Chapter 12
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Emma
The night air hit like a slap when I stepped outside—cool, sharp, and too clean after the suffocating weight of the restaurant.
Dinner had ended in fragments. No tidy conclusion, no forgiveness wrapped in a neat bow.
I never gave him an answer—only told him I’d think about it.
An answer far too kind for the pain he’d put me through.
One that hung between us now as he walked me to the car.
Harold waited at the curb, engine idling low, headlights cutting through the dark.
Damien offered a nod to him, a silent message passing between men, then pulled the handle open.
The small, old-fashioned courtesy hit me harder than it should have.
“Thank you.” The words came low as I slid into the back seat, careful not to jostle the leftover ravioli and the slice of tiramisu Damien had insisted we each take home.
He nodded but didn’t move away, instead bending to my level, streetlight gilding his face in pale gold—regret and restraint carved into every line.
“Can—” He started, then stopped himself. “I’ll message you tomorrow.” Then, carefully. “Would that be okay?”
I threw him a look—half warning, half disbelief.
“You don’t have to answer,” he added. “I understand if you decide not to.”
His face collapsed, shame and guilt twisting through his expression. But it wasn’t manipulation—not this time. Not after dinner—after watching his eyes gloss over when he’d spoken about his brother, his father, the small truths that had bled through the lies.
No, this wasn’t performance. It was sincerity—raw, unguarded, almost painful to look at.
“Okay.”
The tiniest spark of hope flickering in the deep brown of his irises.
“Okay?” he echoed, disbelief rounding the edges of his words.
“Okay,” I repeated, a reluctant smile curving my lips before I could stop it. Even as I said it, something inside me sank—like I’d just agreed to let him haunt me a little longer.
A wide grin spread across his face, and I wagged a finger at him, firm. “Don’t get too excited. I’m still really fucking pissed,” I warned.
A pause. “And hurt,” I added.
The grin faded, his shoulders sinking. “I know.” Then he straightened to his full height. “Good night, Emma.”
“Good night, Damien,” I echoed, my voice gentler than I meant it to be.
The door clicked shut, sealing him—and everything that had happened—on the other side.
The city blurred past in streaks of amber and white, reflections rippling over the tinted glass. The air inside the car was cool and faintly perfumed with leather and citrus—the scent of him clinging to my skin, to the memory of his tone.
I exhaled, pressing my head back against the seat as the night replayed in flashes—his eyes, the half-smile, the word okay still echoing like an unfinished sentence.
My hands felt restless, twitching for something to hold on to.
I reached into my clutch, grazing the cold metal of my phone. I hesitated—just a beat—before tapping the screen.
Candace’s name glowed.
She picked up on the first ring.
“How did it go?” she asked, equal parts excitement and the silly hope of a best friend.
Tears pooled, threatening to spill; I blinked them back, sniffing once.
Her tone dropped. “Not good?”
“It was—” I swallowed, the night replaying in shards behind my teeth. I let the word come slow. “Unexpected.”
“How?”
Something trembled in me. “Read was Damien Holt.”
“No.” Candace’s gasp cut through the line. “The Falkirk guy?”
“Yes.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then steel. “What the actual—? Why didn’t he tell you after he found out it was you?”
“You’re not going to believe this.” I laughed, thin and hollow. A tear broke free, and I didn’t bother wiping it away. “He knew from the beginning.”
Candace went silent for a second, like she was chewing the details and spitting out something worse. “I’m going to kill him.”
“That’s what I said,” I managed, and an ugly little laugh hiccupped out.
“Wait—wait. You talked to him?” Confusion cracked through; I could picture her, eyebrows up, mouth a perfect ‘O’ over the speaker.
“Yes.” The admission felt heavier than it should. “I almost left. Then—” My thumb traced the cold edge of the phone. “Then he said things. He—he told the truth about some things. About his brother, his mother. He kept saying one step at a time. He asked me to let him prove it.”
Candace drew out a sound that was half-skepticism, half-anger. “Emma. He tricked you. He lied to you. For months. Do you understand how messed up that is?”
“I know.” The word was small. “I know how it looks.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told him I’d think about it.”
Candace huffed. “Emma Sinclair, do not be kind to manipulators.”
My jaw throbbed.
“You deserve so much more than someone who lies to you, Em.” Her tone left no room for argument.
“But—”
“No buts.” The words came fast, sharp. “This guy is a dick. End of story.”
I heard her, but the meaning slid right through me, words dull against the static in my head. She didn’t know the messages. The way he had steadied me when I couldn’t breathe. The nights he’d made me laugh when the silence felt unbearable.
Regardless of the lies—that part was still true. He had helped me. And that, somehow, made it hurt worse.
We told you he was a liar, the voices hissed—once silenced by Read, now reborn as Damien.
So desperate for someone to love you that you’d settle?
The voice mimicked Candace’s, sharp and cruel, wearing her concern like a mask. How pathetic.
Something inside me cinched tight, air souring as I tried to pull in a breath. Hot tracks slid down my cheeks.
“Emma?” A distant voice called—muffled through the sound of my sniffling.
“Emma? Are you there?”
Sadness folded in close.
You should’ve stayed at work, they ridiculed.
Too late now, one laughed. You’ve just handed him everything he needs to wipe Elion—and all those precious little people—off the map.
Shame reared its ugly head, joining the crowd already clawing at my conscience.
“Ms. Sinclair?” Harold’s voice cut through the spiral.
I startled. “Yes?”
He looked at me through the rearview mirror, worry etched deep in the lines of his face.
“Your friend’s been trying to talk to you. I know you’re having a rough moment, but… she sounds worried.”
Then I felt the weight of it—the phone still in my hand, Candace’s worried voice blaring through the speaker. Her photo glowed on the screen, frozen in California sunlight, waiting for me to say something.
I pressed the phone to my ear. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, a trace of frustration threading through her concern. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes.”
Guilt joined the chorus. “Yeah… I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
I exhaled, the tightness easing for the first time since dinner. “Everything.”
An equally deep sigh came through the line.
“Emma.” Candace’s tone shifted. “Be honest with me. Do you still have feelings for this guy?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, slouching low in my seat.
“So that means yes,” she replied flatly.
“I said I don’t know,” I bit out.
“The fact that you didn’t say no means yes,” she insisted.
I pressed a palm to my forehead. “This is too much.”
“I know. But you don’t have to decide anything right now. Take the night, think things over.”
“Yeah,” I muttered.
“If you need me, I’m here, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too.” My words were barely audible as the line went dead—and the voices rushed in to fill the quiet, their whispers threading through the hum of the tires and the city beyond the glass.