Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DAMIEN
“Damien?”
Chelsea’s voice carries across the foyer before I see her, brow already drawn into a frown. Her hair is styled in tight waves, makeup flawless. Perfectly put together even when no one’s watching.
She dismisses the staff member who answered my knock with a flick of her fingers, gaze following as the woman scurries from the room. When Chelsea reaches me, she moves in for a kiss, and I turn my head so her lips lands on my cheek.
Her smile falters for a moment before she recovers. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. What’s going on?”
“We’re finished,” I say simply. “Whatever this relationship was, it’s over.”
She stills completely, then laughs. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
“You’re breaking up with me?” Her volume rises. “But we’re going on holiday together. I’ve been telling people all week.”
“And now you’ve got some new drama for them.” I pause, but her face is set in stubborn refusal. “Dad wants to use our relationship to strike a deal with your father. It’s not fair on either of us.”
“The senior dance is next week.” It’s like my words don’t even register. “You bought us tickets. You paid for my dress.” She suddenly clutches my arm. “Is this about sex? Because I’m ready if you are. I’m happy to—”
“No, Chelsea. I’m just not attracted to you.”
Her expression tightens, making calculations, then her eyes narrow. “Jameson wrote your papers.” She takes a step closer. “I could get you expelled.”
“Maybe. It hasn’t taken much lately.” I shrug like the threat didn’t just kick my pulse up a gear. “But he’s your contact and if you come for me like that, I won’t be the only one who pays.”
Her face is still dazed, and I offer her a final sweetener.
“You can tell everyone it was your idea. Make up any reason you like, I’ll go along with it. I really don’t care.” And it might avert catastrophe with her father.
My feet turn towards the door, and she blurts out, “What happened with the deal?”
I stare blankly, and she clicks her tongue impatiently.
“The business deal. Because if you think my father will work with yours after this…?” She pokes my chest and I push her finger away.
“I don’t think that, Chelsea, but I also don’t give a shit what our fathers do with their businesses.”
This time I reach the ornate entrance door and turn the handle.
“Is it because I’m not damaged enough for you?” Chelsea’s voice turns vicious. “Do you prefer your girls broken and pathetic? Is that what makes you hard?”
My jaw tightens, and I grip the doorhandle harder. “Goodbye, Chelsea.”
“Fuck you.”
I close the door, striding towards the car. Behind me, I hear something shatter. Glass or porcelain thrown against a wall.
I don’t look back, just get into the car and turn my phone on silent.
This part was easy.
Arriving home where my father will be furious? Stepping into the same mansion my mother had been leaving when her car hit a tree and burst into flames? That’s another story.
Ophelia’s image fills my mind, and I steer my car towards home.
When I’m near the house, Dad’s car and chauffeur drive past me, the shadow of a young girl in the back seat, her head bowed.
A sour taste floods my mouth. Another one.
Another broken girl my father’s used and discarded.
I park my car around the side of the house, ready for a quick getaway. I scan the foyer before entering, empty, then make my way through the dining room.
In the kitchen, there are two glasses on the bench, an expensive brand of vodka beside them.
Footsteps sound from down the hall and a minute later, my father enters the room. His face is greasy with sweat from his exertions, hair dangling in damp strands around his face.
He snatches the vodka, taking a long pull straight from the bottle.
“We need to talk.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel, one quick movement away from full-blown panic.
His phone sits on the marble island, and he picks it up, scrolling through messages.
I clear my throat. He needs to hear it from me, not a notification. “I’ve fucked things with Chelsea.”
He looks up, eyebrows arching as though waiting for a punchline. When it doesn’t come, he sets the device down with care, the soft click against stone somehow more threatening than shouting.
“Then unfuck them.”
“I can’t.” His nostrils flare, jaw clenched tight. “I won’t.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to, or you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
His lips press together so hard, they disappear. Just a dark slash across his face. “You think you have a choice in this? After your repeated expulsions, after the money I spent cleaning up your messes, you think you can opt out of my request?”
“Request.” I snort out a laugh. “If you’re such a good businessman, explain why you can’t get a merger across the line without pimping out your son?” I wait a beat. “Or your wife.”
His face twists with fury, such a dark red he looks near a heart attack, then he visibly calms. “You were content with the arrangement last month. What changed?”
