MasukHe looked so…different.
It was expected. Seven years was a long time, but it was shocking to see.
He was taller, broader, and his eyes seemed to bore into my soul. But it was his expression that shocked me the most.
“I…” A lump formed in my throat I couldn't get rid of. What on earth could I possibly say?
“Damian-”
“Look who's here? The Landon heiress. Although can you really call yourself that anymore?”
It felt like I'd been struck. I blinked, trying to process his words. Disbelief flooded me as I looked at him.
His eyes were cold and hard. He looked at me with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, his gaze piercing through me like a knife.
There were so many times I'd imagined meeting him again, but never had I expected him to be so harsh, so unfeeling.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, fighting my emotions back. I needed to address what happened earlier, why he had taken my family's company. But before that there was so much I needed to say, starting with the truth of why I left.
“You need to talk?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain that made me flinch. A smirk grew in his face,
“I don't have time to listen to someone like you. There are better things to deal with than those below me.”
It was like a punch to the gut.
As I looked at him, there was no pain or emotion in his eyes. Just like that he'd shattered the hopes I had.
I'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he still had feelings for me. But I know now that that was just a foolish dream.
“Damien?” A second voice called out, I looked behind him and it was like a knife to my heart.
A blonde woman emerged from his office wearing a silky green dress. She latched onto Damien intimately, her hands wrapping around his arm. He didn't push her off, merely replicated the gesture. That was when I noticed the ring on her hand, matching his.
I recognized her. Lisa Davis, the daughter of a new money socialite. I could recall how my father laughed about them, how her father was desperate for alliances with big companies. The last I'd heard,
She was recently engaged. Now it was clear I knew who she was engaged to.
“Let's go,” Damien said, pulling her close to him, before smiling at her. It only served to twist the knife further.
I was frozen in place as he led her away without sparing a glance in my direction. Tears bit my eyes against the florescent lights with only one thought in mind.
Too late.
….
I made my way home, still reeling with thoughts of Damien and Lisa. Earlier before, my mother had given me directions to what was supposed to be our new home. They'd moved into it in our absence as my mother bitterly complained about. They'd lost everything, it seemed, except for this tiny house they'd bought on a whim.
When I arrived, I found that said home was small. Entering inside I was immediately crowded by their expectant stares after I'd told her during the call of where I'd gone.
“Well, did you talk to him?” my mother asked, her eyes eager. "What did he say?"
The memory sent a pang through me. I shut my eyes tightly.
“He didn't say anything, Mother. He didn't even bother talking to me.”
The place seemed to turn silent, with tension so thick it could be cut. When I opened them again, I found that my father's face turned red with anger.
“What do you mean he didn't bother talking to you? You're his... he's supposed to be familiar with you.”
“That means nothing to him. Not anymore. He's made that very clear.” I said, a pang ran through my chest at the reminder.
The closeness he had with her. The cold way he looked at me. Full of cruelty…hatred.
He hated me. This must have been twisted revenge for him for back then. He thought I'd abandoned him.
And it was too late. He was with someone else and everything was gone.
“So he's taken everything and you couldn't even convince him?” My mother cried out, her expression turning ugly,
“You should have used your past relationship to pressure him. If you'd just tried harder to convince him…How could he be so cruel?”
"How could he care about this family after what you did?” I bursted out, all my anger, my heartbreak boiling over.
“You're the ones who shattered the relationship between us. You're the ones who forced me to leave him behind. You made me break his heart.”
And in turn, they also broke mine.
My parents were taken aback by my outburst, but they quickly recovered.
“We did it for your own good,” my father said, his voice cold. "We did it to secure your future."
I laughed, bitterness filling me.
“Secure my future? You didn't do it for me mom, dad, you did it for yourself and for what? We've lost everything.” I said
The silence that followed was tense and uncomfortable. I knew I'd spoken the truth, but it didn't make the situation any easier to bear.
I stormed out, entering the small hall until I found my new room filled with all my belongings before slamming the door behind me.
Laying on my bed, I closed my eyes, memories of him filling me. The way he used to smile at me, the way he used to hold my hand…
The way he'd looked at me today, with such coldness and disdain.
Tears streamed down my face.
I still loved him. I loved him despite the years that passed and I still loved him now despite what he'd done to my family and I, despite the words he'd said.
I loved him and it was too late.
I cried myself to sleep, feeling like a living ghost.
…
Weeks passed and nothing was ever the same.
Everything had changed now that my family had been cast out and shamed. In a flash all of the connections, the friends and partners had cast them away leaving us with nothing. We were humiliated, and the only person who was still standing was me. The only stable thing I had left was my job.
But even that wasn't enough to distract me from thoughts of Damien. He'd moved on, gotten his twisted revenge, and yet I was still stuck in the past, still in love with him.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even notice the Director standing in front of me until he cleared his throat.
