Chapter Eight
Damien
The conference room reeks of polished wood, starched collars, and arrogance. Fifteen suited men line the mahogany table, their eyes trained on the quarterly reports projected across the screen. Numbers, graphs, projections—normally, I thrive in this room. But today?
All I can think about is Lena.
She must have seen it by now…the headlines, the pictures, the poisonous commentary that only gets filthier by the hour. My jaw tightens, my hands curling into fists beneath the table. She shouldn’t have to go through this. Not her. Not my firefly.
“Mr. Blackwell?”
The sharp tone of Lawrence Pierce, the oldest board member, and the most pompous, drags me back to reality. He adjusts his gold cuff links like he’s on stage. “I asked for your opinion on the matter of this most recent scandal, and how it affects the Academy.”
My gaze sharpens, ice-cold. “Clarify.”
He clears his throat, smugness dripping from every word.
“This…student. Lena Clarke. The media is running wild with her name, alongside yours and your son’s.
It’s a liability. The consensus here…” He glances around, earning a few stiff nods.
“Is that we sever ties with her immediately. Terminate her scholarship. Remove her from the seasonal program. Distance the Blackwell brand from the mess before it snowballs.”
A murmur ripples through the room. I catch snippets. Bad optics. Potential shareholder backlash. Headlines write themselves.
My blood runs hot. I lean back in my chair, deliberately slow, letting the silence thicken until it feels like a noose around their necks.
“You want to throw one of our best students to the wolves,” I say evenly. “To protect your own asses.”
“To protect the company, Damien,” Gregory Shaw—lean, rat-faced, always quick to agree with Pierce—pipes up. “The Academy is only one part of Blackwell Enterprises. We have hotel chains, shipping, real estate, international partnerships. If this scandal hits our stock—”
“Then we fight it.” My voice slices across the table like a blade.
Shaw swallows. Pierce frowns, bristling. “We cannot afford a dip in shareholder confidence. A girl like Clarke is expendable—”
I slam my palm down on the table, making the water glasses tremble. The room goes dead quiet.
“Careful,” I growl, my voice low, dangerous. “Choose your next words wisely.”
No one breathes.
I stand, buttoning my jacket, and look each of them in the eye.
“Blackwell Academy was built on talent, discipline, and legacy. Lena Clarke has more raw talent than any dancer I’ve seen in two decades.
She’s more than earned her scholarship. She’s earned her place on that stage.
I will not let tabloid garbage dictate her future—or the future of this company. ”
Pierce scoffs, but quieter now. “You’re being sentimental.”
I step closer, looming over him. “No. I’m being strategic. We hold her scholarship. We keep her at the Academy. And we control the narrative. If the press thinks they can topple us with rumors, they’ll learn the hard way what it means to go against Blackwell Enterprises.”
Pierce shifts, uncomfortable under the steel in my tone.
Another one—Stanton, a middle-aged prick who’s been trying to undermine me for years—leans back in his chair, adjusting his tie with a smug flick of his fingers.
“With all due respect, Damien,” he says, voice dripping condescension, “our hands may be tied here. The press isn’t just running with the story…
they’re salivating over it. Father, son, and the ballerina between them.
A scandal fit for prime time. I don’t think you should be defending her so fiercely. ”
Murmurs ripple around the table. One bolder than the rest lets his words slip, low but audible. “Except maybe the rumors are true.”
The room falls silent.
My head snaps in the direction of the voice. I don’t even remember his name, just another weak suit at the table, but the blood drains from his face when my eyes lock on him.
“Repeat that,” I command, my voice a lethal growl.
No one breathes.
He swallows hard, stammering. “I-I only meant—”
I cut him off with a dry scoff. “You will never imply something like that about her again. Do you understand me?” I order through gritted teeth.
“Lena Clarke has worked hard to earn her place here. More than any of you sitting in this room. Anything there may or may not be between us has nothing to do with her position at this Academy. And more importantly, is none of anyone’s business but ours. ”
I let the silence stretch, my gaze sweeping over every one of them until they squirm. Until they remember who they’re dealing with.
Lowering my voice to a blade’s edge, I add, “She’s under my protection. Which means she is untouchable. Anyone who forgets that will find themselves tossed out of this company before the ink dries on their resignation.”
The message lands. Heads bow. Papers shuffle. No one meets my eyes.
I sit back down slowly, reclaiming my seat like a king reclaiming his throne.
“Here’s what will happen,” I say, keeping my tone final. “Clarke stays. The seasonal program continues unchanged. And if a single headline dents our shares, I’ll personally see to it the source is gutted—legally, financially, and publicly. Understood?”
