Chapter 4
Chapter four
Damien
The room was quieter without them.
No clicking heels. No murmured reassurances. No one pretending to be strong.
Just me. Sebastian. And the machines keeping him here.
I dragged the chair closer to the bed, the legs scraping across linoleum loud enough to make me wince. Not that it mattered. He wasn't waking up—not tonight. Maybe not for weeks.
The ventilator hissed. The monitor beeped.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and stared at my brother's face.
He looked younger like this. Slack and still, all the sharpness smoothed away. The stubble he never bothered to shave. The scar above his eyebrow from when he'd crashed his bike at fourteen—showing off for a girl whose name neither of us remembered anymore.
"You're a fucking idiot," I said quietly. "You know that, right?"
No response.
"All those times I bailed you out. All those checks I wrote. All those calls at three a.m. where you swore—swore—it was the last time." The words cracked. "And here we are."
His chest rose. Fell. A nurse had left a fresh cup of coffee on the side table hours ago. I hadn't touched it.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion dragging through me like wet concrete.
"Mom's a wreck. You should see her." I gave a humorless huff. "Actually, no. You shouldn't. It would kill you. Which is ironic, considering—"
I couldn't finish.
He was my brother. My little brother. The one I'd carried on my back through the creek behind our house. The one who looked so full of life, back before the pills swallowed him whole.
And now he was here. Broken. And I couldn't fix it.
"I should've tried harder," I whispered. "I should've—"
What? Locked him in a room? Forced him into rehab for the fifth time? Stood over him every second of every day?
I'd done everything I knew how to do.
And it wasn't enough.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
I reached out, my hand hovering over his—pale skin bruised where the IV pierced. I let my fingers rest there—light, barely touching.
"You have to wake up," I said, the words rough. "You hear me? You don't get to do this. You don't get to leave her. Leave me."
The machines answered. Nothing else.
I sat there until the night shift changed, until the coffee went cold, until the window lightened from black to gray and a nurse appeared in the doorway, her face gentle but firm.
"Mr. Holt? Visiting hours start again at eight. You should go home. Get some rest."
Rest.
I almost laughed.
Instead I stood, joints protesting, and looked at Sebastian one more time.
"I'll be back," I told him. "And when you wake up, I'm going to kick your ass."
The ghost of a grin crossed my face. It felt wrong. Foreign.
I turned and walked out before I could change my mind.
The mirror didn't lie.
I looked like hell.
Three days of hospital air had carved shadows beneath my eyes. My stubble had crossed from intentional into unkempt. The tie in my hands—silk, charcoal, perfectly pressed—felt like a prop from someone else's life.
I knotted it anyway. Muscle memory. The loop, the pull, the tighten. A uniform I'd worn so long it fit like skin.
Outside, the city was already awake—horns, engines, the low rumble of a world that didn't stop for grief.
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.
Emma: Good luck today. I know it's going to be hard. I'm here if you need me.
I stared at the message. She was thinking of me. Even now.
She was coming into my world today. Walking through those glass doors, past the security desk, into the elevator that would carry her to a floor full of people who didn't know she was mine.
And I hadn't prepared her for any of it.
The realization hit like my mother's slap. I'd been so consumed by Sebastian—by the hospital and the machines and the waiting—that I hadn't walked her through a single thing. Not the onboarding process. Not the layout of the building. Not who to trust or who to avoid.
She was walking into Falkirk blind.
A company that had swallowed hers. A building full of strangers who would watch her every move, waiting for any sign of weakness. And at the center of it all—Nathan—fucking Nathan—waiting for any slip, any fracture he could pry open.
Strong. One of the strongest people I knew.
And I'd sent her in with nothing.
No map. No warning.
I typed back.
Me: Thank you. See you soon.
Six words. Professional. Distant—everything we weren't.
I wanted to say more. To apologize. To promise I'd be in her corner even if no one else saw it.
But the words were hollow compared to what she needed—and what I'd failed to give her.
I pocketed the phone and grabbed my jacket off the chair. The fabric was stiff, freshly dry-cleaned—Ava must've dropped it off while I was at the hospital. A small mercy I didn't have the energy to appreciate.
The city blurred past as I drove through New York's streets. Steel and glass. Morning light cutting between towers.
By the time Falkirk's lobby came into view, I'd rebuilt the mask.
Steady hands. Straight spine.
The version of Damien Holt who closed deals and commanded rooms.
I pushed through the glass doors.
And there she was.
Standing near the reception desk, shoulders squared, chin lifted. The picture of composure.
But I knew her too well. I caught the way her fingers pressed into the leather of her bag. The flicker in her eyes when she found mine across the lobby.
She was holding herself together the same way I was.
By sheer fucking will.