FOUR

DAMIAN

“Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Blake is waiting for you at the door,” my secretary’s voice broke through my focus.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, irritation spiking.

“Didn’t I say no unauthorised personnel are allowed into the office area?”

She hesitated, shifting uncomfortably.

“But she said she’s yours...”

Before she could finish, the door swung open on its own, carrying with it a wave of perfume so strong it felt like it invaded the air I breathed. My jaw tightened, of course.

Isabelle.

She glided in, every sway of her hips deliberate, her high-slit dress flashing too much leg with each step. She hadn’t changed; always calculated, always aware of the effect she had when she walked into a room.

“Alright, stop embarrassing your employees,” she said smoothly, not sparing the secretary a second glance. “You’ve been living in the company these days. I wanted to see you.”

She waved at my secretary to leave as though she owned the building, as though she owned me. And damn it, the worst part was the way my chest tightened, that dangerous familiarity I’d been trying to bury clawing its way back to the surface.

The scent of Isabelle’s perfume lingered even after she perched herself right on the edge of my desk like it was some kind of stage set just for her. Her skirt slit rode higher, her cleavage deliberately on display, and yet, I refused to give her the satisfaction of my eyes wandering.

“What are you doing here?” I asked flatly, leaning back in my chair with my arms crossed. My tone was sharp, clipped, the tone I reserved for people who’d already pushed me past my patience. “I’ll take care of that matter. We don’t need to meet at other times. And you...” I let my eyes lock on hers, ignoring the way she batted her lashes, “...you crossed the line last time at the hospital.”

I don’t care about Isabelle, and we didn’t have the need to meet like this. If it wasn’t for the friendship I had with Mr. Blake, I wouldn’t be seeing her at all.

She leaned forward, her voice low, almost sultry.

“Damian, are you still mad at me? You still won’t forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye?”

Mad? Mad didn’t begin to cover it.

But those days were over.

“All of this is over now.” I straightened, motioning with my hand toward the door. “I still have to work. Please, get down from my desk and leave.”

Her lips trembled like she might cry, the gloss on them quivering under the office lights. Once upon a time, that would’ve undone me, too. Now? I was unmoved. Maybe I was stone. Maybe I was tired.

Slowly, she slid off my desk, heels clicking on the hardwood floor like punctuation marks. She reached the door, her fingers curling around the handle. For a second, I thought she’d just leave quietly.

She turned, eyes sharp beneath the sheen of unshed tears.

“Damian, if you can’t forgive me just because I left without saying goodbye, then you shouldn’t forgive your wife either. You’ve seen those photos. It’s been so long; what are you waiting for?!”

The words slammed into me, sharper than her heels on the floor. My jaw locked, my fingers curled into fists on the desk. Isabelle always knew where to strike. She knew the wound I carried, and she wasn’t above prying it open just to remind me it still bled.

God help me, part of me wanted to roar at her, to throw her out, and yet, beneath the anger, there was that sick, gnawing thing I hated most of all.... doubt.

My palm slammed down on the desk so hard the pen holder rattled and a file slid to the floor.

“Get out!”

The roar in my own voice startled me as much as it did her. Isabelle flinched, her painted lips parting, but for once, she didn’t argue, didn’t push further. She slipped out quietly. The door shut behind her, and silence bled into the room thick, suffocating, except for the furious thud of my pulse in my ears.

I have heard Isabella’s excuses so many times I don’t think I care anymore.

But Elena… my wife. That was different.

I raked a hand through my hair, pacing behind my desk like a caged animal. The images flickered in my mind as if I’d just opened that damned drawer again... the photographs. Elena smiling, leaning into another man, eyes soft, arms around him like she belonged there. The way her head tilted, the way she laughed in those still shots… it was intimate. It was real.

And yet at our wedding, she’d cried like she was the happiest woman alive. She’d clung to me, sworn vows with trembling lips. She’d looked at me like I was her whole world.

Was it all an act?

A bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

“Goddamn actress,” I muttered under my breath.

I’d almost believed her. Hell, I had believed her. I’d let myself think maybe, just maybe this wasn’t just an arrangement. That we could build something resembling a family. That I could be a father, a husband, a man who was finally whole.

But she betrayed me.

Now when I think of the child, our child. I feel the rage boil over the joy I once had. I should be excited, I should be counting the days, I should be planning the future… instead, I feel nothing but this toxic blend of hatred and disappointment.

Isabelle was right. What the hell am I waiting for?

My eyes dropped to the stack of documents on my desk. The divorce papers. My lawyer had gone over every clause, made sure Elena’s rights were fully protected. With this agreement, she could live well. She’d have her dignity, her comfort. I’d preserved everything I could for her, even in ending it.

All I had to do was sign.

My pen lay there, mocking me, a thin black line of ink already staining the edge of the page where I’d pressed too hard earlier. Just one signature. My signature.

But my hand wouldn’t move.

Why the hell was I so reluctant? Why did my chest feel heavy instead of relieved?

I dropped into my chair, pressing my thumb and forefinger against my eyes until colours burst behind my lids. The papers blurred on the desk in front of me.

If I hated her so much, why couldn’t I let her go?