Chapter 42
* * *
Emma
I woke hours later, heavy-limbed and fogged with sleep.
Damien had apparently watched the rest of Eclipse alone—something he begrudgingly informed me of—along with a few episodes of some Alaskan survival show only a man would find remotely entertaining.
Now he was running around the house like a man possessed—straightening pillows, wiping counters, rearranging things that were already perfectly fine.
I’d tried to tell him it was just Candace. But he fussed like a mother hen with an OCD complex.
“Take a shower,” he barked from the kitchen. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Take a shower,” I muttered back in a terrible impression, followed by a sigh meant to be dramatic.
His head whipped around the corner. Eyes narrowed in warning.
“Fine,” I said quickly, pushing off the couch.
Ten minutes later, warm water still clinging to my skin, I felt almost human again. The shower had given me just enough space to replay everything Damien had said earlier—how he’d taken control of the situation, how he’d planned and maneuvered and protected.
It felt strange.
Strange not to be the one carrying every plan and every consequence.
Strange to not be the one executing every step of the solution.
Strange… and kind of incredible. To just exist while someone else held the weight for once.
When I stepped back into the living room, I burst out laughing. Damien had set the dinner table with a white cloth and arranged three different forks per person, each a different size. Like we were hosting a state dinner.
“It’s just Chinese food,” I wheezed.
“No, it isn’t,” he shot back. “It’s Candace’s first impression of my home. I want it to look good.”
“You live in a penthouse in Manhattan.” I laughed. “I think you’ll survive.”
My phone lit up on the table.
Candace: About fifteen minutes away.
“She’s fifteen out,” I called. “Mind if I just give her your key code?”
“Sure,” he said, muffled.
I typed the code and hit send, then followed the noise to the kitchen. Damien was half under the sink, shoulder muscles flexing as he wrenched at a pipe like it had personally offended him.
“It’s your turn to shower,” I said, leaning against the counter.
“Too busy,” he grunted, still elbow-deep in whatever imaginary crisis he’d invented.
I tugged at his arm. He didn’t budge.
“Damien.”
A pause.
Then a sigh.
“Fine,” he muttered, the wrench slipping from his hand. He crawled out from under the sink, hair wild, shirt rumpled, looking nothing like the man who could ruin people in boardrooms with a single raised brow. He planted a fake pout on his face and strode off toward the bathroom.
The second the door clicked shut, panic seized me.
Sharp. Instant. Irrational.
My feet moved before I could think—through the bedroom and straight into the bathroom after him.
“Hey,” he said, pants halfway off, face falling the moment he saw me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” I whispered, hands shaking before I could hide them. “I… I guess me leaving was okay, but you leaving…” The words tangled. “It didn’t feel the same.”
His face softened immediately. “I understand.” A low chuckle warmed the air as he pulled me into his bare chest. “Stay in here with me, then.” He brushed a kiss against my temple. “I’ll distract you.”
And distract me, he absolutely did.
I leaned against the counter, pulse quickening as he stepped into the shower. Steam billowed, fogging the glass door in a hazy blur. Every few moments, he’d swipe a hand across the condensation—just enough to give me a glimpse.
The flex of his arms.
The long line of his back.
A flash of skin, slick and gleaming under the spray.
And by the time he stepped out of the shower, he was clean—but I was feeling very, very dirty.
But there was no time to act on the impulse humming low in my core.
My phone lit up just as Damien tugged a shirt over his head.
“She just parked,” I said.
“Shit,” he muttered, pace quickening. Cologne. Styling gel. Beard oil. The whole damn ritual.
The elevator chimed as we stepped into the foyer. The doors slid open to reveal Candace’s bright face—arms full of four takeout boxes in a vibrant, glossy red. The steam hit first: spicy, sweet, comforting.
And then another scent drifted in behind it.
Cologne.
But not Damien’s—none of the expensive, dark, smoky notes that I loved.
No.
This was sharper. Cheaper. Overapplied. The kind of scent that belonged in a high school locker room, not our penthouse foyer.
My blood turned cold as Garrett slithered out behind Candace, wearing the same skin-tight pants Damien had mocked days ago.
My vision tunneled straight to his smug face.
Candace was talking—I could see her lips moving—but the words drifted past me, muffled under the rising buzz in my ears.
