Chapter 56
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Emma
Hours earlier, the celebration had still been in full swing.
Jennifer had introduced her boyfriend—a man ten years younger, unfairly gorgeous, and smug in the easy way of someone who knew exactly how desirable he was.
One of Kevin’s twins spit up on him, causing him to spill his beer.
David laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes.
I found myself thinking how good it would’ve felt to have Damien there—his arm around my waist, that still pride in his expression as he looked at me not just as a business partner, but as something far more.
My owner.
My lover.
Partner.
Friend.
But earlier was for Elion.
Tonight would be for us—the version of us that had risen from the ashes of heartbreak and lies. The same us that had held each other close, that had rewritten what power and surrender could mean.
And that us was perfect.
The elevator doors opened, and the reflection staring back at me proved it.
The woman in the mirrored walls was steady now—confident.
Worlds away from the one I’d seen months ago.
Gone were the dark hollows beneath her eyes.
Gone the sleepless pallor, the brittle exhaustion clinging to her skin.
Gone the crushing weight on her shoulders.
In their place stood a woman—excited, capable, cared for… loved.
For the first time in what felt like years, I looked like someone who wasn’t just surviving.
I looked like someone who’d chosen to live.
The barely-there black silk of my dress whispered over satin-soft thighs, catching on the tender places Damien had touched.
Music met me first—low, romantic—as I stepped into Damien’s foyer.
Then came the scent of tomato sauce and herbs, rich and warm, winding through the air like an embrace.
Through the living room and out on the patio, the sight that awaited pulled at every string inside me.
The same fairy-lit terrace. The same white table set for two.
But this time, instead of the nervous man who’d once stood there, Damien was waiting—smiling, holding the largest bouquet of roses I’d ever seen. He took a step forward, reaching for me—and this time, there was no hesitation.
I went to him, throwing myself into his arms. The roses tumbled to the floor in a blur of red and laughter as he caught us both before we could fall.
He loosened his hold just enough for me to look up at him. The laughter between us melted into something deeper. His hand came up to cradle my cheek, thumb brushing lightly against my skin as though memorizing the moment.
And then he kissed me.
Not with hunger or urgency, but with a slow, reverent kind of passion that reached straight through me. Every unspoken word—every apology, promise, and beginning—was there in that kiss.
His hands found my waist and guided me into motion. I followed, instinctive and effortless, the slow pull of one heartbeat finding another. Music swelled, low and steady, as we fell into step, swaying in time beneath the fairy lights.
My fingers slipped into his, the silk of my dress whispering against his suit with each dip and spin. The world around us blurred into light and sound. Breath and possibility. Hope and belonging.
The music waned and slowed, the final beats pulsing like a heartbeat between us.
One last turn.
One last dip.
His hand slid along my back, strong and sure, guiding me down until the world tilted—the night air kissing the exposed skin of my throat. I let myself fall into it. Into him.
The final notes drifted into the star-speckled night, and he bent low, his breath brushing my ear before his lips found the column of my neck.
A single, reverent kiss. Then another. Each one slower, softer, climbing upward until his mouth found mine.
He pulled me upright as the last chord faded, the city and the music dissolving around us—leaving only his hands, our heartbeats, and the promise that we were exactly where we were meant to be.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was our exhales, slow and uneven, tangled together in the hush that followed the music.
Then I glanced down at the mess of crimson petals scattered across the patio like tiles, a small laugh slipping from me. “Sorry about the flowers.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, rough velvet against the quiet. He buried his face in my neck, breathing me in. “I’ll buy you more. Hundreds, thousands, millions. All the petals in the world, I’d buy for you. The moon on a pedestal, if that’s what you wanted.”
He pressed a kiss just below my ear, his words ghosting against my skin. “Anything that would make you happy,” he whispered. “Anything that would make you dance with me just one more time.”
It was almost too much—the sincerity, the wonder in his voice, the impossible tenderness.
My eyes burned as I tilted my head back to look at him. This man who had changed everything. “I don’t need the world,” I said softly. “I only need you.”
Something flickered in his expression—shock, maybe, or relief. Then his hand came up to cup my face, reverent and trembling. And when he kissed me again, it felt different, impossibly deeper.
His thumb brushed along my jaw, tracing the edge of my smile. “Emma,” he said, my name falling from his lips like something sacred. “I—”
The sound buzzed between us.
A vibration. Low and insistent.
He stilled. The world held its breath as he searched for the mute button in the pocket of his slacks.
Then released when his hand found my waist again as if the touch alone could pull us back to where we’d been.
“Emma,” he started, voice low and uneven. “I wanted to—”
The vibration came again. Louder this time. Relentless.
He exhaled through his nose, the moment slipping away before I could catch it. Then his brows furrowed, body going still as his attention flicked to the screen—and then back to me.
“I have to take this.” Regret colored his voice.
I nodded, pressing close as he pulled me in, the warmth of his arm anchoring me even as the air shifted.
A woman’s voice came through the line.
“Hey, Mom. I’m a little—” He stopped mid-sentence, his expression collapsing as the voice on the other end broke into sobs.
My stomach dropped.
“Slow down,” he said urgently. “I’m having a hard time understanding…”
Then his face fell—pain and panic surfacing all at once. “What?” he breathed.
My pulse kicked, adrenaline spiking hard and fast.
“Where is he?” he demanded. Then, sharper: “Where are you?”
The woman’s words came too fast, spilling into cries and fragmented pleas.
“I’ll be there soon,” he said finally, hanging up, expression wide and glassy with fear.
Panic struck me, chilling the blood in my veins.
