Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Damian
The private club on Manhattan's Upper East Side was dim as always.
Ice clinked against crystal, sharp but muffled. I'd lost count of how many drinks I'd had. The liquor burned going down, but it couldn't touch the suffocating despair in my chest.
"Enough!"
Mark snatched the glass from my hand and slammed it on the marble counter.
"Damian! Look at yourself. Is this what a Wentworth looks like?" His face was hard in the low light, his finger jabbing at my nose. "And you have the nerve to sit here feeling sorry for yourself?"
I slumped back against the leather sofa, rubbing my pounding temples. "So you think it's all my fault, too?"
Damn it. I'd called Mark hoping for advice. Instead, I was getting ripped apart. Of everyone in my circle, Mark was one of the few who actually gave a damn about Ivy. Clearly, he'd picked his side.
"What else would it be? You think Ivy's the problem?"
"Just so we're clear, I'm not paying for your drinks." I managed weakly. "But she told me to get out. Said I was selfish as hell, only capable of patting myself on the back."
"Jesus, Damian. If I were Ivy, I wouldn't just tell you to get out—I'd put a bullet in you." Mark laughed bitterly, standing up and leaning over the table.
"When you had that ulcer and ended up in the hospital, who stayed by your bed for three straight days checking every ingredient in your medication?
Every time you came back from a trip, even at three in the morning, there was hot food waiting in that kitchen.
The rest of us? We come home to empty walls.
But you—you always had someone waiting."
My hand froze.
"And what did you do? You never gave a damn about her feelings.
Like that birthday party two months ago...
" Mark sighed heavily. "We all thought Cecilia showing up was just bad luck, that nothing would happen between you two.
None of us imagined you'd actually leave Ivy standing in that corner and let Cecilia move in... "
I stared at the amber liquid swirling in my glass. Nothing to say.
The words "nothing happened with Cecilia" sounded pathetic even to me against Mark's accusations. To everyone watching, I'd already become unforgivable.
Mark drained his own glass after his rant, muttering what were probably more curses at me.
I stopped listening. The alcohol was scrambling my brain. Nauseous, I stumbled to my feet and pushed out of the room toward the bathroom.
Cold water hit my face, bringing a moment of clarity. I stared at the bloodshot, wrecked man in the mirror and gave a bitter smile. Damian, you deserve this. How many more people need to call you out before you realize what you did to Ivy? Before you understand what you threw away?
I closed my eyes, forcing the pain down, grabbed a paper towel, and turned to leave. At the corridor corner, a warm body crashed into me without warning.
"Oh, sorry!" A woman let out a breathy squeal, melting against me. Heavy rose perfume hit my face. I turned my head instinctively and stepped back.
"Damian? It really is you! God, I've been looking everywhere..."
I opened my eyes and focused. That face—I'd know it anywhere. Cecilia. She wore a dress so low-cut it left nothing to imagination, practically gluing herself to me.
She looked haggard, but her eyes burned bright as she stared at me.
She pressed closer, voice dripping with fake tears.
"Damian, I've missed you so much. Please don't be so cold to me.
I know I messed up before, but I really love you!
Ivy can't give you anything. I'm the one who understands your ambition. Can't we start over?"
Watching her throw herself at me, the nausea in my stomach finally erupted.
"Get off me!"
I shoved her away hard. Cecilia hit the wall, her platinum clutch hitting the floor and spilling makeup everywhere.
"Don't touch me with your filthy hands, Cecilia. It makes me sick." I looked down at her, disgust plain in my eyes. "The fact that I didn't have you charged with fraud was me being generous. Show your face around me again, and I won't mind having the police pay you a visit."
"Damian, is that all we had? I—"
I noticed the door to a private room behind her was open. She must have come from there. A young man emerged now, pausing when he saw us, then walking over.
I raised an eyebrow and slowed my words. "Oh? You're saying you really love me?"
"I love you! Damian, you're the only one I love!" Cecilia wiped her tears. "I'd do anything for you."
The figure behind her went rigid.
I leaned against the wall with a cold laugh. "Too bad I never loved you. I was too young to know what love was back then. Lucky you left—otherwise I never would have fallen for Ivy."
Cecilia rushed forward. "No, Damian, you're just hurt that I left. We match perfectly in looks and—"
"Cecilia." A man's voice cut her off.
Cecilia spun around in shock. "Oh no, Richard... let me explain!"
"I don't think there's anything to explain." The man from the private room looked at her with disappointment. "So when you said you loved me, it was all a lie. I think we're done here."
