Chapter 26 Emma
Chapter twenty-six
Emma
The elevator doors opened.
He was standing in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, looking like he hadn't slept in days. Rumpled shirt. Hair disheveled. Gaze red-rimmed and hollow.
When he saw me, he went completely still.
"Emma."
My name came out on a breath.
"I went for a bagel," I said quietly. "I needed to think."
He didn't move. Didn't reach. Just stood there, tension vibrating through every line of his body.
"I called," he managed. "I left—"
"I know. I saw."
I set my bag down by the door.
Let him watch me. Let him wait. Because I still wasn't sure how to say what I needed to say.
"Emma." My name cracked from his lips. "If you want to leave—if this is too much—I understand. I won't—"
"I'm not leaving."
The words landed between us like a stone in still water.
His exhale was ragged. "You're not?"
"No." I crossed the room slowly, closing the distance he was too afraid to breach. "But we need to talk."
He nodded once. Sharp. Desperate. "Anything."
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the fear still flickering in his eyes. The guilt. The bone-deep exhaustion of a man who'd spent the night convinced he'd lost his life.
Good.
The word was halfway out of my mouth, but I swallowed it. Others took its place.
"Thank you."
He flinched like I'd struck him.
"What?"
"I know it wasn't an easy call to make." My voice was quiet. Steady. "And it's not one I would have made. Not ever. My pride, my ethics—" I shook my head. "I would have let Elion burn before I compromised either of those things."
Regret twisted across his face.
"But it was the only thing that saved us." I held his gaze, let him see the vulnerability beneath the words. "Me. Elion. Jennifer. David. Kevin. All of it. Gone if you hadn't done what you did."
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
I stepped closer, reaching for his hand. His fingers trembled when they wrapped around mine. "So thank you. For making the call I couldn't. For carrying that weight so I don't have to. For protecting me, even when I didn't know I needed it."
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob. He pressed his forehead to our joined hands, shoulders shaking.
"I'm not saying it's okay," I continued, firmer now. "Or that I've forgiven you completely. But I understand why you did it. And I'm grateful—even if I'm still furious."
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he managed, muffled against my knuckles.
"You didn't." A hint of my usual sharpness crept back. "I'm clearly a gift you haven't earned yet."
A broken laugh tore from his chest. He lifted his head, lashes wet.
"Clearly."
I let the moment settle, let the relief wash through him. Let him think the worst was over.
Then I tore my hand from his.
His expression flickered—confusion, then fear.
"But Damien." I dropped my tone. Hardened it. "I need you to hear me. Really hear me."
He straightened, the relief draining from his face as he registered the shift. "I'm listening."
"If you ever do something like this again—" I held his stare, unflinching. "If you ever make a decision about my company, my career, my life without telling me—even if you think you know better. If you ever hide something like this from me again—"
I paused. Let the silence stretch until it ached.
"We're done."
The words landed like a blade.
He went pale—the color draining from his face like I'd opened a vein.
"I mean it, Damien. Not a fight. Not a conversation. Not another chance to explain." I stepped closer, making sure he could see every ounce of certainty I carried. "I will walk out that door, and I will not come back. Ever."
His throat worked. Once. Twice.
"I understand," he said hoarsely.
"Do you?" I tilted my head, studying him. "Because last night you told me you'd make the same choice again. That you'd do it even knowing I might never forgive you." I sharpened my tone. "That's not understanding, Damien. That's arrogance dressed up as protection."
He flinched. Hard.
"You want to protect me? Fine. That's what I signed up for.
That's what the collar means." I touched the chain at my throat, almost snapped—but instead kept.
"But protection doesn't mean lies. It means telling me.
Trusting me to handle the truth, even when it's ugly.
Even when you think I'll make the wrong call. "
His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. Just stood there and took it.
Like he said he would.
As he should.
"I need to know you understand the difference," I continued. "Because if you don't—if you can't—then this doesn't work. None of it. The rules, the dynamic, us." I shook my head slowly. "I won't be with someone who thinks protecting me means lying to me."
The silence stretched between us, heavy and charged.
Then Damien moved, dropping to his knees.
Right there, in the middle of the living room, morning light spilling across his shoulders. The same man who commanded boardrooms, who made executives twice his age stammer and sweat, who bent the world to his will through sheer force of certainty—
Kneeling at my feet, looking up at me with nothing held back.
"I swear to you. On my life, Emma. On everything I am.
I will never do this again. If I'm faced with a choice like that—any choice that affects your life, your company, your future—I will come to you first. Even if I know you'll disagree.
Even if I think telling you will make things worse.
" His hands found mine once again, gripping like I might disappear.
"I will trust you with the truth. Always. No matter what."
I stared down at him, heart pounding.
"And if I break that promise—" His voice cracked. "If I ever betray your trust like that again—you won't have to leave. I'll let you go myself. Because I'll know I don't deserve you."
The words hung in the air, solemn as a vow.
I searched his face for any trace of performance. Any hint he was only saying it because it's what I wanted.
I found nothing but sincerity. Stark and bleeding and utterly real.
The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three.
"Get up," I whispered.
He rose slowly, still holding my hands, still watching my face like it held the answer to everything.