Emma.
Garrett’s lips curled into a smirk.
Emma.
He rolled his eyes.
“Emma!” Candace snapped, grabbing my arm. “Are you okay?”
I forced air in, shaking my head once to clear it. “Yeah.”
Damien’s arms slid around my waist—a reminder that he was here beside me. “Welcome to my home, Candace,” he said evenly, polite on the surface. Before turning his attention to Garrett. “I wasn’t aware you were bringing company.”
She offered a sheepish grin, the takeout boxes wobbling dangerously in her hands.
“Careful there, hun,” Garrett drawled, fingers clicking on his phone screen.
Damien shot him a flat, unimpressed look and reached forward, taking the boxes from Candace before they spilled.
“Thanks,” she exhaled, relieved. “I guess I should’ve given you a heads up about Garrett. He insisted on coming to apologize for last weekend.” She smacked his arm lightly. “Right, hun?”
Garrett jerked, the phone nearly slipping from his hand. “Uh—of course,” Garrett stuttered, stretching a smile across his face that didn’t come anywhere close to his eyes.
“Tonight was supposed to be about Emma,” Damien said. No warmth. No pretense.
“The timing was too good to pass up,” Candace offered quickly, trying for lightness that didn’t quite land.
For the briefest flicker—barely a heartbeat—Damien looked like he might rip her head off. But he swallowed it down, smoothing his expression into something socially acceptable. “We appreciate the food,” he said, each word clipped clean. “Emma, would you help me grab some plates?”
He guided me into the kitchen with a hand at my back, and only when the wall finally stood between us and the foyer did the tension begin to ease.
Once the boxes were on the counter, he turned to me—hands finding my hips. “Are you okay?” he asked, pulling me close.
“I wasn’t expecting him to come.” The words came out clipped, laced with acid.
“I know. And I’m sorry. Say the word, and I’ll kick them out.”
“What?” I huffed. “No longer want to make my decisions for me?”
“I told you,” his eyes locked on mine, “I’ll never stop you from seeing the people you care about.
But having said that,” he murmured, voice dropping into something darker, “I fucking hate that guy. And I have a nagging suspicion their presence is not going to be what you need tonight. Things with Elion are still fresh. Very fresh.”
“I know.” I dipped my chin, shame and exhaustion tugging it down. “But Candace brought dinner and—”
“There is no and,” he cut in—not unkind, but firm. “If you think they’ll help you, they can stay. If you think they’ll make things harder or uncomfortable for you, they leave. You know my stance.” His thumbs brushed the sides of my waist, grounding me. “Now you decide what yours is.”
I leaned into him, letting the warm press of his chest steady the spin in my head.
He was right.
Just like at the antique shop, I was raw. Emotional. Barely stitched back together after this morning. The world still felt like it was tilting under my feet.
“Damien!” Candace bounced into the kitchen, eyes wide as she took in the marble counters and the skyline beyond the windows. “Your home is amazing.”
“It’s a pretty nice pad,” Garrett added, wandering in after her. His mouth twisted into an appreciative frown I didn’t trust for a second.
“Thank you.”
Garrett’s focus snagged on Damien’s hold on my waist. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Two little lovebirds, huh?” he joked.
“What can I say?” Damien replied smoothly, tightening his grip. “I find it impossible to keep my hands off her for very long.”
Candace snorted. “Oh, please. The two of you are ridiculous.”
And suddenly—every emotion, every fear, every instinct about what this dinner could turn into died. Overpowered by the politeness ingrained in my bones.
“Damien set a table for us tonight. If you two want to… take a seat,” I blurted.
Candace breezed ahead, oblivious. Garrett trailed after her, nosing around the penthouse like he owned the place.
Damien’s large hands gently squeezed my waist. “Your call.”
“It’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure him.
He gave me a look that said it absolutely would not be fine, but I slipped out of his arms anyway and reached for the takeout containers.
I rummaged in the drawer for a serving spoon. “Thanks again for bringing dinner, Candace.”
Damien’s hand tapped mine—beating me to it.
“Go sit.” He popped open a container. “I’ve got this.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning away and sinking into the seat beside Candace.
“No dumplings for me,” Garrett called over his shoulder, like he was issuing a demand.