Silence. Then, reluctantly, heads begin to nod. Even Pierce.
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
But inside, my fury hasn’t cooled. Because even with the board’s obedience, I know this is only the beginning. The vultures won’t stop circling.
Which means I won’t stop either.
Lena belongs to me now. And I’ll burn this entire empire to the ground before I let them destroy her.
The boardroom empties like a school of fish scattering from a shark, the men filing out in nervous silence. I don’t bother looking at any of them. My mind is already elsewhere, already on her smooth skin and perfect grace. On the way her face looks when she falls apart beneath me.
I remain in my seat even after the last person has left the room. I want to be sure the last of them will have exited the building before I head out.
In the hall, the elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and of course fate decides to test me.
Logan is leaning against the mirrored wall inside the elevator, phone in hand, smirk plastered on his face like he doesn’t have a single goddamn care in the world. My son. My mistake.
I step in, and the doors slide shut with a metallic click, trapping me in the confined space with him.
“Well,” he drawls as I step in. “If it isn’t Daddy Dearest. Or should I say…Lena’s savior?”
I narrow my eyes. “Careful, Logan.”
“I told her to watch her back,” he mutters with a careless shrug. “Guess she didn’t take me seriously.”
I clench my jaw, the muscle ticking. “Are you saying you had something to do with all of this?”
“What if I did?” Lucas asks with a scoff. “What are you going to do about it?”
My voice is low, lethal. “Don’t mistake my silence for weakness.”
Logan chuckles, a mocking sound that grates. “Touchy, aren’t we? Almost like you’ve got something to hide.” He tilts his head, studying me with sharp, malicious curiosity. “Wait—” His smirk falters into something darker, crueler. “Have you fucked her?”
I clench my fist, resisting the urge to ram it into his face.
My son searches my face for a few seconds, and then his eyes light up with sick realization and a spark of jealousy. “Oh, you have.” He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “God, that’s rich. She wouldn’t spread her legs for me, so she moved on to my father. How pathetic is that?”
My warning is quiet, razor-sharp. “Don’t.”
But he doesn’t stop. He leans in, his sneer deepening. “You think she’s special? She’s just a desperate little dancer who knows her only chance at keeping that scholarship is warming your bed. You’ll see. She’ll bleed you dry, old man.”
Something primal surges within me, but I curb it. I step closer, invading his space until his back is pressed against the mirrored wall. “You will never speak her name again. Not like that. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
“You’re seriously going after her, aren’t you?” he asks with a defiant grin. “My sloppy seconds. You’ll ruin everything just to—”
My hand shoots out before he can finish, grabbing the front of his suit jacket and slamming him back against the mirrored wall. The glass shudders. His smirk falters.
“Listen to me,” I snarl, my face inches from his. “Stay. The fuck. Away from her. If I even hear you’ve breathed in her direction, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life. You understand me?”
His eyes flash with something—fear, anger, maybe both—but I don’t loosen my grip. Not yet.
Finally, he scoffs, trying to cover his unease with arrogance. “She’ll realize what you are eventually. Old. Obsessed. Pathetic.”
I loosen my fist in his jacket, letting him see the disappointment in my eyes. “No, Logan. You are the pathetic one. How haven’t you realized that?”
The elevator dings again. The doors open. I release him with a shove, watching him stumble before composing himself, his glare sharp but shaky.
“Stay away from her,” I repeat, my tone final. Then I step out without looking back.
In the lobby, my assistant scurries toward me, tablet in hand. “Mr. Blackwell, there’s an urgent issue with the—”
“Not now.” My voice cuts like steel, and she stops dead in her tracks. I don’t break stride.
I push through the glass doors, stride across the pavement, and slide into the back seat of my car. “Drive,” I order the chauffeur.
But the ride doesn’t last long. My patience snaps two blocks later. “Out,” I bark. The driver pulls over in a panic, scrambling out. I slide behind the wheel myself.
I need speed. I need the wheel in my grip, the road under me, and only one thought pounding in my skull. Lena.
I slam my foot on the accelerator, and the city blurs past. I don’t care about red lights, about horns blaring as I push well past the limit. All I care about is getting home. To her.
My chest tightens with the need to see her. To hold and reassure her. To make sure she’s safe.
I pull into the driveway and jump out of the car, my pulse hammering. But the house feels wrong. Too still. Too quiet.
I storm inside. “Lena?” My voice echoes through the halls.
No answer.
I search room after room, but they all turn up empty.
And then the truth settles in my gut like a stone.
She’s gone.