"I believe you," I said quietly. "But I'm holding you to it. Every word."
"I know." He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
The silence that followed was softer. The sharp edges worn smooth by confession and consequence. Morning light spilled through the windows, catching dust motes in the air, and for a minute we just stood there.
Our breaths mingled. I squeezed his hand.
"The rules."
He blinked. "What?"
"From the collaring." I moved toward the couch, tugging him with me. We sank onto the cushions together, knees almost touching.
The exhaustion was catching up with me now—the sleepless night, the emotional whiplash. I could feel it in my bones, heavy and insistent. But this conversation couldn't wait. We'd already let too much slide.
"You mentioned therapy," I drew in a shaky breath. "I don't think it's a bad idea for us."
The admission seemed to catch him off guard.
"Emma, we don't have to do this right now. You've had a lot thrown at you and—"
"Damien," I said patiently, but firmly. "I just found out you committed financial fraud to save my company. I've yelled at you, walked out on you, and somehow managed to come back." A smile flickered across my lips. "And now I'm even recommending an appointment with my worst enemy."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Worst enemy?"
"I don't like it," I grumbled, releasing his hand to cross my arms. "But I do agree that it has the potential to help."
"Potential?"
"What are you, a fucking parrot?" I snapped.
"Touché." He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. "But I don't think therapy should be the only thing we implement."
I lifted a brow. "Bold timing."
"Are you in this, or are you out?" he challenged.
My lips betrayed me, but I didn't answer. I let the uncertainty simmer.
He shifted, the confidence thinning.
"I guess I'm in."
He smiled, bright and true.
"The rest of the rules. Do you remember them?"
"Nap times and meals."
He huffed a laugh despite himself. "I never said anything about nap times."
"It was implied."
He studied my face, his expression shifting—something settling into place behind his eyes.
"I want to actually enforce what we agreed to. Not let it sit there unused while we both pretend we're fine."
Silence settled between us, heavy with implication.
My pulse picked up speed.
"So what does that look like? Specifically?"
"You remember what else I asked of you?"
"The check-ins," I said. "The honesty about how I'm actually feeling." A pause. "The rest."
"All of it." He held my gaze. "I'm done letting those slide. Done telling myself I'll get to it when things calm down. Things don't calm down. Not for people like us. If I keep waiting for the perfect moment, I'll be waiting forever."
I was quiet for a long minute, processing.
"And if I struggle with them?"
"Then we figure it out together. Adjust. Adapt. But you don't get to just... ignore them anymore. Neither of us do."
"I wasn't ignoring them," I countered.
The corners of his mouth tightened.
"I know," he said rougher than before. "But I was."
"You were drowning. Overwhelmed with—"
"I was." No denial. No deflection. "But so were you."
He looked at his hands.
"And I'm sorry I didn't step up sooner."
The words settled between us, unlike his hands, twisting in his lap.
"The structure. The rules," he continued, gathering strength. "They're supposed to be something for us to hold onto when everything else is chaos. Not something to put on the back burner."
He looked up, locking his gaze with mine.
"So I'm going to start enforcing them."
I reached up, dragging a fingertip against the cool stone at the center of my collar.
"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked. "Eat a chicken sandwich and watch a sitcom while you deal with everything?"
"If that's what I decided," he nodded. "Then yes, that's exactly what you do."
"But people need me. Candace. Sebastian. Rosie. You." I looked away. "You all need me and I'm what? Just supposed to not care?"
"Emma." He shifted closer, cupping my face in both hands, tilting it up until my eyes locked with his. "That's where I come in."
I frowned.
"If it's a rule—if it's something I require of you—then it's not you not caring." His thumb stroked across my cheekbone. "It's obedience. You're not admitting you can't handle it. You're submitting to my authority. Following my instructions."
Instructions. Authority. All the words he'd used that night, taking on different weights.
And I'd do it again.
The phrase echoed once more.
"I take the guilt away," he continued, low and steady. "I make the decision so you don't have to. So you can have everything you need—the rest, the care, the permission to breathe—without feeling like you've abandoned anyone."
Make the decisions so I didn't have to.
That was what he'd done, wasn't it?
As fucked up as it was, he'd done it. For me.
And at the end of the day—I wasn't the one who had to carry that weight.
"That feels like a loophole."
"It's not a loophole. It's the whole point."
A tear escaped. He caught it.
"You get to take care of yourself and take care of the people you love." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine. "Because I'll make sure of it. I'll be the one who tells you when to stop. When to rest. When to let someone else carry the weight for a while."
"And if anyone asks why you're not running yourself into the ground?" He tilted my chin up. "You tell them I require it. Blame me. I can take it."
A wet laugh escaped me. "That's convenient."
"That's the point." He smiled softly. "You don't have to choose between caring for others and caring for yourself. Not anymore. I'll make sure you do both—whether you like it or not."
My lashes fluttered once.
"Okay."
He stiffened. "Okay?"
I rolled my eyes but smiled. "You're being a parrot again."
He chuckled under his breath.
And I joined him.
Fragile, but real.
Like us.
I held his gaze. "Just don't fuck it up."