Chapter 9: The Audacity Of Her

~Damien's POV~

"It's good to have you back, Damien," said Greg, the CFO, nodding stiffly, like expressing any emotion physically pained him.

A quiet murmur of agreement followed around the boardroom.

"That's true," Levinson, Head of Legal, added. "We haven't seen you in years. And now, with Mr. Herman gone… the company needs a figurehead. A real one."

That name.

Herman.

The room might as well have gone silent. I felt the immediate twist, right in my chest.

The man who saved me from the edge. Literally. I'd been seventeen and seconds from throwing myself off a bridge when he found me—ripped me back from the ledge, not with kindness, but with brutal honesty that cut deeper than any knife.

"You want to die over a girl who laughed at you? Pathetic."

He didn't sugarcoat things. He didn't offer comfort. He offered purpose. And I took it.

Now he was gone. Dead. Buried. And with him, the only man who ever gave a damn when it mattered.

Not even Bianca had.

Especially not her.

My eyes swept across the table—polished mahogany, monitors, curated portfolios. Every piece of Sinclair Industries was mine now. Herman left it all to me. The shares, the signature. The throne.

And I'd wear the crown the way he taught me to—ruthlessly.

"Thank you," I said evenly in a controlled voice. "You were my father's most trusted men. I intend to lead with the same precision he expected. So, give me everything. No filters."

They began speaking in turns, detailing company growth, projections, quarterly declines, legal overhauls. I nodded, asked a few questions. But my mind wandered.

Until raised voices came from outside, escalating into shouting. The board fell silent as the double doors burst open. And there she was.

Bianca Calloway—now Hayes—stood framed in the doorway like a hallucination made flesh. Pale. Wild-eyed. Her chestnut hair was pulled back too tightly, and she wore something plain, borderline matronly—definitely off the rack. A woman who once dripped money now looked like she'd pawned half her closet for gas money.

And yet… she was still stunning. Of course she was. The kind of stunning that made your jaw lock on instinct.

Seconds behind her, Marcus and Tim, the two front security guards, stumbled in, panting.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair!" Tim gasped. "She said she knew you—when we tried to stop her, she—she literally kicked Marcus—"

"Right in the nuts," Marcus groaned, doubled over with a hand between his legs.

Greg stood, fuming. "You let a woman storm in? This is Sinclair HQ, not a bloody Starbucks!"

I didn't make a move or blink.

Her green eyes were locked on mine—wild, pleading, as if I were her last lifeline.

Backup security pushed into the room. One even grabbed her by the arm.

"I said I need to speak to him!" she yelled, voice ragged. "Damien, please—just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

I could've let them drag her out.

And I should have.

But watching her unravel in front of me? The same girl who watched her boyfriend dump red punch all over me at prom while she laughed—laughing as I stood there in a cheap tux, broken glasses, bleeding pride?

Yeah. This felt… poetic.

"Let her go," I said, making the room freeze.

"What?" sputtered Greg.

"You heard me." I met his stare coldly. "Let her go. And get out. All of you."

Silence.

"You're dismissing the board? For her?" Levinson snapped, incredulous.

I turned my gaze to him, slow and lethal. He stood without another word.

Papers rustled. Chairs scraped back. One or two members muttered under their breath—something about "another PR disaster" or "Sinclair sentimentality"—but no one dared linger.

When the doors finally clicked shut, I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands.

"Please, Mrs. Hayes," I said smoothly. "Have a seat. To what do I owe the honor of this… dramatic entrance?"

She sat slowly, posture tight with nerves. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of the chair.

"I know I'm the last person you want to see," she said softly. "But I didn't have a choice. I'm desperate."

She wasn't lying. That much was clear.

"You're Bianca Calloway," I said dryly. "Daughter of a media tycoon. Married to the charming, wildly manipulative Nathan Hayes. Desperate is new for you."

She flinched. Then, "My father's dead."

I didn't speak. Just waited.

"Everything's gone. The estate, the company, his will… Nathan has control of it all. Somehow, he got to the lawyers. I don't have proof yet, but I know he had him killed."

My brows lifted slightly. Now that was unexpected.

"Interesting accusation." I leaned forward. "Do you have evidence, or just a flair for melodrama?"

She hesitated. "No evidence. Just… my gut."

I laughed. Loud and bitter.

"Your gut?" I repeated. "So you married a snake, lost your fortune, and now your gut tells you he's a killer. You do realize how this sounds?"

She stiffened. "I came to you because you are the only one that can help me."

I lifted my head. "What do you want?"

"Pressure him. Use your influence. Dig into his company. Get his attention. Just enough to make him nervous. I'll handle the rest."

I stared.

Was she really asking me to weaponize Sinclair Industries against her husband?

"You're unbelievable," I muttered. "You barge into my company, injure my staff, hijack a board meeting… and you think I'll just help you?"

Her lips parted, speechless.

I leaned forward, voice dropping coldly. "Tell me, little Bianca. What exactly do I get out of this?"

"I-I didn't come here with any demands—"

"No? Then let me guess. You thought I'd help out of what—pity? Nostalgia?"

She looked lost. Hollow. Like she hadn't thought that far ahead.

I laughed again, this time quieter.

"You always were the queen of assumptions," I said. "But here's your reality check: I'm not a heartbroken nerd in a rented tux anymore. I'm the man who decides who wins and who disappears."

She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze dropped to the table.

Pushing my chair back slowly, the leather creaked beneath the movement as I stood. I'd heard enough.

"Get out," I said flatly.

Her head snapped up.

"You got five minutes," I added, tapping my watch. "You've wasted four."

I was already turning away, ready to walk, when her voice came again quietly, but so sharp it cleaved through the room.

"I'll give you me."