Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Damien Cross jolted awake to the familiar sensation of phantom pain shooting through legs that could no longer feel. 

But it wasn't the physical pain that made him gasp and clutch at the silk sheets. It was the crushing weight of memory flooding back like a dam bursting, memories of another life, where he had died by the hands of Marcus Whitmore.

Three years. He had lived three additional years beyond this moment, years filled with trying to get back his revenge on e everyone who had betrayed him, only to die choking on his own blood while Marcus Whitmore's satisfied laughter echoed in his ears. The taste of poison still lingered on his tongue, the phantom sensation as real as the phantom pain in his useless legs.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty finally decides to rejoin the living."

Damien's head snapped toward the familiar voice, and his breath caught. Derek Hale lounged in the leather armchair beside the window, his dark hair falling carelessly across his forehead as he scrolled through his phone with indifference. He looked exactly as he had three years ago—young, cocky, with that trademark smirk that had once driven Damien to distraction.

In his previous life, Damien had found Derek's attitude insufferable. The constant sarcasm, the way he seemed to take perverse pleasure in needling Damien when he was at his lowest, the apparent disdain for their friendship that had once meant everything to both of them. It wasn't until Derek lay dying in that warehouse, Marcus's bullet in his chest, that Damien had finally understood the truth.

Derek had been protecting him the only way he knew how—by making himself appear worthless, unimportant, not worth Marcus's attention. Every cruel joke, every dismissive comment, every moment of apparent indifference had been an act designed to keep himself off Marcus's radar so he could continue watching Damien's back.

"You've been staring at me for five minutes, Cross. Starting to think that accident scrambled your brains worse than we thought." Derek didn't look up from his phone, but Damien caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the device just a little too tightly.

In his previous life, Damien would have snapped back, would have let his frustration and pain fuel another argument that would drive Derek further away. This time, he simply studied his oldest friend's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights spent worrying, the way Derek's jaw clenched when he thought no one was looking.

"Just thinking," Damien said quietly, his voice rough from sleep.

Derek finally glanced up, and for just a moment, genuine concern flickered in his dark eyes before the mask of indifference slipped back into place. 

"Dangerous habit. Your parents will be back soon, by the way. They've been running around like headless chickens all morning, muttering about preparations and arrangements."

"Preparations for what?" Though even as Damien asked, he had a sinking suspicion he already knew.

"Your wedding, apparently." Derek's tone was carefully neutral, but Damien caught the slight tightening around his eyes. 

"Congratulations, by the way. Nothing says 'romantic' like finding out your bride-to-be from your parents instead of, you know, actually meeting her first."

The wedding. Of course. In his previous life, this had been the day he learned he would be married in two days' time to some gold-digging socialite who would inevitably get cold feet and leave him humiliated at the altar. He had assumed it would be one of the usual suspects that he had the unfortunate chance of meeting—women who were initially attracted to his wealth and what they would gain but quickly lost interest when faced with the reality of his disability and the fact that she would be reduced to nothing less than a caregiver.

"You don't seem surprised," Derek observed, his phone forgotten as he leaned forward slightly. "Most people might have a reaction to finding out they're getting married in forty-eight hours."

"Would it change anything if I did?" Damien maneuvered himself into his wheelchair with the practiced ease of three years' experience, ignoring Derek's automatic move to help him before he would fall off.

 "Whoever she is, she'll take one look at the chair and find an excuse to run. They always do."

Derek's expression darkened hearing this as he gritted his teeth. "Maybe if you didn't go into every interaction expecting the worst—"

"I'd what? Be disappointed when it happens anyway?" Damien wheeled himself toward the window, looking out at the gardens that had once been his refuge. "At least this way, I'm prepared."

The sound of car doors slamming in the driveway interrupted their conversation. Through the window, Damien could see his parents emerging from their silver Mercedes, their faces bright with an excitement he hadn't seen in years.

 Helena Cross practically bounced on her toes as she spoke animatedly to her husband, who was nodding and smiling with genuine warmth.

"They look happy," Derek commented, moving to stand behind Damien's chair. "Happier than I've seen them since..."