A smile curved at my mouth as I watched Damien plop two dumplings onto Garrett’s plate anyway.
Candace turned toward me, her face softening into that pitying concern I hated. “How are you holding up?”
“Not great,” I admitted with a shrug.
Garrett scoffed. “Luckily, you’re fucking Falkirk’s CEO. Nothing too bad can happen.”
Damien went perfectly still—peanut chicken suspended mid-air. “We’re in a committed relationship,” he finally said—too calmly.
“Same thing,” Garrett muttered, flicking his hand dismissively. “Right, Candace?” he added, throwing her a wink.
Candace gave him a conspiratorial smile.
And just like that—bile spiked hot at the back of my throat. A sour, burning climb of humiliation and anger.
“Seriously, though,” Candace said, turning back toward me. “What’s your plan?”
“Um—” I started, but Damien stepped in before the words could form.
“Falkirk and Elion are working together to overcome this hurdle,” he said, his tone clipped but controlled.
“Man, corporate talk,” Garrett laughed, loud and ugly. “I thought we were closer than that.”
“You thought wrong,” Damien replied.
Too rough.
Too honest.
Guilt flashed across his face.
Garrett rounded on him. His grin widened, slow and mean. “Oh, shit. Mr. Big Shot grew a backbone.” He clapped his hands together like this was entertainment.
“Stop it,” Candace hissed, elbowing him.
He gestured wildly at Damien. “He started it.”
The air thickened—tension coiling tight enough to vibrate under my skin.
Damien ignored him.
“Dinner’s served,” he announced, as he slid plates in front of me and Candace. He turned back to retrieve his and Garrett’s, shoulders wound tight beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Candace took a small bite, then glanced at me. “So… do you have a plan to overcome this ‘hurdle’?” She even added little quotation marks with her fingers.
“Yes,” Damien answered. “A multi-tiered plan. But I can’t get into details.”
She leaned closer, a smile playing at her lips. “Oh. So mysterious.”
Everything I’d been holding cracked open. “This is serious,” I bit out. “It’s my entire life’s work on the line.”
Her head jerked back. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I think you’re being a bit dramatic,” Garrett interrupted, waving his fork like a judge delivering a verdict.
Heat flared through my veins.
“No, she isn’t,” Damien snapped.
“Watch how you talk to my girlfriend,” Garrett warned, puffing up like a man with something to prove.
“Fiancé,” Candace corrected, barely above a whisper.
A muscle ticked in Damien’s temple. “Apologies, Candace,” he said, evening his tone. “Tensions have been high lately.”
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “I understand.”
I shoveled a bite of peanut chicken into my mouth, desperate for a neutral distraction. “This chicken is delicious,” I offered, trying to redirect the atmosphere before the air combusted.
“It really is,” Damien added. “Where did you order from?”
Candace’s face lit up. “A little place down the street from our house.” She looked at me. “You know the one—it’s got the yellow door.”
My mind searched, and then it clicked—the bright yellow frame, the carved dragon coiling through polished wood, the spiced air that drifted out every time someone opened the door.
“Oh, yeah. I always loved that place.” I popped another bite into my mouth, a laugh escaping. “Well, I guess I still do.”
Garrett snorted.
“What?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, brows raised with that condescending tilt that always made my skin crawl. “Nothing,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s just… funny.”
Candace stiffened beside me. “Garrett—”
He talked over her, focus pinned on me. “You act like you’re just some normal girl.”
Damien stopped chewing mid-bite.
“What does that even mean?” I asked, incredulous.
Garrett shrugged, doubling down. “You pretend you’re someone who walks around like everybody else, but really? You’re dating billionaires in penthouses and running companies into the—”
Damien’s tone sliced clean through him—low, lethal. “Finish that sentence, and I will remove you from my home.”
Garrett’s expression flared, and for a split second—just one—the mask slipped. Mean. Ugly. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lips curling. “The ground.”
Candace jerked, mortified. “Garrett, that’s enough—”
“No,” he snapped, rounding on her so fast it made my stomach drop. “It’s not. You dragged me here, remember? Said we needed to show support or whatever bullshit—but I’m not going to sit here while everyone pretends Emma didn’t screw up majorly—”
Then Damien, lethal as a blade. “Get the fuck out.”