Chapter 2
Chapter two
Damien
Emma disappeared down the hall, the distinctive click of her heels retreating.
"Damien." My mother's tone cut through—sharper now, stripped of the warmth she'd shown Emma. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I—" I faltered. "Things are complicated between us."
She fixed me with a look. "Things seem pretty solid to me."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "No, not between us, necessarily." I paused, searching for the right words. "Remember the merger with Elion?"
She nodded, the motion heavy.
"She's the CEO."
Her spine stiffened, adding inches to her frame. "What?"
"I told you it was complicated."
"I'd say that's putting it lightly."
She sank into the chair by the bed. I grabbed two more—one for me, one for Emma—placing them where she'd sit when she came back. I lowered myself into mine, elbows braced on my knees.
She wouldn't leave. Not today.
"I meant what I said." Mom softened. "I do like her."
A dry laugh escaped me. "You don't even know her."
"No. But I know you. And you wouldn't bring her today. Not with…" Her gaze drifted to Sebastian.
I counted the cords. Tracked which machines they fed into. Watched the numbers crawl across the screens—each one another warning. The ventilator filled the silence.
"Everything going on," she finished at last.
"I didn't think about it," I admitted. "We were together when I got the call. I was about to—"
I trailed off, the confession lodged in my throat. The one I'd been circling for weeks.
I'd told myself the timing wasn't right. That I wanted it to be perfect. I thought tonight was the night.
Now it wasn't.
But the words hadn't changed.
I dipped my head. "I was going to tell her I love her."
My mother snapped toward me. "Damien Read Holt." Her pitch climbed. "You were going to tell a woman your own mother has never even met that you love her?"
Her face reddened.
I braced for the blow.
"How dare you," she said at last, low and sharp.
"I know. I know—"
She cut me off. "You know how long I've been waiting for this?"
Hurt flickered across her face, tangling with the grief already etched there.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She let out a lungful of hot air, fixing me with a look that dared me to lie. "Do you plan to marry this girl?"
I froze. The question raw and delicate.
I wanted to say no. To wave it off. But instead—
"Yes. Or at least I hope to."
Her brows shot up. "Now I'm really pissed."
"That's fair," I agreed.
"How long have you two been together?"
I hesitated. The answer wasn't simple.
And I had none that wouldn't piss her off.
She pinned me with a glare. "Answer the question, Damien."
"It's a long story," I said at last.
"I've got time." She gestured to the room around us. "Clearly."
This was going to be bad. But if I lied to her, it would be worse. She'd disown me. Set me on fire. Bury me in the yard to fertilize her herb garden.
I held her stare. "You're not going to be happy."
Her lips pressed thin.
"We met on a dating app. Months ago. I knew who she was—I'd begun looking into Elion—so I reached out. We talked for weeks, each of us keeping our identities secret."
She blanched. "You just said you knew it was her."
"Yeah." I dragged a hand over my jaw, the friction useless. "I did. She just didn't know it was me."
Her mouth fell open. "You lied to her?"
"Yes. For weeks." The confession scraped out. "And it almost destroyed her."
She rose, hands trembling at her sides.
The crack echoed through the room before I registered the sting.
Heat prickled across my cheek as my mother's trembling hand fell back to her side.
Neither of us moved. The ventilator hissed. Sebastian's monitors beeped on, indifferent.
"No son of mine—" She couldn't finish.
"I know." I stared down at my hands. "Believe me, Emma eviscerated me when she found out."
"Rightfully so."
"Rightfully so," I echoed.
"You better make it up to her."
"I'm trying."
"Well, try harder," she commanded, the words clipped. "That girl deserves better than a man who lies."
"I agree."
Heels clicked down the hall. Emma's cadence—light, quick, unmistakable.
"Please," I begged. "Don't bring it up."
"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped. "If I want to sympathize with my future daughter-in-law about my asshole son, I will."
Emma appeared in the doorway, arms full—three coffees in a cardboard tray and a chaotic stack of danishes balanced on top.
"Sorry." Her words came out tight. "This was all they had."
"Thank you," my mother said sweetly, glancing at me.
But I was on my feet, taking the items from Emma and distributing them among us.
"Emma," my mother started, face shifting to something apologetic.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"I wanted to apologize—"
"Mrs. Holt?" A nurse appeared in the doorway, her tone gentle. The squeak of her shoes broke the tension. "The doctor is on the floor. She'd like to speak with you."
The room went still. My mother's face paled.
"Of course," she said, rising.
The nurse stepped aside as a woman in a knee-length white coat entered. Clipboard tucked under her arm.
The embroidery read: Latisha Jefferson, MD—Neurology.
"Mrs. Holt." She extended her hand, scanning the rest of the room in polite acknowledgment. My mother accepted. "I'm Dr. Jefferson, and I'm overseeing your son's neurological care."
She clasped her hands in front of her. "As you know, Sebastian sustained multiple injuries.
The fall resulted in a broken tibia, three broken ribs, and a hairline skull fracture.
We've stabilized those." She paused, her tone shifting.
"However, the overdose caused prolonged respiratory depression, which means his brain was deprived of oxygen for an extended period.
" She glanced at Sebastian, then back to us.
"We're seeing signs of hypoxic brain injury—some swelling, and potential damage to areas that affect memory, coordination, and cognitive function.
We won't know the full extent until he regains consciousness. "
"What about his drug use?" my mother asked.
Dr. Jefferson's face turned sympathetic. "I understand your concerns, especially given Mr. Holt's medical history. But our primary goal right now is stabilization—managing the brain swelling and getting him off this floor."
I moved closer. My palms were damp; I pressed them against my jeans. "How long do you think that will take?"
"Hopefully a couple of weeks, but possibly a month or more." She held my stare. "Patients with higher drug tolerance often require longer recovery times. The sedatives and medications we use to manage swelling don't absorb as effectively, which means we have to move more carefully."
My mom sank into her chair, head falling into her hands. Tears slipped through her fingers, falling into her lap.
I crouched beside her, palm finding her shoulder.
"Do you think he'll die?" she asked, her voice muffled and raw.
"No," Dr. Jefferson said quietly. "I don't."
A pause. Then—
"But it will be a long road back."
I rose. Emma's hand slipped into mine. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
Because she wasn't going anywhere.