Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAMIEN
The party sprawls through the ground floor of the mansion, spilling onto the rear terrace where heat lamps ward off the evening chill. String lights wrap around columns and railings, creating the illusion of intimacy in a space designed for intimidation.
A string quartet plays in the lobby corner, background music for conversations about stock portfolios and political connections.
I’ve been to a hundred of these parties. Maybe more. They blur together after a while, distinguished only by which corporate acquisition or political alliance my father is pursuing.
He finds me in-between conversations, materialising at my elbow with two glasses of scotch. He hands me one even though I haven’t asked for it. Even though if I’m driving Chelsea home later, I can’t afford any alcohol in my system. Not on a restricted licence.
But maybe that’s why he’s giving it to me in the first place.
“You’re doing well,” he says quietly, his eyes scanning the room rather than looking at me. “Chelsea’s charming everyone.”
I take a sip of the scotch. It burns going down, smooth and expensive. “That’s the goal, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer directly, clapping me on the shoulder, instead, the gesture meant to appear paternal to anyone watching. His fingers dig in slightly, just enough pressure to remind me of their strength.
Chelsea returns to my side moments later, flushed with pleasure from her latest conversation. Her eyes shine with the kind of happiness that comes from being admired.
“This party is amazing.” She slips her hand into mine. Her palm is warm, slightly damp, and I fight the urge to pull mine away. “Everyone who matters is here.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” My father gives a slight bow, and she blushes. “You two make such a lovely couple. Has Damien told you of our summer plans? We’d love to host you on our yacht in the Mediterranean if you’re free.”
Chelsea gasps beside me, a sound of genuine delight. “That would be fabulous.” She turns to me with wide eyes. “Did you know about this?”
I shake my head. My father doesn’t consult me about these things. He informs me, and I comply.
She’s already talking about what she’ll pack, what excursions we’ll take, how incredible it will be. Then she pouts. “Oh, but my father won’t let me go overseas unaccompanied.”
Playing straight into Dad’s hands.
“Vincent’s welcome, too. There’s plenty of room.”
She squeals, and her voice blurs into white noise as I smile and nod at appropriate intervals.
A yacht holiday. Weeks trapped on a boat with Chelsea being the good son, the obedient heir, the perfect accessory to make this deal more palatable.
I need air.
I extract my hand from Chelsea’s. “I’m just going outside for a moment.”
Her smile falters. “But they’re clearing a dance floor. Don’t you want to—”
“I’ll be back.” Already moving towards the French doors.
I bypass the terrace where guests cluster, wanting distance from all of it.
The native forest behind the house begins where the manicured lawn ends. The party noises drop away, replaced by rustling undergrowth, the soft whisper of wind through leaves.
It’s cooler here, each breath rich with the scent of decaying vegetation, and the crisp woody aroma of silver ferns.
My mother would spend hours back here before she died.
I told Ophelia she didn’t like me and it felt true at the time. It’s just in the days since I’ve become confused because every memory is of her smiling. Hugging me. Being the only person who treated me as more than an heir to a fortune.
She had green eyes that twinkled less with every passing day. She’d read to me before bed, saying the house was too quiet and books filled the silence better than our own thoughts.
I lean against a tree trunk, the bark rough against my shoulder.
Another memory surfaces, sharper than the others. I had started school but only just, maybe five or six, wandering the hallways when I should have been asleep.
The mansion had been full of guests for one of my father’s parties, many staying overnight or for the weekend, much like tonight. I’d been thirsty, heading downstairs for water, when I saw my mother leave a guest bedroom on the second floor.
Her hair was dishevelled, her dress slightly askew. Her face was strained in the dim hallway light, so pale she looked like a ghost.
And there was blood.
Not much. Just a thin trickle running down her inner thigh, dark against her skin.
I’d stopped, frozen in the hallway, watching her. She’d turned, and something in her expression cracked. Shame, maybe. Or resignation.
“Go back to bed, Damien,” she’d said, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it.
“Mum, are you—”
“Back to bed!”
I didn’t always obey her, but I obeyed her then. For hours afterwards, I’d lain awake, trying to make sense of what I’d seen.
I understand it now.
My father had offered her to a business associate like a party favour. Using her as a tool to gain advantage, not a person.
The same way he’s using me with Chelsea.
The information feels new, but it’s not.
Not really. I’ve known it for years, felt it in the way my father parades me at these events, and orchestrates my life around his business interests.
But standing in the forest my mother loved, remembering the blood and her broken expression, the knowledge sits differently in my chest.
“Damien?”
Chelsea’s voice cuts through the darkness. I hear her footsteps on the trail behind me, hesitant but determined.
I don’t turn around, can’t risk her reading my face. “I said I’d be back.”
“The band just started playing.” She reaches me, slightly out of breath from navigating the path in heels. “Your father noticed you’d vanished.”
And sent her to retrieve me.
“Just needed some fresh air.”
She moves closer, her perfume a chemical taint among the ferns and damp soil. “Are you okay? You’ve been weird all night.”
