Chapter 4- A theft

Damien's pov

I can’t get the look on her face out of my mind. Am I that terrible? I tell her to take the day off and she looks at me like I just reversed a death sentence. Like she couldn’t believe that kind of mercy could come from me.

I shake off the thought. I have other things that need my attention. Bigger things. My hand tightens around the wheel when I remember my conversation with Harold last night.

“Fuck.” The word comes out loud and it echoes in the car. I don’t care. My windows are tinted dark and the soundproofing makes it even better. It’s fine. I’m fine.

But I’m not.

The frustration keeps climbing until I can’t sit still. I need a distraction, something to ground me before I explode. So I call Miles. We meet at the lounge. One of our usual places. A hot blonde in a black dress leads me to the back where Miles is already seated. Her smile is professional but her eyes linger a second too long. Her heels click softly on the marble floor as she walks away and I don’t look back.

Miles looks like he stepped out of a magazine cover. He always does. His tie is loosened, his jacket draped over the booth beside him, a glass of whiskey resting near his hand. He has that boyish charm that makes people trust him without question. The kind of face that could talk you into anything. His jawline isn’t sharp, not like Ethan’s, but there’s something dangerously calm about him. He’s got this killer composure. You never really know what’s going on in his head, but you feel like he knows everything going on in yours.

Ethan, on the other hand, is the golden boy. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect life. He barely works but somehow gets all the credit. He was born with the kind of beauty that draws light to him. He doesn’t chase success. It walks to him. Miles had to work for everything he has. He clawed his way up from nothing and he still carries that quiet fire in his eyes.

When I slide into the booth across from him, Miles gives me that small knowing look, the one that says he already knows why I’m here. “You look like shit,” he says casually, and I almost laugh.

“Good to see you too.”

He smirks, leaning back. “Let me guess. Harold?”

I nod. “He’s on my neck again. I assume you know what he said to me when I walked into his office last night.”

Miles exhales, his expression shifted into something tired. “You know he doesn’t bluff, right?”

“I know,” I say, picking up the menu even though I already know what I’ll order. “He’s threatening my entire existence Miles. He wants me to have a family or he'll hand the company over to you. He'll make things official if I don’t make a move soon.”

Miles studies me for a while. He obviously feels terrible that my grandfather would put him in the middle of all this, “What he’s proposing isn’t the end of the world, you know. Marriage could actually make you look stable. Settled.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You think I should get married to someone I don’t love.”

He chuckles. “Love isn’t in the cards for you, my friend. You’re not built for it. So pick a girl and get it done.”

I stare at him for a long moment before I sigh. “You remember Ibiza?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I remember I

Ibiza, Damien. How could I forget?” he stares upward like his reminiscing, then laughs again.

Then I lean forward. “We’ve started the audit. Preparing for the contract.”

Miles nods, instantly serious again. “Good. You’re still confident you’ll get it? You are one cocky mothefucker Damien!”

“Of course.”

He gives me a look, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Remember, you’re not the only one in the running. You need to increase your chances, Damien. The other guy, Halden, he’s a boy scout. Wife, kids, community work. There was even some ridiculous competition about him being the most devoted husband or something. People love him.”

I scoff. “Good for him.”

Miles shrugs. “Maybe be a little more lovable. Wouldn’t hurt.”

That makes me pause. “Do you think I’m too detached from human connection?" I make air quotes around the words as I ask the question. If there's anyone who'll tell me the truth, it's Miles.

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls the whiskey in his glass and says softly, “You want the truth, man? Yeah. You are. But I get it. After what you’ve been through, it makes sense.”

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. He’s talking about the fact my parents were killed in front of me. Everyone says it was a home invasion, but I was there that night. Those guys didn't look like they were there for money.

I shrugged my shoulder. It didn't matter anyway, it was a long time ago.

I don’t like to think about it. So I don’t.

Miles and I end up talking longer than I planned. What started as a quick meeting stretches into hours, the kind of easy, back-and-forth rhythm that only happens when neither of you really wants to get back to work yet. We talk about everything—contracts, projections, stupid jokes about the new intern who keeps spilling coffee on the copier. Somewhere in between, Miles leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and gives me that look he saves for when he’s about to say something I won’t like.

“You know,” he says, “if you’re serious about this whole image cleanup thing, you should start auditioning for the role of Mrs. Blackwood. Someone who can survive you.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s grinning, already pulling up a list of names on his tablet like he’s been planning this for weeks. It’s ridiculous, but the idea doesn’t sound as insane as it should. The board wants stability, the press wants a headline, and I could use something to distract me from the rest of the chaos. So I nod, half amused, half tired. “Fine,” I tell him. “Line them up.”

We finish our drinks, still laughing about it, and when I finally leave, the city feels quieter than usual. My driver talks about the weather, the stock market, traffic—I barely hear him. By the time I get home, the silence feels heavier. I take a shower, try to work out, try to get rid of the tension that’s been crawling under my skin all day. It doesn’t work.

Sometime after midnight, I check my phone. An unread message from finance blinks at the top of my screen. A new report. I open it without thinking, then stop. There’s a transaction I don’t recognize. A payment that doesn’t belong. I frown, scroll through the details again, and set the phone down. Probably a mistake, I tell myself. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Except I don’t really sleep. I toss, I turn, I stare at the ceiling until the sky starts to lighten. When my phone vibrates again, I’m already awake. It’s another message—this time from Accounting and Finance together.

During the audit, they found something strange. A bill that’s been duplicated. Two almost identical invoices, same numbers, different amount, and different accounts.

The uneasy feeling from last night creeps in again. Someone was stealing from me. That had never happened before.

And what's worse, they thought they were smart enough to hide it.