"Since the accident," Damien finished. In his previous life, his parents had grown increasingly desperate to see him settled, to find someone who could look past his disabilities and love him for who he was beneath them. Their joy at each potential bride had been painful to watch, especially when it inevitably turned to disappointment.

"Come on," Derek said, his hands settling on the handles of Damien's wheelchair without asking permission. "Let's go face the firing squad."

As Derek pushed him toward the elevator that would take them to the main floor, Damien found himself studying his friend's reflection in the polished metal doors. In his previous life, he had pushed Derek away, believing Marcus's whispered poison about Derek's motivations and loyalty. He had been so consumed by his own pain and bitterness that he had failed to see what was right in front of him—Derek's unwavering devotion disguised as indifference.

This time would be different. No matter what games Derek felt he needed to play, no matter how much he pushed or provoked, Damien would not let him go. 

The elevator opened directly into the grand foyer, where Helena and Edmund Cross waited with barely contained excitement. Helena rushed forward the moment she saw them, her face glowing with maternal joy.

"Damien, darling! Oh, you're not going to believe it. The most wonderful thing has happened." She knelt beside his wheelchair, taking his hands in hers with a warmth that made his chest tight. 

"In two days, you're going to be married to the most lovely girl. She specifically chose you, sweetheart. Out of three suitors, she chose you."

Edmund cleared his throat, his own smile broad and genuine. "We can't tell you who she is—she's requested it remain a surprise until the ceremony. But Damien, son, she was so gracious, so certain. There was no hesitation, no doubt. She wants to marry you."

Derek snorted softly. "How romantic. Mystery bride roulette."

"Derek," Helena chided gently, though her tone held more affection than reprimand. "Don't be such a cynic. This is wonderful news."

"If you say so, Mrs. C." Derek's voice carried that familiar note of skepticism that had once driven Damien crazy. Now, he recognized it for what it was—Derek's way of protecting both of them from disappointment.

Damien squeezed his mother's hands, forcing a smile that felt more genuine than he had expected. "I'm happy if you're happy, Mother. Though I hope you'll forgive me if I don't get my hopes up too high."

"Oh, darling." Helena's eyes misted with tears. "I know you've been hurt before, but I have such a good feeling about this one. She looked me in the eye when she made her choice, and there was something... different about her. Determined. Like she knew exactly what she was doing."

"Now," Edmund said, clapping his hands together, "we need to get you fitted for your wedding attire. Derek, you'll accompany him, won't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Derek replied dryly. "Nothing I love more than watching Damien get poked and prodded by tailors."

As they prepared to leave for the fitting, for the wedding that would soon turn out to be one of the most embarrassing events in his life, Damien found himself remembering this day from his previous life. 

He had gone through the motions of preparation, unable to hurt his parent's excitement  with grim resignation, expecting nothing but humiliation. 

And he had received in full when they encountered Marcus, Gwen, and Sadie at the bridal boutique next door. Those three hadn't bothered to spare him of his wounded feelings.

The memory of their laughter still burned in his memory like something he couldn't quite shake off.

Marcus's condescending remarks about "playing dress-up," Gwen's fake sympathy that did not mask her amusement, and Sadie's horrified expression when she realized the "cripple" was actually getting married.

Derek had tried to intervene, his usual sarcasm turning sharp and protective, standing in for Damien, only to be silenced by Marcus's subtle threat about Derek's mother's employment, but Damien was too mad enough to pick up on the threat back then.

This time, Damien was prepared for the encounter. He knew exactly what they would say, how they would try to hurt him, and how Derek would struggle between protecting him and protecting his mother, this was the moment, that their relationship started souring off too badly, before they remained estranged and finally Derek would die, trying to save him.

As Derek wheeled him out to the car, Damien caught his friend's eye in the side mirror  as he placed a hand on his, to get his attention before speaking. 

"Derek, whatever happens today, whatever anyone says or does—don't intervene. No matter how much you want to."

Derek's hands stilled on the wheelchair handles, shocked to hear this coming from Damien's mouth and looking confused as well.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just promise me. Please."

For a long moment, Derek was silent. Then he sighed, the sound heavy with reluctance. "You're being weird, Cross. Weirder than usual. But fine. I promise to keep my mouth shut and let you handle whatever's coming."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't heard how much I'm going to complain about it later."