year’s Eve masquerade has been happening longer than I’ve been alive, possibly longer than anyone remembers.
It’s tradition. It’s legacy. It’s my mother’s favorite word—duty—wrapped in crystal chandeliers and catered excess.
I’ve survived it every year by reminding myself that it ends.
Tonight is no different.
I stand near the edge of the ballroom with a glass I haven’t touched, mask balanced on my face out of obligation rather than enthusiasm, and catalog exits the way I do when I walk into an emergency department.
Old habits. You don’t spend decades working on trauma cases without learning how to assess a room.
There are many ways this one could bleed.
I’d rather be at the hospital. I always would. That’s the rebellious streak my mother insists on calling a phase, as if I haven’t been an attending physician for years. As if saving lives at three in the morning is something one simply grows out of.
In fairness to her, I left for a while. My ex-wife, Amber, insisted.
Said it wasn’t appropriate. Said it embarrassed her when people asked what I did, and I didn’t give the answer they expected.
That it made people imagine me elbow-deep in guts.
So, I tried—briefly—to be the man everyone wanted.
The philanthropist. The board member. The heir.
I hated every minute of it. Thank God for my divorce lawyer.
Now I’m back in the emergency department where I belong, pulling twelve-hour shifts and feeling useful again. Life, for the most part, is good.
Except for this.
I spot my mother across the room. She’s holding court near the staircase, elegant as ever, her smile sharp with expectation. She hasn’t forgiven me for returning to the hospital. She never will. In her mind, I’m squandering influence that could be leveraged into something respectable.
Nearby, Jason stands with his fiancée, Faith. My son looks polished tonight—too polished. He always does when he wants approval. Faith is lovely in the way that makes people relax around her, soft edges, easy smile. She looks like a woman who believes what she’s been promised.
That worries me.
They approach together, and I brace myself. “Dad,” Jason says, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. Performative affection. “We were just talking about venues.”
Faith smiles. “Jason was thinking the estate would be perfect for the wedding.”
I study my son’s face. I know him too well. I know his patterns. His appetites. His talent for convincing himself that this time will be different.
The estate would be perfect, I think. For appearances. For tradition. For lying very convincingly to everyone involved. “It’s your wedding,” I say instead. “You can have it wherever you want.”
Jason relaxes immediately. Faith beams.
I drain my glass in one swallow and nod. “Excuse me.” I step away before I say something that would do more harm than good, already searching for a quieter corner, a less complicated conversation.
I don’t find one.
What I find—unbidden, unexpected—is a flash of red across the room. Something in my chest stills, sharp and alert, the way it does when an incoming trauma is wheeled through the doors.
My mother intercepts me before I make it ten steps.
She has a talent for that—appearing exactly where I don’t want her to be, smile already in place, eyes assessing for weakness.
Tonight she’s dressed in black and silver, elegant and severe, her mask more symbolic than functional.
She doesn’t need anonymity. Everyone here knows who she is.
“Damian.” She loops her arm through mine like she’s being affectionate rather than strategic. “A word.”
I give her three. “Happy New Year, Mother.”
She ignores it, steering me toward a quieter alcove as if I’m still sixteen and capable of being guided. I let her. It’s easier than resisting, and resistance only prolongs the conversation. “You look tired. Everyone says so. Are you still working those ridiculous hours?”
“They’re called shifts.”
Her mouth tightens. “You promised you would consider stepping back.”
“I did consider it.”
“And yet,” she snaps, “you’re still in the emergency department.”
“People keep showing up injured,” I reply mildly. “Someone has to treat them.”
She exhales, slow and controlled. “The foundation needs you. The board needs you. There are ways to help people that don’t involve exhausting yourself or undermining the family’s position.”
There it is. The argument she’s been refining for years.
“I help people every day. Directly.”
“You could help more,” she insists. “With your name. Your influence.”
“With my hands,” I counter. “My judgment. My skills.”
She studies me, calculating, as if searching for leverage she hasn’t already tried. “You’re wasting yourself.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Her disappointment lands like a practiced weapon, but I’ve lived with it long enough to know it won’t kill me. I open my mouth to excuse myself when movement across the room catches my eye.
Red.
The woman again.
She’s near the staircase now, mask still in place, posture composed, entirely too aware of herself to be accidental. She isn’t doing anything overt—no exaggerated gestures, no searching gaze—but somehow she commands space. Exists in it differently from everyone else here.
My mother follows my line of sight and frowns. “Do you know her?”
“No.”
The woman laughs softly at nothing at all, tilting her head back just enough to let the light catch her throat. She looks like she belongs nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Well,” my mother says stiffly, “if you won’t reconsider the foundation, at least try not to scandalize anyone tonight.”
I turn back to her. “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She never does when the answer might complicate her narrative.
I use the distraction to step away, finally freeing myself. The party swells again around me, noise and movement blurring into something tolerable.
I tell myself not to look for the woman in red, but I fail immediately. She’s still there, still untethered, still quietly disruptive. I don’t approach. I don’t stare. I observe, the way I do with patients before diagnosis—watching for tells, inconsistencies, intent.