“We need to go,” he announced, grabbing my waist and pulling me toward the door. His movements were sharp, frantic, a man running on instinct alone.
“What happened?” I pleaded, trying to match his pace, searching his face for an answer.
Our eyes met for a single heartbeat—but it was enough to tell a story. Sadness. Fear. Panic. All of it laid bare in the space between us.
“That was my mother,” he forced out, throat bobbing with effort. “My brother’s overdosed.”
The words hit like a physical blow, hollowing me out. For a second, the world tilted—music, candlelight, roses—all fading into nothing.
“Damien,” I breathed, my voice breaking on his name. Every piece of me ached for him—for the pain that had just carved itself across his features.
“They’re at Mount Sinai,” he said hoarsely, running a shaking hand through his hair as we waited for the elevator to crawl its way to our floor. “I can’t leave her alone, Emma. I can’t—” His voice cracked, panic threading through it like a wire pulled too tight.
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
And hand in hand, we stepped inside.
The city blurred past us in streaks of gold and gray. Horns, sirens, the endless pulse of New York—all of it distant, muffled beneath the weight of Damien’s silence.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. I wanted to reach for him, to do something, but his focus was a blade, honed and trembling. Every red light stretched for miles, every second on the clock a wound reopening.
The city blurred past the windows, streetlights smearing into ribbons of gold against the dark. Damien pulled into the hospital lot too fast, tires screeching as he swung into the first open space. He killed the engine and was out of the car before I’d even unbuckled.
I scrambled after him, heels catching on the pavement. The night air hit my bare arms—cold, sharp, sobering. Our footsteps echoed across the concrete, frantic and uneven, until we reached the sliding glass doors.
The hospital doors hissed open, spilling us into a wash of fluorescent light and antiseptic air.
The world inside was colder—too bright, too white, too loud.
A television blared from the corner, a child cried somewhere down the hall, and the steady beep of machines cut through it all like a metronome for disaster.
Damien didn’t hesitate. He strode straight to the front desk, voice raw but controlled. “Sebastian Holt,” he said, the name cracking slightly on the second word. “Where is he?”
The nurse—a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a badge that read Tina—looked up. Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat before she caught it, professionalism sliding back into place.
“He’s in the ICU,” she said gently, fingers already moving over the keyboard. “End of the hall, third door on the left.”
Damien nodded once, turning on his heels.
“Thank you,” I managed to say as we passed, though I wasn’t sure she heard me.
We moved fast—his hand gripping mine, knuckles white, pace relentless. Each step echoed against the sterile tile, the sound of panic made physical. The hallway stretched forever, lined with closed doors and flickering lights.
Damien reached the ICU doors and yanked hard, but they didn’t budge. A low buzz shuddered through the metal, followed by the crackle of a speaker overhead.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked—female, clipped, and weary.
He leaned into the intercom, his breath fogging the glass. “Sebastian Holt,” he said quickly. “I’m his brother.”
There was a pause—too long, too heavy. Then the line crackled again. “One moment, please.”
I could see the muscle ticking in Damien’s jaw as he waited. The silence stretched like wire.
Then the buzzer sounded, sharp and final, and the door unlocked with a mechanical click.
He didn’t wait for me to catch up. The moment it opened, he was through, the air on the other side colder, sharper, thick with the faint hum of machines and disinfectant. I followed close behind, pulse pounding in rhythm with the monitors somewhere down the hall.
Glass walls filled with pain and sorrow blurred past us as we rushed down the corridor—tears, silence, and the low hum of machines merging into a single, unbearable symphony. Ahead, a woman with dark hair sat hunched over in a chair, her shoulders trembling with sobs that carried down the hall.
Damien’s pace quickened. His grip on my hand tightened until it hurt, pulling me forward at a brutal speed. My heels struck the tile in sharp echoes—each one a warning, a countdown.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
Frozen to the gleaming floor.
I followed his gaze.
The man lying in the bed before the woman…
the same hair, that same unruly texture peeking out from beneath bloodied bandages.
A tube fed through his mouth, forcing air into his lungs.
Electrodes and sensors dotted his chest—dark curls matted beneath sticky pads and tangled wires—all of it tethered to a chorus of blinking lights and mechanical beeps.
I waited, unsure of what to do—how to help—how to even breathe.
Then Damien moved. One step. Then another. And another.
Until we were there.
Rosie turned at the sound of our approach. Her eyes were red and swollen, mascara streaking down in uneven lines. She rose on shaking legs and threw her arms around him.
“Thank god you’re here, Damien,” she choked out, her voice trembling and raw.
“Mom,” he breathed, his own voice breaking on the word. A single tear slipped free, trailing down his cheek. “How is he?”
“The paramedics said they picked him up from a party in Queens,” she began, words stumbling over each other.
“He fell—from a third-story balcony. But when they got there… he was overdosing.” Her voice wavered, thick with disbelief.
“They said he was lucky he fell. Otherwise—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “Otherwise he’d be dead right now.”
Damien’s mouth pressed into a fine, hard line as he looked toward the bed. His face shifted through a thousand micro-expressions—pain, guilt, fury, fear—each one carving itself deeper into him before he finally lifted his attention back to mine.
I didn’t know what to say. There weren’t words big enough to touch this kind of pain.
So I just stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.
Damien didn’t hesitate. His arms came around me instantly—strong and trembling all at once—pulling me against his chest. His breath hitched, uneven, as if holding me was the only thing keeping him upright.
The world narrowed to that: his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of machines filling the silence our words couldn’t reach.
And then, from somewhere behind me, a voice—thin, disbelieving, breaking on the edges of grief.
“Damien,” Rosie whispered. “Who is she?”