Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Damian

Richard’s study smelled the same way it always had. Leather and old money and something faintly bitter underneath, like resentment had a scent of its own.

He didn’t stand when I walked in. He rarely did anymore, some silent statement about who still held power in this family, even at seventy-two, even with half his empire already resting in my hands.

“You look well,” he said, not looking up from his desk. “Marriage agrees with you.”

“It does.”

“Interesting.” He finally glanced up. “I hear there’s to be a second ceremony.”

“There is.”

“Extravagant, for something already legally settled.”

“It’s not about legality.” I sat across from him, refusing to let his tone provoke me the way it always tried to. “It’s about Harper. About wanting something real, not just something necessary.”

Richard’s mouth curved, thin and unimpressed. “Sentiment. From you.”

“People change.”

“People weaken,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

I’d heard this speech before, in various forms, for most of my adult life. Emotion as weakness. Love as liability. It was the same philosophy that had driven my mother to spend her final years lonely in a house full of people who never once made her feel wanted.

“I didn’t come here to debate philosophy with you,” I said. “You asked for a meeting.”

“I did.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I want to discuss the prenuptial arrangement.”

“There isn’t one to discuss. It’s already signed.”

“It can be revised.”

“It won’t be.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your wife stands to inherit a significant portion of this family’s assets should anything happen to you. Have you considered what that means, long term?”

“I’ve considered everything, Richard. That’s the difference between us. I actually think about the people involved, not just the numbers.”

“The numbers protect the family.”

“The numbers protected you,” I said. “They never protected Mother. They never protected anyone who actually needed protecting.”

Something flickered across his face, quick and controlled, gone before I could name it entirely. Maybe guilt. Maybe irritation at being reminded of things he preferred forgotten. With Richard, it was difficult to tell the difference anymore.

“I won’t apologize for wanting this family secure,” he said finally.

“I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m asking you to accept that Harper isn’t a threat to this family’s security. She’s part of it now.”

“For how long?”

The question landed harder than he probably intended. Or maybe exactly as hard as he intended. With Richard, cruelty was rarely accidental.

“Indefinitely,” I said, standing. “This conversation is over.”

He didn’t stop me as I left. He rarely did. Richard preferred planting doubt and letting it grow on its own, rather than fighting battles directly. It was, I supposed, the family talent. Victoria had inherited it. I’d spent most of my life trying not to.

Harper was waiting in the hallway when I returned home, curled into the window seat with a book she clearly wasn’t reading, if the same page sitting open for the past ten minutes was any indication.

“How bad?” she asked, setting the book aside.

“Predictable.”

“That bad.”

I sat beside her, exhaustion settling into my shoulders now that the performance of composure wasn’t required anymore. “He wants to revise the prenup.”

“Because he thinks I’m after your money.”

“Because he thinks everyone is after something,” I corrected. “It’s not personal. It’s just how he sees the world.”

“It feels personal.”

“I know.” I reached for her hand, the gesture becoming more natural each time I did it, less like something I was choosing and more like something I simply did now, without thought. “I told him it wasn’t happening.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Harper studied me for a long moment, something thoughtful crossing her face. “You didn’t have to defend me so quickly.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my wife,” I said simply. “Defending you isn’t a decision I have to make every time. It’s just what I do now.”

Something shifted in her expression, soft and unguarded in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. I’d noticed it happening more often lately — small moments where the walls she’d built over years came down just slightly, just long enough for me to see what waited underneath.

“I used to think this family would never accept me,” she said quietly. “Now I just think some of them won’t, and I’ve made peace with that.”

“Richard included.”

“Richard especially.” She smiled faintly. “But you did. Lily did. That’s enough.”

“It should be more than enough.”

“It is,” she said. “I just meant—” She paused, searching for words. “I didn’t expect to find enough here. I came looking for revenge, remember? I wasn’t exactly expecting a family.”

“And now?”

“Now I have one. A strange one. A complicated one. But mine.”

I looked at her for a long moment, something warm and steady settling in my chest, the same feeling I’d first noticed on the beach and hadn’t managed to shake since. I wasn’t ready to name it fully. Neither was she, I suspected. But it sat between us anyway, patient and unhurried, waiting for the right moment to be spoken aloud.

“Lily’s been drafting a seating chart,” I said instead, deciding levity suited the evening better than heaviness. “She’s placed Richard at what she calls ‘the boring table.’”

Harper laughed, surprised and delighted. “She didn’t.”

“She did. Right next to Victoria.”

“That’s either very smart or very dangerous.”

“Possibly both.”

“I love that child,” Harper said, still laughing. “Completely and entirely.”

“She loves you too.”

Harper’s smile softened at that, something vulnerable passing behind her eyes. “I never thought I’d hear that and believe it. Not from a Blackwood.”

“Believe it,” I said. “All of us.”

She didn’t respond right away, just looked at me for a long moment, something quiet and searching in her expression. Whatever she was looking for, I hoped she found it. I hoped, more than anything, that she recognized it was already there, waiting, the same way it had been for longer than either of us had been willing to admit.

“Slow,” she reminded me eventually, echoing the word from days before.

“Slow,” I agreed.

Outside, the city hummed quietly beyond the windows, indifferent to Richard’s schemes and Victoria’s letters and everything else waiting to complicate the peace we’d built. But inside, for tonight at least, none of it mattered.