23. Damian
CHAPTER 23
DAMIAN
T he boardroom is quiet, sterile, and too bright, one of those elite Midtown towers Vincent seems to favor. Everything in here gleams—the glass table, the chrome fixtures, even the false civility.
He’s already seated when I walk in.
Vincent Grey wears a dark suit, perfectly tailored, his tie blood-red like always. Calculated. He looks up with a slow, satisfied smile as I cross the room and shut the door behind me.
“No entourage today?” he says, voice calm and smug. “I’m honored.”
“I came to talk,” I say, walking straight to the table, palms planted on the glass. “Face to face. You want a war? You got one, but you’re going to look me in the eye for it.”
Vincent leans back, steepling his fingers like a king waiting for tribute. “No pleasantries?” he asks. “Come now, Damian. After everything we’ve meant to each other.”
“You mean after you sabotaged my deals, tried to buy out my board, and launched a hostile takeover in the middle of my life falling apart?”
His smile doesn’t fade. “Business is business.”
“No,” I say coldly. “This was never about the company. This was about me. You couldn’t beat me in the open, so you waited until you could cut me off at the knees.”
He shrugs. “You always did like to believe you were the hero.”
“And you always needed to be the last man standing.”
We stare at each other. At one time, we were colleagues. Then we became rivals. Now, we’ve become something darker—two sides of the same coin, pressed together by ambition and poison.
“You were the one who taught me never to trust anyone,” I say quietly, “and I believed it. Built an empire from it. But here’s the thing, Vincent. I still have people in my corner, and I’m not afraid to let them help me now.”
His smirk twitches slightly. “You mean Isabelle.”
“I mean everyone… but yes. She stood beside me when you tried to break me, and she’ll still be standing when this is over.”
He rises slowly from his chair. “Do you really think sentiment wins wars, Damian?”
“No,” I reply, “but fear does, and you’re afraid.”
“Of what?”
I step closer, meeting his gaze. “Of becoming irrelevant. Of being the man who had to tear someone else down to matter.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll burn your name from every building,” he says. “I’ll make Kincaid a footnote in the history books.”
I smile. “No,” I say. “You won’t.”
He narrows his eyes.
“I’m not fighting this alone,” I add, “and I’m not fighting to win anymore. I’m fighting to build. That’s what separates us. You destroy. I create.”
We stare each other down.
Two titans.
Two boys who once wanted to rule the world.
Now men who’ve learned what it costs.
I lean in, voice low and steady. “Call off the takeover. Walk away before this buries us both.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but he’s no longer smirking. I can tell he doesn’t know what move to make next.
And that makes me smile.
* * *
It’s nearly midnight when I walk through her door. She gave me the code and a key not that long ago.
The place is dim and quiet. A lamp burns near the window, casting a warm glow over her bare shoulders and tousled hair. She’s curled up on the couch in a worn sweater, her legs tucked beneath her, a book in her lap she’s not reading.
Her eyes meet mine the second I step in.
I close the door behind me and exhale, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours. “It’s done,” I say.
Isabelle sets the book aside and rises. “You talked to him?”
“I confronted him.” I rake a hand through my hair, still buzzing from the adrenaline. “Told him I saw through the whole thing and that I wasn’t going to play the game on his terms anymore.”
She walks to me slowly, cautiously, like I might still be untouchable. “And?”
“He didn’t back down,” I say, voice low, “but I think I unnerved him. He didn’t expect me to face him alone. He expected a press release. A lawyer.”
Her brows knit. “So what happens now?”
“I forced him to delay the vote,” I say. “Bought us forty-eight hours. Enough time to rally the board and get Braithwaite’s silent partners to lean on Veridian Holdings.”
Her hand slides into mine. “And after that?”
I look down at our joined hands. My voice is rough. “I don’t know.”
“You look like you haven’t breathed since you left,” she whispers.
I press my forehead to hers. “I haven’t.”
She wraps her arms around me, and I let her. I let myself lean just a little. I let myself believe that I truly am not fighting this war alone.
But even with her in my arms, the storm hasn’t passed. Vincent’s not done. I can feel it. Men like him don’t retreat. They regroup.
“I hate that this is our life right now,” she murmurs, “that he gets to steal time from us.”
I nod. “So do I.”
But as I hold her, my heart steadying, I know that whatever move Vincent makes next, whatever fire he tries to light, she’s my anchor now, and I won’t let go.