Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
Damien
The meeting was over. The others filtered out.
"You were amazing," I said quietly.
Emma grinned. "Do you really think—"
"Damien, may I have a word with you?"
Nathan's oily voice cut through the room, slicing cleanly through my conversation with Emma.
I turned slowly, locking my face into professional neutrality. "Of course, Mr. Bell."
He smiled with every one of his coffee-stained teeth. "My office or yours?"
"Mine."
Whatever he was planning, I wasn't giving him home-court advantage. Or an audience.
I turned to excuse myself, but Emma was already gone.
Good.
I didn't look at Nathan as I left. It was his choice to follow. His meeting. His problem. I was done giving him even the illusion of control.
We passed photos mounted along the walls like trophies—my first meeting with Bill Gates, one with Tim Cook, and then Shaq. That one always made me smirk; next to him, I looked like a kid in his father's suit.
A moment later, we crossed into my office. The door closed behind us with a quiet click.
"What's this about, Nathan?" I asked, skipping the preamble entirely as I settled into my seat.
"A conversation," he said, sinking into the chair across from my desk. "One long overdue."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the freshly lacquered surface. "About?"
His grin turned predatory. "Emma, of course."
My blood heated—sharp, immediate—each memory stoking the fire.
It's fine.
It wasn't that big a deal.
Only my shoulder.
I took a breath, forcing the air all the way in.
I'm not my father.
Nathan leaned back in the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee.
"You think I don't know?" He laughed—an ugly, wet sound. "You've been parading it around the office for weeks. The lingering looks. The private conversations. The way you hover over her like a dog guarding a bone."
His gaze glittered with triumph.
"You aren't sneaky, Holt. You never have been."
"Is that all?" I asked, letting a hint of boredom creep into my tone.
His smile faltered—just a fraction. "You're not concerned?"
"About what?" I tilted my head. "Office gossip? People talk, Nathan. They always have. If you're expecting me to panic because a few assistants noticed I enjoy Ms. Sinclair's company, you're going to be disappointed."
"This isn't gossip." His voice hardened. "This is leverage."
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, all I see is a man who just lost a board vote grasping for anything that might make him feel powerful again."
Nathan's gaze narrowed.
There it is.
"You want to go public with rumors about my personal life? Go ahead." I spread my hands. "But before you do, ask yourself—what exactly do you have? A hunch? A few observations? Some secondhand whispers from people who've already stopped caring?"
His nostrils flared.
"You're good at this," Nathan said, almost admiringly. "The deflection. The intimidation. Very polished."
He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward. "But here's the thing, Holt. I don't actually care who you're fucking. What I care about is the audit."
Here we go.
"Those numbers didn't just appear out of thin air. Someone rewrote them. Someone with access, resources, and a very compelling reason to make Elion look like a golden goose instead of a sinking ship."
He tapped a finger against his knee.
"And I've been thinking about the timeline," he said. "The original audit leaked. Elion's stock tanked. The merger was circling the drain. And then—miraculously—a new audit appeared. Verified by a third party no one's ever heard of. Numbers so clean they practically sparkled."
His gaze narrowed.
"That didn't happen after the merger was approved, Damien. It happened before. Right when your little CEO was about to lose everything."
I kept my breathing even. My hands still.
"You faked those numbers. Not for Falkirk. Not for the board. For her."
"That's quite a theory," I said, keeping my voice even. "Do you have any proof?"
He rose from the chair, smoothing his jacket, a smug grin plastered on his face.
"Not yet, but soon."
Soon?
He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. When he looked back, the smile was gone. What replaced it was feral. Hungry. "And when I do, I'll destroy you both. You and the girl."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat motionless, staring at the space where he'd been.
The girl.
Like she was nothing.
Like she was collateral.
My hands curled into fists on the desk, knuckles blanching white.
I took a slow breath. Then another. Forced my fingers to uncurl.
My phone buzzed.
Emma: How bad?
I exhaled, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
Emma's voice in Dr. Raines's office surfaced. No more lies.
Deal. I'd said the word myself.
I stared at the screen. Three words. That's all it would take. Three honest words and she'd know everything—the threat, the timeline, the target on both our backs.
The rule we'd made. The promise I'd given her in that quiet office with the bare-footed therapist and the succulent on the table and Emma's hand warm in mine.
But…
Me: It wasn't.
The lie sat there on the screen, small and sharp and damning.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
She knows.
Of course she did. Emma always knew.
Guilt pressed up beneath my ribs, sharp and unwelcome.
Ping.
Emma: Good. I'm glad.
I ran a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the strands.
"Coward," I muttered into the empty room.
Tell her.
Not yet.
Do it.
Don't.
When I have a plan.
It sounded reasonable. Strategic. Like something a good Dominant would do.
It sounded like an excuse.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
The clock on my desk ticked.
Once.
Twice.
Measuring the silence I'd chosen.