Chapter 11
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Emma
The lobster was rich—buttery, herbed, everything I’d expected. Flavorless against the chaos in my head. I cut another bite, stealing glances at Damien from beneath my lashes. His plate sat untouched; the whiskey glass emptied sip by sip.
The truths he’d repeated swirled in my mind.
If they were truths at all.
They could have been sculpted—chosen—fit together like a persona built for me and no one else.
I set my fork down, the clink too loud in the candlelit silence. If that were true—if every memory, every joke, every confession had been curated—then what was left of the man I thought I knew?
His interest in me.
His care.
Even that first word that had quieted the voices—perfect.
Everything that had convinced me to come back.
All of it.
Lies.
“Do you like your meal?” he asked.
“Yes.” I pushed food across my plate without looking at him.
“I’m glad you ordered it,” he tried. “You’d been talking about it since we made the date.”
A dry laugh slipped out. At least that part was true. I’d had my eye on the dish since earlier this week, combing through the menu like it mattered—like tonight might mean something.
But now… it was all ash on my tongue.
I reached for my whiskey. The sharpness was familiar now, spreading warm and slow through my bloodstream. Woody, spiced—good enough to make me hate that I noticed.
“You like whiskey?” he asked, finally cutting into his steak.
“Yes.” I took another sip. “My father’s a collector.”
“Oh.” His brows lifted with faint approval. “He must be a man of taste, then.”
I scoffed, low and humorless. The sound escaped before I could catch it.
He caught it, expression dimming. “Not close?”
“That would be an understatement.” I stared at the napkin in my lap—white against the black dress I’d worn to impress a liar.
“I’m not close with mine either.” His voice dropped. “In fact”—a small, self-deprecating smile ghosted across his lips—”that would also be an understatement.”
I narrowed my eyes. Was this real? Finally something real?
Read had never mentioned his father. We’d avoided that terrain entirely—a boundary we never had to name.
It would’ve been hard to fake. Something impossible to rehearse months in advance. And if things between us had ever changed—if any of it had been real—I would’ve met his family someday. And I would’ve noticed who wasn’t there.
“I think that’s the first true thing you’ve said tonight,” I said, sweet as arsenic.
A flash of hurt flickered across his features. The audacity of it only stoked the anger simmering in my chest.
“Everything I’ve said tonight has been true, Emma. I swear on everything I’ve ever loved—Falkirk, my mother, my family. Everything.” He looked down as he drove his fork into his steak, metal scraping porcelain hard enough to make me flinch.
“But this is the first thing I know for sure,” I admitted. “All the others…” I let the implication sit between us.
“I understand,” he said, dipping his chin.
Silence stretched, thick and close between us. Every clink of silverware around us sounded like an intrusion.
And then—
“My brother is a drug addict.”
I froze. The words sliced clean through whatever distance I’d managed to build.
“We were close growing up,” he said, voice low. “But when I left for college, things changed. He started partying—fell in with the wrong crowd. He’s been to rehab three times, but none of the steps ever stuck.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s been hard on my mother. He stopped visiting her five years ago. Every Christmas, she still buys him a gift. Keeps them wrapped in her closet—waiting for him to come home.”
Silver lined his eyes when he looked up again, and something fragile inside me twisted.
“That’s horrible.” I meant it. “That must be incredibly hard.”
“It is.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
“I manage about once a year.” He cut a small piece of steak, chewing slowly—stalling. “His number never stays the same. But he calls my mother every couple of months.”
The image landed hard. A mother clinging to the sound of a son’s voice. Waiting for a phone that might never ring.
I ached for her. And then—before I could stop it—for him.
“I don’t have any siblings,” I admitted, another small truth slipping out. “Besides Candace,” I corrected.
He nodded, expression easing. “Candace is a good friend.” He corrected himself. “Well—sister.”
“She is,” I said.
“My brother and I used to fight like madmen. They say girls are worse,” he teased.
The memory of our last argument at Nona’s flashed—voices raised, feelings bruised but not broken. “You can say that again.”
His smile faded. “What do you think she’ll say about this?”
A dry, bitter laugh broke free. “She’s going to be pissed. Like—put-a-hit-out-on-you pissed.”
He winced. “I deserve that. Do you think I’ll get the chance to apologize to her?”
I rolled my shoulders, tension crackling through me, the unspoken question beneath his words echoing louder than the one he’d asked. “I don’t know.”
He met my gaze—questions flickering there, none I could bear to answer.
“I understand,” he said finally, reaching for his glass and taking a heavy gulp. He hissed through his teeth—the same sound he’d made slurping scalding coffee yesterday morning.
The memory flickered. Unwanted. Too familiar.
“What are we going to do about the merger?” I blurted.
He froze, drink hovering halfway to the table.
“Falkirk and Elion are separate from whatever—” He exhaled. “This is. Like I said earlier, I was interested in your company first. Then you. I still believe Elion would be good for us—that we’d both benefit.”
“You know the position I’m in now,” I cut in—sharper than intended.
“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
“How can I trust you not to use my secrets as leverage, Damien?” I demanded, the words tumbling out before I could temper them. “You could destroy me—destroy Elion.” My voice cracked on the last word.
“I know where you’re coming from,” he said, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table.
“I’ve hurt you—broken your trust into a thousand pieces.
But regardless of what you feel for me right now, I won’t use anything you’ve told me against you.
I know what Elion means to you—how much you care about your people. ”
I searched his face for the lie. The angle. The manipulation I’d been bracing for since the truth broke open.
But I found nothing.
“I want to believe you,” I said. “I really do.”
“Then let me prove it to you.”
My eyes burned. Tears threatened again. “Ugh.” I pressed my palms into my face until stars sparked behind my eyelids. “Why did you have to do this? Why couldn’t you have just been Read?”
“I am Read,” he murmured—almost to himself.
“I don’t know about that.” I looked at him head-on. My heart froze despite the whiskey’s warmth.
“Then let me prove it to you,” he repeated, voice steadier this time.
“How?” The word burst out of me, too loud in the hush of the restaurant.
He smiled, something fragile in his face. “One step at a time.”