“I’m fine.”
“Then come back inside.” Her hand finds my arm, fingers curling around my biceps. “We can dance. It’ll be fun.”
Fun. My lip curls. “I’ll take you home.”
Her hand drops. “What? Why? The party just started.”
“I’m taking you home.” My voice firmer. I finally turn to look at her.
She’s beautiful in the filtered moonlight. Her dark hair is artfully styled, her dress fitted enough to emphasise her figure without being overtly sexual. But I see the girl beneath. The one who torments Ophelia without remorse. Who wields her social status like a weapon.
Her lower lip trembles. A gesture I’ve seen her use on teachers when she wants sympathy. Nothing about her is real.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you being like this?” Her voice wavers. “I thought things were going well. I thought you’d be excited about the yacht trip. We’ll get to spend so much time together, away from school and stress and—”
“Chelsea.” I cut her off gently but firmly. “I have a headache. I’m taking you home.”
She studies my face, and I keep my expression neutral, giving her nothing to work with.
Her eyes narrow. “Your dad will be upset.”
“I know.” If she doesn’t pass the invitation along to her father, upset doesn’t begin to describe what he’ll be.
But with my mother’s memory bleeding in my mind, I don’t care.
“Fine.” The practised pout is replaced by a second of cold calculation before she smooths it away. “Take me home, then.”
We walk towards the garage in silence. Music and laughter spill from the lit windows, but the only person I want to see isn’t here among the powerful and influential.
Soon, we pull up alongside Chelsea’s house. The outside lights are on. Someone could easily be waiting for her inside. I circle the car and hold open the door for her, hooking my elbow as she steps out. “I’ll walk you in.”
Sure enough, the front entrance opens when we approach, a tall man silhouetted in the glow. “Chelsea.”
His voice is warmer than his appearance, and she breaks away from me, arms extended for a hug. “Daddy. This is Damien, the one I’ve told you about.”
The smile drops from his eyes as he extends his hand, the solid grip crushing my fingers. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Tell him about the trip,” Chelsea gushes, bouncing on her toes. She then proceeds to tell him everything herself, arms sweeping in large gestures, her face turned pleading as she finishes. “Can we go? Please?”
“Go inside.” He jerks his head towards the curved staircase. “We’ll talk it over with your mother tomorrow.”
She stands on tiptoes and plants a kiss on his cheek, then nods at me before following his instruction.
Vincent’s eyes turn stony as he shuts the door. “I wasn’t expecting my daughter home for another few hours.”
“Sorry, sir.” I drop my gaze, playing the intimidated suitor. “I had a headache so brought her home.”
“Mm-hm.”
His gaze crawls over me and I straighten, meeting his eye but keeping my lips buttoned.
“My daughter’s happiness is very important to me.”
I wait for more, but he just stands, staring impassively. “I believe I can make—”
“She’s been hurt by boys your age before. I won’t tolerate it again.” He moves closer, his broad shoulders and deep glower making him appear taller. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Upset her, and you’ll answer to me.”
His cold stare holds my gaze, but all I feel is a beat of impatience. This posturing bullshit is keeping me from the girl I adore. “I have no intention of upsetting your daughter.”
“Good.”
I hear the snick of a blade a second before cold metal presses against my throat. A pinprick of pain, and warm blood trickles down the side of my neck. What the actual fuck?
“Because I don’t care how rich your father is or who he knows, if you hurt my little girl, there’ll be consequences. Understood?”
I nod. The guy’s fucking insane, but that’s a position I can almost respect. “You have nothing to worry about.”
The metal presses against my flesh for a few moments more, then it withdraws, and he steps back, appearing pleased.
“Good. Then I’ll discuss your holiday proposal with my wife over the weekend. Her father was an avid sailor, so I’m sure she’ll be keen.”
A second later, he’s inside, the front door banging closed behind him.
I feel eyes on me all the way back to my car.
There’s only one sensible option. Go straight home. Play ball for the next few months, wait until my dad’s ambition is either realised or thwarted, or hope Chelsea’s interest in me wanes.
I wipe the blood away with a tissue, checking in the rearview mirror that it didn’t stain my collar.
The small jolt of adrenaline has already subsided. Barely a blip.
I pull into the road and wait impatiently at the next set of lights. Right will take me home.
Ophelia awakens memories I’d rather keep buried, forces me to confront parts of myself I’ve carefully constructed walls around. She’s everything I should avoid, especially with my neck quite literally on the line.
But she’s the only person who makes me feel less hollow.
My indicator signals a left turn.
I’ll take my chances. Make the most of the short time we have left together and endure my father’s fury tomorrow.
The rest of the night belongs to Ophelia, and since my risk is growing, it’s time I deconstructed the dynamic where I pretend I’m forcing her, and she pretends she doesn’t want me.
I’m done with fakery.
She’s the only person in my carefully constructed life who feels real, and it’s about time we tore away the last pretence.