7. Jade
— ? —
Jade
I wake to a knock on my door.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The bed is too soft, the light too bright, the silence too complete. And then it all comes rushing back - the prison doors opening, Damian’s face, the drive home, that moment in the hallway where I almost-
Don’t think about that.
“Come in.”
The door opens. Damian appears, looking unfairly good for - I check the clock - 11 AM. Dark hair slightly messy. White t-shirt that does nothing to hide the shape of him. Those eyes that see too much.
“Sorry. I didn’t want to bother you, but it’s late, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Everything is okay.” I sit up in bed, pushing the sheets away. “You were right, this bed is comfortable. Especially after sleeping on that cell bed for so long. I haven’t slept like that in years - I think I have four years of sleep debt to catch up on.”
I’m rambling. Nervous. And I suddenly realize why.
I’m still wearing his t-shirt. His thin, white, almost transparent t-shirt. And from the way his cheeks are turning red, from the way his eyes flick down and then very deliberately up, he’s noticed.
My nipples are showing through the fabric.
Oh God.
“I made breakfast,” he says, his voice slightly strangled. “You can come down whenever you’re ready. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and-” He clears his throat. “I bought some clothes for you. So you’d feel comfortable. We can go shopping later.”
He practically flees the room.
I look down at myself. At the thin shirt. At what’s very obviously visible underneath.
And for the first time in four years, I smile.
***
The clothes he bought are simple - jeans, a white t-shirt, undergarments still in their packaging. Nothing fancy. But he remembered my size. He paid attention.
I dress quickly and head downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something savory. The kitchen is bright, modern, full of morning light. Damian is standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan.
“Eggs okay?” he asks without turning around. “I wasn’t sure what you could stomach after-” He stops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s fine.” I slide onto a barstool at the counter. “And yes. Eggs are great.”
He plates them with toast and bacon and sets the whole thing in front of me. It looks like an actual meal. A real, home-cooked meal. I can’t remember the last time I had one.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out thick.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m not much of a cook.”
I take a bite. It’s perfect.
For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence. I’m hungrier than I realized - hungrier than I’ve been in years. The food disappears faster than I expect.
“So,” Damian says, setting down his coffee. “We should talk about what comes next.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Castillo Foundation Gala is in three days.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are sharp. “Donald, Vivian, and Nova will all be there. I’m on the board. I can bring a guest.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
“You want me to go?”
“I want you to have the option.” He leans forward. “Vivian will lose her mind if she sees you. Donald will probably have an aneurysm. And you-”
“I could see Nova.”
“Yes.”
The word hangs in the air between us.
Nova. My daughter. Four years old now. A little girl I’ve never met, raised by the woman who stole my life.
“She won’t know who I am,” I whisper.
“Not yet.” Damian’s voice is gentle. “But she will.”
I set down my fork. Stare at my plate. Try to imagine walking into a room full of people who think I’m a criminal, facing the sister who framed me, seeing my daughter for the first time since she was two days old.
“Then let’s do it,” I say.
Damian stands. Something shifts in his expression, something that looks almost like pride.
“We need to get you a dress. Something that will make every person in that room remember you walked in.”
His eyes sweep over me. Slow. Deliberate.
“Not that you need help with that.”
My cheeks burn.
And somewhere underneath the fear and the grief and the four years of emptiness, something flickers.
Something that feels like hope.