Chapter 9

ELARA'S POV

"You invited him to Portland."

Maya's voice was flat. We sat in my apartment Wednesday night, the remains of Chinese takeout between us.

"Just for the drive."

"Just for the drive. Three hours alone in a car with your ex-husband."

"You said I should figure out if he's really changed."

"I said you should protect yourself. That's different." Maya set down her wine glass. "What happens when you're stuck in traffic and he says something that reminds you of the old Damien? Or worse, what if he's perfect and you start falling for him again?"

"I'm not falling for him."

"You invited him to Portland."

"To talk. That's all."

Maya gave me a look that said she didn't believe me. I wasn't sure I believed myself.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus.

"Heard you're bringing someone to Portland. Please tell me it's not who I think it is."

I showed Maya. She sighed.

"News travels fast in the art world."

"Marcus worries."

"Marcus is smart." Maya leaned forward. "Are you sure about this? Really sure?"

"No. But I need to know if this version of Damien is real or just temporary."

"And if it's real?"

"I don't know. Can you forgive someone who hurt you that badly?"

"That's not the question. The question is should you." Maya's expression softened. "I watched you rebuild yourself. It took two years of therapy, antidepressants, and more crying than I thought was humanly possible. I don't want to watch you go through that again."

"I know."

"But you're doing this anyway."

"I have to know, Maya. I have to know if Victoria really did sabotage everything or if I'm just making excuses for him."

"Those letters were real. Victoria keeping them was real. But that doesn't mean Damien was innocent."

She was right. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story.

My phone rang. Damien. I almost didn't answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this a bad time?"

"No, it's fine. What's up?"

"I wanted to confirm Friday. Two PM. Should I pick you up or meet you somewhere?"

"Meet me at my apartment. I'll text you the address."

"Okay. Should I—is there anything I should know? About the drive or the event?"

He sounded nervous. It was strange hearing Damien Hartley nervous about anything.

"Just be yourself. Whoever that is now."

A pause. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"I know. Me too."

After we hung up, Maya was watching me.

"He sounds different."

"I know."

"That scared me more than if he sounded the same."

"Why?"

"Because if he's really changed, you have a decision to make. And I don't think you're ready for it."

She wasn't wrong.

---

Friday arrived faster than I wanted. I packed my overnight bag three times, changing outfits, overthinking everything. This was just a drive. Just a conversation. Nothing more.

My doorbell rang at exactly two PM.

Damien stood there in jeans and a sweater, holding two cups of coffee. "I didn't know how you take it now, so I got it the way you used to. Vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam."

I stared at him. "You remember that?"

"From the videos. You ordered it every morning at that café near our—near the house."

The fact that he'd paid attention to that detail did something to my chest.

"Thank you." I took the coffee. "Let me grab my bag."

The drive started quiet. Damien drove carefully, following the speed limit exactly. Nothing like the old Damien who'd driven like every road was a racetrack.

"You drive differently," I said.

"The accident made me cautious. Dr. Reeves says it's actually healthy that I'm more aware of consequences now."

"You talk about your therapist a lot."

"She's helping me understand things. Like why I made work my identity. Why I needed my mother's approval so badly." He glanced at me. "I'm learning that Victoria was narcissistic. Textbook case, apparently."

"I could have told you that."

"You tried. I didn't listen."

We fell into silence again. Not uncomfortable, just careful.

"Can I ask you something?" Damien said as we merged onto the highway.

"Sure."

"In the letters you wrote. The ones Victoria kept. You mentioned wanting to leave twice but staying because you thought I'd change." He kept his eyes on the road. "Why did you stay so long?"

The question hurt. "Because I loved you. And because leaving felt like giving up. Like I'd failed."

"You didn't fail. I did."

"We both failed. I should have left sooner. Should have demanded better instead of hoping you'd magically wake up and see me."

"When did you stop hoping?"

"The fourth anniversary. You didn't even come home that night. Didn't call. I waited up until three AM and realized I was waiting for someone who was never going to show up."

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But sorry doesn't give me those years back."

"No. It doesn't."

We drove in silence for a while. I watched the trees blur past, trying not to think about all the road trips we'd never taken when we were married.

"Tell me about the gallery," Damien said eventually. "How did you start it?"

"Marcus helped. He co-signed the loan when no bank would give me one alone. Said he believed in my vision even when I didn't believe in myself."

"He's a good friend."

"The best. He kept me alive after the divorce." I looked at Damien. "I know you had him investigated."

"I did. I'm not proud of it."

"Why?"

"Because I was jealous. Watching videos of you two together, seeing how he made you laugh, how comfortable you were with him." He shook his head. "I convinced myself you'd moved on. That maybe you'd been having an affair during our marriage."

"I would never cheat."

"I know that now. But at the time, I was looking for reasons to justify why you left. Easier to blame you than face what I'd done."

"At least you're honest about it."

"Dr. Reeves says honesty is the only way forward."

"You really trust this therapist."

"She's the first person who's made me understand that my childhood wasn't normal. That having a mother who made love conditional messed me up." He changed lanes smoothly. "Did I ever talk about my father? In our marriage?"

"Barely. You said he died when you were twelve. Heart attack."

"I've been having dreams about him. Just fragments. But in them, he's telling Victoria to stop pushing me so hard. To let me be a kid." Damien's voice was quiet. "I asked James about it. He said my father used to fight with Victoria constantly about how she raised me. Then he died and she had complete control."

"That must have been hard."

"I don't remember it being hard. I just remember wanting to make her proud. To be the son she needed after losing him." He glanced at me. "Dr. Reeves thinks I transferred that need for approval onto work. That I was still trying to prove myself to a ghost."

"And now?"

"Now I'm trying to figure out who I am without that need. It's terrifying."

We stopped for gas an hour into the drive. I went inside for snacks while Damien filled the tank. When I came out, he was on the phone, his expression tense.

"—don't care what the board thinks. I'm not changing my mind about this." He saw me and his expression shifted. "I have to go. Email me the details."

He hung up.

"Everything okay?"

"Victoria's trying to get reinstated to the board. She's claiming I'm not mentally competent to make decisions because of the amnesia."

"Can she do that?"

"She can try. My lawyers are handling it." He took the bag of snacks from me. "Sour gummy worms?"

"They're my favorite."

"I know. You kept a bag in your purse. I saw it in one of the videos."

The fact that he was paying attention to these small details made my chest ache.

We got back in the car. Damien opened the gummy worms and offered me the bag.

"Can I tell you something?" I said.

"Of course."

"I'm scared. Of this. Of you being different. Of letting myself hope again."

He was quiet for a moment. "I'm scared too. I'm scared my memory will come back and I'll become that person again. I'm scared I'll hurt you worse than before."

"Then why are we doing this?"

"Because maybe we need closure. Maybe we need to understand what happened so we can both move forward."

"Forward separately?"

"If that's what you need. Yes."

I looked at him. "What do you need?"

"Honestly? I need to know I can be better. That I'm not doomed to repeat the same patterns." He met my eyes briefly before focusing back on the road. "And I need you to be happy. Even if it's not with me."

The sincerity in his voice broke something in me.

"Portland's still two hours away," I said quietly. "Tell me about therapy. What else are you learning?"

And he did. We talked about his sessions, about the patterns he was recognizing, about how hard it was to break habits he didn't even know he had. It was the most honest conversation we'd ever had.

I just wished it hadn't taken divorce and amnesia to get here.