He smiled, something fragile in his face. “One step at a time.”
Chapter 12
***
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 wordokaystill 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.
