She bent forward, squeezing my hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I reluctantly agreed. “Text me when you’re inside.”
Her expression came thin, practiced—and she slipped out. The door shut with a hollow thud as she disappeared into the lobby’s amber glow.
Damien pulled back into traffic, eyes on the road as the city lights streaked across the windshield like sparks. “That guy’s bad news,” he offered at last, voice rough.
“I’ve tried talking to her,” I admitted. “But she shuts me out. Just like now.”
His attention stayed on the road. “It isn’t easy to leave a man like that,” he continued after a long pause. “My mother found the strength to. But they don’t let go easily.”
He paused, collecting himself. “My father tracked her for months. We were in and out of women’s shelters until I was about five.”
“What?” I breathed. “I thought you never knew your father?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I didn’t. Not really. All I remember are pieces—like old film reels, jumpy and incomplete. But I remember the feeling. The uncertainty of what would come next.”
“I know that feeling,” I managed, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes cut toward me for the briefest second. “Yeah?”
The words spilled out, shaking. “My parents used to fight. Constantly. And somehow, I was always the reason.” A chill ran through me. “Until the affair, anyway.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.
“After that, I wasn’t the reason anymore,” I confessed. “I was just… collateral.”
Damien’s hand found mine on the console. “I’m sorry, Emma. That must have been horrible.”
Silence settled over us. Two people sitting in the remnants of childhoods marked by someone else’s rage.
“Keep reaching out,” he said finally, tone sure but careful. “Keep throwing the lifeline. One day she’ll grab it.” He glanced at me, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Then we’ll whisk her to safety, and I’ll kick Garrett’s ass.”
A startled laugh slipped out of me. “He called you a pussy,” I giggled.
“Right?” Damien exclaimed, incredulous. “Some fucking nerve for a guy who could barely walk in those painted-on pants.”
The air eased as we pulled into his parking garage.
He parked and stepped out, circling the hood to open my door. I slipped my hand into his. “Thank you, Mr. Hot Shot.”
The elevator doors slid open. Damien stepped inside, punching in his code.
“So,” he said as the doors closed. “To make up for the disaster that was today, I have a surprise for you.”
I tilted my head. “What kind of surprise?”
“You’ll see,” he answered, mischief sparking in his eyes.
When the doors opened, he all but bounced out, that boyish energy I’d grown to love breaking through the remaining tension.
“It better not be a puppy,” I called after him, toeing off my shoes.
I changed into the silk pajama slip waiting on the bench at the foot of his bed, then padded toward the living room.
He was waiting there, braced casually against the sofa—holding a small velvet box.
I slowed, my brow lifting. “Okay… so not a puppy.”