“Mr Coleman,” I rushed out, anxiety filling me.
"Follow me Miss Landon,” he asked, his voice firm but polite.
I nodded, anxiety filling me. As I followed him, my heart pounded in my chest.
I'd tried my best to focus on work despite the mounting stress. Had I slipped up? Was it about his son?
As he led me into his office, I stepped in without question only to stiffen at the sight.
Standing in the middle of his office, I was face to face with Damien again.
DAMIENHe confronted Grace on a Wednesday afternoon, which was not how the legal team had advised him to proceed but was, he had decided after considerable reflection, the right thing to do before any formal process began.The legal team had recommended proceeding directly to formal notice. There were good reasons for this: it preserved the evidentiary record, it prevented any attempt to destroy remaining documentation, and it established the correct professional distance between the breach and the remedy. Damien understood all of these reasons and had given them the weight they deserved.He had then called Grace and asked her to come to his office, which was not the formal notice.She arrived at three o'clock, which told him she had not been expecting the call to be what it was. If she had known what was coming, she would have had legal representation with her or would not have come at all. She came alone, composed, with the professional bearing of someone who expected a routine meet
MIRAHe showed me the email he had sent to his legal team on a Monday morning, which was unusual. Damien did not typically share his professional correspondence, not from secrecy but from the same instinct that led him to manage problems until they were resolved rather than sharing them in progress. He believed, and had told me so, that presenting people with half-finished situations required them to carry weight that was not yet theirs to carry, and that this was a form of imposition he preferred to avoid.Which was why showing me the email mattered.We were in the study. He had been at his desk when I arrived, and he had looked up when I came in with the expression that had become, over the months, his expression for me specifically: a particular quality of attention, slightly less composed than his default, that I had come to understand was not the lowering of his guard but the absence of the need for it.He turned the screen toward me without preamble.The email was long. It was
MIRAPetra said: burn her to the ground.She said it across the break room table on a Friday morning with the cheerful precision of someone who had been waiting for an occasion to say it and was pleased the occasion had finally arrived. She had her coffee in both hands and her elbows on the table and the expression she wore when she had reached a conclusion she considered both morally satisfying and practically sound."I am not going to burn anyone to the ground," I said."I know you are not," she said. "But I want it on record that the option exists and that I personally endorse it.""Noted," I said. "It is on record."I had told her about the email and about Grace and about the confidentiality breach the legal team was now assessing. I had told her, also, about the recording device I had found months ago and never fully resolved, and about the accumulated pattern of small leaks and precisely targeted information that now made a coherent and uncomfortable picture when arranged in se
MIRAI found the email by accident, which was the second time in the course of this story that I had found something significant by accident, and I was beginning to understand that accidents of this kind were not entirely accidental. They were what happened when you were paying close attention to a situation and the situation contained more than its surface suggested.It was a Thursday. I had been at the mansion for a late afternoon check with Mr Davis, which had run longer than usual because he had wanted to discuss an adjustment to his walking schedule now that the worst of the winter had passed, and the discussion had extended into the kind of territory that Mr Davis reserved for when he had something oblique to communicate and was approaching it through the available practical material.He had eventually said, in the manner of a man who has reached the actual point after a sufficient period of preparation: "Damien has been under more strain than he is showing. The investigation.
MIRAI heard about Lisa's ultimatum from Mr Davis, who heard about it from the housekeeper, who had heard it directly and involuntarily through the wall of the upstairs sitting room on a Tuesday afternoon when Lisa arrived without notice and the conversation that followed had carried in the specific way of conversations conducted at elevated volume in rooms with inadequate soundproofing.Mr Davis relayed it to me with the considered precision of a man who had assessed the information, determined it was relevant to my understanding of the situation, and decided delivery was warranted. He did this while I was wrapping up his morning check, in the tone he used for things he considered important enough to name but not important enough to perform about."Lisa came yesterday," he said. "She wants a formal statement. From Damien. About the two of you. She believes that the absence of any public acknowledgment is damaging to her reputation and that it implies she was left for someone who the
DAMIENThere was a moment, three years after she left, when he had almost called her.He had been twenty-one. He was working two jobs and studying at night and living in a flat that was very small and very cold and that smelled of the takeaway from the ground-floor restaurant below in a way that had initially been unpleasant and had eventually, through sheer repetition, become simply the smell of the place he lived. He was tired in the way of someone who had been running at full capacity for so long that tiredness had stopped being a distinct state and had become instead a kind of texture, the constant background condition of everything.He had found her number through a mutual acquaintance. He had not asked directly; he had simply registered, in the way that he had always registered things he considered potentially important, the passing mention of a contact who had the contact he needed. He had written the number on a piece of paper and put the piece of paper in his wallet, and th