Cecilia forgot all about me, desperately begging the man's forgiveness.
I'd seen enough of this circus. I left the guy with one last remark. "Man, this woman's an expert at this game. Hope she didn't scam you out of too much money."
I walked past them. Behind me, the man's anger and Cecilia's desperate sobs faded.
That woman—I used to treasure her. Let her hurt Ivy. Mark was right. This was all my fault. I got what I deserved.
Back at the club, Mark just drank with me in silence until he finally poured my drunk ass into the car heading to the estate.
The car stopped at Wentworth Estate. Reeking of alcohol, I stumbled through the door.
"Finally home?" I looked up to see Aunt Eleanor on the sofa, frowning at my stained clothes.
The moment I saw family, the pride and defenses I'd maintained at the bar collapsed completely.
I dropped to my knees at her feet, covering my face as tears poured through my fingers. "Aunt Eleanor... how did it come to this? I apologized. I just wanted to protect her, get her that big contract. I did so much for her... Why does she still hate me? Why did she tell me to get out?"
"Damian! You're a mess, and you still feel wronged?" My aunt jabbed my forehead with her finger, frustrated. "This isn't love, Damian. This is selfish possession, always forcing your so-called 'good intentions' on people from your high horse!"
Her words hit me like a hammer. I slumped to the floor, face pale.
She seemed about to say more, but in the end just sighed and ruffled my messy hair, her expression softening.
"Damian, look at me." Her voice dropped. "Don't let your parents' selfishness back then rob you of the courage to love. You locked your heart away, turned money and control into weapons, selfishly thinking that was everything."
Her words, combined with the alcohol, tore open an old wound buried deep inside.
I thought of my childhood.
That estate was never "home" in my memory—it was an iceberg. My parents, from two of New York's top families, cared only about their own romance.
My birth seemed like an accident in their perfect life. Shortly after I was born, Father dumped me with Aunt Eleanor and took Mother traveling the world.
Grandfather and Aunt Eleanor raised me. Knowing Father was useless, Grandfather taught me business from the start. While other kids played with their parents, I huddled alone in that echoing second-floor study, buried in dense books.
Once, my rarely-home parents suddenly wanted to take me out—maybe they felt guilty? Whatever the reason, I excitedly put on my favorite outfit and followed them.
We went to the estate's new custom mini Ferris wheel. For a moment, holding Mother's hand, I felt happy. But after one rotation, Father jumped off first, then turned and reached back. Mother laughed and took his hand, jumping into his arms.
It wasn't high, but for a small child, jumping took courage. While I hesitated, they walked away hand in hand. My voice stuck in my throat. Fear made me mute.
The operator saw them leave and cut the power. I was left hanging up there. When Aunt Eleanor found me, I'd gone practically catatonic.
That's why my desk at Wentworth Center never faces the floor-to-ceiling windows like other executives'.
I'd never felt unconditional love. All I learned was to judge everyone through cold business logic and build walls to protect myself from hurt. When I met Cecilia, I thought someone finally loved me. But she abandoned me too.
Afraid of abandonment, I'd freeze people out first. I could feel Ivy's love, but I didn't trust it—or didn't dare trust it. Worse, I'd taken that coldness learned from my parents and unleashed it on the girl who loved me with her whole heart.
Only after she left did I realize I'd lost the most precious love in the world.
I clutched my hair, finally letting out a choked sob.
What have I done?
Aunt Eleanor cupped my face, wiped my tears, and looked at me seriously.
"A good relationship requires respect, understanding, putting yourself in the other person's shoes and feeling their pain—not handing down charity from above.
Damian, drop your pride. Real love means wanting the other person to be happy. "
Respect? Understanding?
"Of course she won't forgive you right now. That's completely normal. If you really love her, if you really want her back, then drop that Wentworth CEO arrogance and use ordinary human sincerity to slowly warm her heart—not operate from the assumption that you'll definitely get back together."
I shuddered.
Like a final fog lifting from my eyes. Yes. In Brooklyn, I'd chased Ivy constantly, claiming I didn't need her response or anything in return. But deep down, I'd already decided she would eventually forgive me and come back to me. That's why I'd been so furious when Lucas appeared.
Because even then, I still considered Ivy mine.
But Ivy had given up on me. She wasn't mine anymore—that realization sent fresh pain through my chest. I needed to make amends for what I'd done, even if she never came back.
I sat on the floor, letting tears stream down my face. But the anger and wounded pride were gone. I finally understood.
I wanted her to be happy, even if it meant spending the rest of my life unseen in a corner. I'd accept that.