Fallout

Damien looked up the moment he heard the sound of his name. His eyes met Natalia’s, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

Camila didn’t notice the tension. She cheerfully licked the spoon and offered a playful grin. “Mami! Look! He says he used to be bad at eating arroz con pollo too!” she giggled, her curls bouncing as she turned toward Damien. “But he’s not anymore.”

Natalia’s jaw clenched. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as her eyes locked onto Damien’s—gray against gray, familiar, and yet completely foreign in this setting. He’s in my home. With my daughter. Laughing.

“What… are you doing here?” she asked, voice tighter now, her fingers tightening around her briefcase.

Damien set the spoon down slowly. He rose from his seat with measured calm, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from his sleeves as he straightened to full height.

“I came to see her,” he said quietly. His tone wasn’t defiant—but it wasn’t apologetic either. “I needed to know. To see for myself.”

“You had no right,” Natalia snapped, stepping forward, her heels striking the hardwood with a sharp click. “You had no right to come here—to her—without my permission.”

Camila’s smile faltered, sensing the sudden shift in energy. She looked between them, confused. “Mami? What’s going on?”

Jonathan moved closer to Natalia, placing a steadying hand on her back. But his eyes stayed on Damien, a silent warning behind them.

Damien’s gaze flicked briefly to Jonathan. He didn’t flinch, but something steeled in his stance.

“I didn’t come to start a fight,” Damien said calmly, “I came to speak to you. But she answered the door. And before I could even say anything… she invited me in.”

Natalia closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the rising storm inside her. “You should’ve left.”

“I couldn’t.” His voice dropped, hoarse now, raw. “I looked at her, Natalia. And I knew. She’s mine.”

Camila blinked. “Wait… what?”

Natalia’s blood turned cold.

“No,” she whispered, reaching for her daughter instinctively. “Camila, go to your room.”

“But—”

“Now, baby,” she said, forcing her voice to soften. “Please.”

Camila hesitated, then slipped off her chair with a confused pout. “Okay.” She grabbed her sketchpad from the table and trudged quietly down the hallway, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Damien—whose eyes never left her.

As soon as the bedroom door shut, Natalia turned on him.

“How dare you,” she hissed, stepping between him and the hallway like a shield. “How dare you come into my home like this. You had no right to expose her to—this—before I was ready.”

“I didn’t tell her,” Damien said, his voice low, almost pleading. “I swear to you, I didn’t say the words. But she already knows, Natalia. She knows something. And so do I. You should’ve told me—ten years ago.”

“I did what I had to do,” she fired back, her eyes blazing now. “You don’t get to play the victim. You made it clear back then that your legacy came first. Your company. Your name. There wasn’t room in your life for mistakes—and in your world, that’s exactly what she would’ve been.”

Damien flinched. The words landed with brutal precision.

“She was never a mistake,” he said quietly. “But maybe I was.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

Jonathan, still standing at Natalia’s side, cleared his throat, his tone clipped. “You’ve made your appearance, Carrington. Now I suggest you leave.”

Damien didn’t respond to Jonathan. His eyes remained on Natalia. “You can hate me. You can fight me in court. But I won’t walk away from her now.”

Natalia stared at him—so many words on the edge of her tongue, none of them safe.

“She’s my daughter,” Damien continued, his voice firm now. “And I will be part of her life. Whether you like it or not.”

Her expression hardened like glass.

“Then get a lawyer,” she said coldly. “Because that’s the only way you’ll ever come near her again.”

Without another word, she turned her back on him.

“Jonathan,” she said stiffly, not looking at either man, “show him out.”

Jonathan didn’t hesitate. “Gladly.”

Damien didn’t resist as Jonathan stepped toward him, guiding him toward the door. He paused briefly in the entryway, turning back one last time.

“She looks at me the way I used to look at you,” he said softly. “Like I was someone worth trusting.”

Natalia froze in place.

“Don’t take that away from her.”

And with that, he stepped outside, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

Natalia stood motionless after the door closed, her back rigid, her fingers clenched around the edge of the console table. She could still hear the faint echo of Camila’s laughter from just minutes ago, but it no longer felt warm. Now, it felt like an aftershock—a ghost of a moment she hadn’t been prepared for.

Jonathan stood beside her, jaw set, his gaze fixed on the now-empty dining room where Damien had just sat. His voice was tight when he finally spoke.

“You knew this was going to happen eventually,” he said, not with accusation, but with quiet restraint. “Didn’t you?”

Natalia’s eyes slowly lifted, their dark depths glossed with a quiet storm. “I didn’t know it would be tonight,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think he’d find her so soon.”

She turned slowly and walked into the dining room. The chair Damien had used was still pulled slightly back from the table, his linen napkin folded neatly beside the half-empty glass of water. The silver spoon he’d used to feed Camila rested in the bowl like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

Natalia’s hand trembled as she reached for the spoon. Her thumb ran over its cool handle—slowly, as if it could tell her something she didn’t already know. Something that would explain why seeing him here, laughing with their daughter, had made something inside her split open.

“I should’ve told him,” she whispered, more to herself than to Jonathan. “Years ago. Before it got this far.”

Jonathan exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. “Maybe. But he doesn’t get to just show up after ten years and act like he’s earned that seat. He hasn’t.” His voice dropped, firmer now. “You’ve raised her. You’ve sacrificed. You built her world—without him.”

“I know.” Natalia swallowed hard. “But she looked at him like she knew him, Jonathan. Like she’d known him forever.”

From the hallway, Camila’s footsteps pattered softly toward the dining room. She appeared, holding a crayon drawing in her hands, her eyes wide with the innocence only a child could still carry.

“Mami,” she said quietly, holding up the paper. “Did I do something wrong? Why did that man leave?”