When I don’t answer, he gives a tight-lipped smile, scenting blood.
“Of course. Your pallid little house guest.”
My hands are fists. My pulse beats in my eyes. “Leave her out of this.”
“But you used my money to fund those expensive new glasses of hers, didn’t you? Why would I leave her out of this when I’m the one footing the bill?”
He tilts his head to the side, smirking. His eyes glint with a dangerous mix of amusement and menace, like a predator toying with its prey just before going in for the kill.
“Get Chelsea back on board, and I won’t mind. Otherwise…?” He pauses, letting the tension thicken between us like a choking fog, his smirk widening into something sharper, more sinister.
He steps forward until we’re toe to toe, his breath smelling faintly of vodka and mint. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.
His voice drops half an octave, the threat clear. “Otherwise, I’ll bring your new friend down here.” Each syllable is deliberate, venomous. “And I’ll make damn sure I get my money’s worth.”
I flinch as the words hit, but it’s not my own pain that registers. It’s hers.
What she’d experience, what she’d feel. Just imagination, but the visions are like an open gash in my mind.
My father leaves the room before I recover. The basement door slams closed and a moment later, the shower turns on downstairs.
I walk along the hallway, eyes on the floor rather than the basement door ahead of me. I pause outside and place my palm against the wood.
It’s cold against my skin. It’s just a door. Just a room. I shiver, slowly easing it open.
Noise from the shower grows louder. Dad hums something tuneless and satisfied, the song of a sated predator while my face heats, heartbeat thumping loud in my ears.
The stone stairs pitch as I stare down them. Steeper and steeper, I’m falling, each step scraping skin off my back.
I slam my palm against the wall.
The floor snaps back level.
I’m shaking as I take the first step down, my palm keeping contact with the cold wall. The shower cuts off and I freeze, listening to my father’s movement. The glass door sliding open. Footsteps on tile. The soft scuff of his towel.
I force myself down another step. Another.
The ache in my arm intensifies like the bones are once again knitting together, the phantom pain itching until my fingers curl, fear curdling my stomach.
But I’m not that seven-year-old boy anymore.
I’m the same height as my father, the same build. Just as capable of inflicting damage as receiving it.
Especially when Ophelia will pay the price if I fail.
My foot finds the bottom step. Around me, the walls weep with moisture, the ceiling low enough I duck my head.
The suite my father built for his activities takes up the far end.
Bedroom. Bathroom. A sitting area with leather furniture and a wide oak table next to a bar stocked with expensive spirits.
My pulse is chaotic, racing ahead while time itself seems to slow.
The bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, then my father emerges, terrycloth robe loosely tied, hair slicked back from his face. He stops.
Surprise flickers across his features before they settle into the more familiar disdain, and a new image surges from my imagination.
Ophelia walking through this house, her shoulders slumped and her eyes hollowed out from whatever horrors he’s unleashed on her. Her spirit fractured beyond recognition after one of his so-called ‘sessions.’
Ophelia going home to die.
The thought burns through me like acid. My vision tunnels until all I see is red bleeding into white. Roaring in my ears drowns out all other sounds in the room.
“Are you sure you should be down here, Damien? This is a room for ad—”
My forearm slams across his trachea.
Momentum carries me forward until his head cracks against the oak table, bending him backwards, all my weight concentrated in one place.
Surprise flares in his eyes. Shock. Like he didn’t think I’d dare.
His hands claw at my biceps, nails scraping along my shirt. I don’t feel a thing.
Nothing else matters except the singular, driving need coiling tighter and tighter in my chest.
He will never touch her.
Not now. Not ever.
“You think you can threaten my girl?” I bend until our faces are inches apart. My voice is dangerously quiet but there’s no mistaking my rage. “You think you can drag her into this and walk away unscathed? You don’t get to say her name. You don’t even get to think about her.”
I shift my weight further forward, and his fingers scrabble across the smooth oak table, searching for anything—anything—to use against me. He finds purchase on a wooden bowl and swings it wildly towards my head.
The crunch of impact sends sharp spikes of pain into my temple. Warmth trickles into my eye, turning the world pink. Strength drains from my arm, weakening my hold.
With a surge of energy, my father bucks upwards, grappling until our positions are reversed.
His weight slams me against the table, hands around my throat.