She doesn’t belong to anyone here. That’s the most dangerous thing about her.
Just as my interest sharpens into something more deliberate, a familiar voice cuts in from behind me. “Damian.”
I close my eyes briefly before turning. Amber is the last person I wanted to see tonight.
She looks exactly the way she always does when she wants something. Perfectly composed. Perfectly irritated that I exist independently of her orbit these days. Her mask is gold and ostentatious, chosen to be noticed, and she wears it like armor. “Happy New Year.”
There’s a man at her side—Meron, my department head and her new boyfriend—though he’s drifted a polite distance away, giving us the illusion of privacy as he screws around on his phone.
“And to you,” I reply. Neutral. Civil. Years of practice.
She glances over my shoulder, already bored, already assessing her audience. “We need to talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
She sighs, dramatic and familiar. “About the cabin.”
Of course it’s the cabin.
A weather-beaten place in Maine that we bought on a whim during a brief optimistic stretch of our marriage.
I haven’t thought about it in years. I assumed the lawyers had dealt with it, but apparently not.
Or more likely, Amber simply wants an excuse to pull me into her gravity again. Something else to hassle me about.
“I don’t care about the cabin,” I say plainly. “Sell it. Keep it. Burn it down. My signature can be arranged.”
Her lips press together. “There’s no reason to involve lawyers. We’re reasonable adults.”
I almost laugh at that. “We divorced because we weren’t.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Meron thinks it would be good for you to start thinking about the future. About where you’re headed.”
I glance past her, immediately finding the woman in red again. She’s moved, closer to the center of the room now, unanchored, untouched. Watching everything without being part of it.
My pulse ticks up. “Excuse me—”
Amber’s eyes flash. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”
“I’m being clear. I thought that’s what reasonable adults do.” I step back, reclaiming space. “Go dance with Meron. Enjoy the party. Have your lawyers email mine about the cabin.”
“Damian—”
I don’t wait for her response. I don’t offer reassurance or soften the dismissal. I simply turn away, relief washing through me the second the distance grows.
The woman in red is moving toward the terrace doors now, slow and deliberate, as if she knows someone is watching. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to.
I like her confidence.
Something tightens in my chest, curiosity sharpening into intent. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know why she’s here. But I want to find out.
I lose sight of her near the terrace doors. Not because she disappears—because the room shifts. Someone steps into my path. Laughter crests. The music swells, and for a moment, the party reasserts itself, demanding attention.
I don’t give it any. I angle left, then right, moving with purpose now, no longer pretending this is a coincidence. Red wanted my attention. I’m sure of it.
I pass staff who glance at me with recognition and step aside. The perks of being a Baylock are usually an irritation. Tonight, they’re useful. The terrace doors stand open, cold air spilling in, snow dusting the threshold. She’s not there.
Interesting.
I scan quickly, the way I would in the trauma bay when a patient’s vitals take a turn—fast, efficient. Where would she go if she wanted to be seen leaving without actually leaving?
The answer comes to me as easily as a diagnosis. The side corridor.
I pivot, cutting across the ballroom instead of skirting it, no longer concerned with subtlety. People notice this time. They always do when you stop playing your assigned role. I feel eyes on me—my mother’s, perhaps, or Jason’s—but I don’t slow.
I catch a flash of red near the far wall, silk slipping through a narrower passage like a secret. There you are.
The corridor is quieter, the noise of the party muffled to a distant thrum. The lighting is softer here, warmer, meant for private conversations and discreet exits. She walks ahead of me, unhurried, heels clicking softly against the floor.
I don’t rush. Rushing would suggest desperation. Instead, I match her pace, letting the distance between us narrow naturally, inevitably. My pulse is steady, but something unfamiliar coils low in my chest—anticipation without agenda, curiosity without justification.
She stops at the intersection of two hallways, turning slightly, just enough for me to see her profile. Still masked. Still anonymous.
She doesn’t look at me for a long moment, and then she does, slow and deliberate, and for the first time I face her directly without mirrors or distance or pretense. The mask hides part of her face, but not her eyes. Those are sharp. Assessing. Entirely too aware.
“Do you follow everyone who leaves a room, or am I special?”
“Where are you heading?”
Her lips curve slightly. Not a smile. A challenge. “The powder room. Where can I find it?”
“Two doors down to the left. Can’t miss it.”
A sly smile tugs at her lips. “Thank you for being my tour guide.” With that, she leaves a trail of sweet vanilla scent and disappears down the hall.
I should let her go. Instead, I wait.
But she doesn’t come out again for quite some time. After ten minutes, I decide to check on her—my training kicking in. If she’s ill, there’s no sense in not helping her.
I knock, but there’s no answer. Loudly, I tell her, “I’m coming in.”
The door isn’t locked, and when I open it, the curtains blow in the cold breeze.
An involuntary laugh escapes me, much like the woman in red. I can’t believe she left. Was she a thief who got what she came for? A seductress who lost her nerve?
A figment of my imagination?
I shrug to myself and rejoin the party, because I know my absence will be clocked by three relatives and one annoying ex-wife, and I don’t want to hear about it.
Wherever the woman in red is, I hope she knows she is missed.