Natalia knelt in front of her, eyes softening, voice thick. “No, estrella. You didn’t do anything wrong. He just… had to go.”

Camila tilted her head slightly. “Was he mad at me?”

“No, baby,” Natalia said quickly, brushing a hand over her daughter’s curls. “He was never mad at you.”

“Is he my dad?”

The words struck with more precision than any courtroom cross-examination ever had.

Natalia paused, searching her daughter’s face—so much like her own, but the eyes… the eyes were all his. And she realized with aching clarity that she couldn’t run from this anymore. Not from Camila. Not from the truth.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, Camila. That was your dad.”

The little girl blinked, her expression unreadable for a long moment. “I liked him.”

Natalia's throat tightened. “I know.”

Camila looked down at the picture in her hand—a family drawing. A woman. A child. A man added in pencil, just recently sketched in. “Can he come back again?”

Natalia didn’t have an answer.

She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace, holding her like she was the only stable thing left in a world suddenly tilting.

“I don’t know, cariño,” she whispered, her lips pressed against her daughter’s hair. “I just don’t know.”

Jonathan stepped back, his hands in his pockets. He said nothing. But his eyes said enough: he loved them both—but the tide had changed. Damien’s shadow was no longer in the past. It was now walking in the present.

---

Meanwhile, Damien remained standing outside the house for close to five minutes. A sharp gust of wind swept down the quiet street, rustling the trees and tugging at the sleeves of his shirt. The street was nearly silent, save for the distant hum of traffic and the faint chirp of crickets in the nearby bushes.

He paused on the porch.

His hands were clenched at his sides, the anger simmering beneath his skin colliding with regret. It sat heavy on his chest, like wet concrete, dragging down every breath.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes lifting toward the sky.

“Just like her,” he thought. “Just like Natalia.”

He descended the porch steps slowly, each footfall deliberate and heavy, as though every inch of distance from that house cost him something he couldn’t afford to lose. His sleek, black Mercedes-Benz Maybach sat parked by the curb, gleaming under the streetlight like the edge of a blade.

The house behind him still glowed softly. Somewhere inside, his daughter—his daughter—was sitting in a room he couldn’t walk into again. Not tonight. Not after what had just happened.

Damien reached the car, his footsteps muffled by the fallen leaves that had gathered at the edge of the sidewalk. He paused beside the driver’s side door, one hand resting on the roof, the other raking through his thick hair.

His face, usually so unreadable, cracked just slightly. The weight of the evening settled in the lines around his eyes, the crease between his brows deepening.

He leaned against the car for a second longer, staring at his reflection in the tinted window. The man who looked back at him wasn’t the CEO of Carrington Global. Not the billionaire. Not the untouchable corporate powerhouse.

Just a man. A man who had lost too much. And was now, finally, facing the cost of it.

With a sigh, Damien opened the car door. The soft interior lights bathed him in a muted amber glow as he slipped behind the wheel. The door shut with a quiet thunk, sealing him inside the silence.

He sat still for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at the house he had just left behind. His eyes flicked to the second-floor window, where a soft light glowed behind closed curtains.

“Camila,” he whispered her name under his breath like a vow. Like a prayer. Like something he didn’t deserve to say out loud.

Then, with a slow exhale, he pushed the ignition. The engine purred to life, but Damien didn’t drive off right away. Instead, he rested his forehead against the back of his hand on the steering wheel, closing his eyes. Not in defeat.

But in restraint.

Because part of him wanted to turn back. To walk in. To shout. To fight. But another part—the part he rarely listened to—knew that if he had any hope of becoming part of Camila’s life, it wouldn’t be through force or anger. It would have to be earned. And Damien had never earned anything the slow, painful way before.

Until now.

Finally, he shifted the car into drive, and the Maybach rolled forward down the quiet residential street, the headlights cutting through the shadows. Behind him, the house grew smaller in the rearview mirror. But he knew this was just getting started.

---

Thirty minutes later, Damien arrived at his penthouse. He drove straight into his private underground garage and parked. But instead of getting out, he stayed in the car.

He leaned back against the smooth leather seat, his tie loosened around his neck. A full bottle of water sat untouched on the passenger seat.

Outside, the city was alive, glowing with soft neon lights that reflected off the car’s tinted windows. But Damien wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

All he could think about was her.

Camila.

The way she laughed—a tiny giggle that caught him off guard. The way she held her spoon, as if she was trying to impress him. The wonder in her eyes. The warmth. The trust.

It had shaken something deep inside him.

She had his eyes.

He let out a long, tired breath and dragged a hand down his face.

For ten years, he had built himself into someone strong, smart, and untouchable. Someone who didn’t let his guard down. But tonight, with her... all of that had crumbled. She never asked who he really was. Somehow, she didn’t need to. In her heart, she already knew.

His jaw tightened. His thoughts wouldn’t stop racing.

‘I have a daughter. She’s real. She’s mine. And… she doesn’t hate me.’

Everything had changed.

He picked up his phone and tapped on Clara’s number. She answered right away.

“Yes, Mr. Carrington?”

His voice was calm but firm. “Clear my schedule for tomorrow. Move the board meeting and delay the investor call. I’ll send you a new list of priorities.”

There was a short pause. “Of course. Is there anything else?”

His eyes narrowed as he stared into the darkness.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “Find out everything about Natalia’s law firm. I want to know where her money comes from, who’s backing her case, and what they get if Carrington Global falls.”

Another silence.

Clara’s voice was careful. “Is this about business, sir? Or something more?”

Damien’s eyes darkened.

“It’s personal,” he said quietly. “And I don’t lose what’s mine.”

He ended the call and sat back, staring at the city lights, a storm brewing in his chest.

He had been caught off guard once.

It would never happen again.