Chapter 3: The Billionaire's Regrets

Dinner at the opulent Riviera restaurant was anything but pleasant for Damian. As Scott-Quinn Enterprise's chief financial officer, his presence at the work dinner was obligatory. Entangled in a web spun by his influential family—with his father, Alistair Scott, as CEO and his uncle, Nick Quinn, at the helm of the board of directors—escaping these gatherings was a futile wish.

The family business was a colossus, powering Lester Harbor’s economy and conquering everything from energy and real estate to the flashiest tech. Damian knew the numbers cold: solar farms, oil and gas fields, skyscrapers, and tech start-ups. His father and uncle kept the business clean, at least on paper, but Nick always liked to color outside the lines. Damian felt it every time his uncle started talking about “partnerships” with Angelo Lucciano, the city’s favorite mafia boss with a trust-fund smile and pockets full of politicians.

Still, Lucciano looked like a children’s party compared to the shit Saira Quinn stirred. Even from a prison cell, Damian’s mother—Angelo’s nemesis and worst nightmare—ran her own empire. Her loyal attack dog, Mike Marino, kept the pipeline moving: girls, drugs, and dirty cash.

Damian? He was collateral damage born from a marriage lasting about five minutes before the gloves came off. Now his parents were locked in their own cold war, every grudge and power play cutting through him. In this family, blood wasn’t thicker than ambition.

"Good evening, Gemma," he greeted, his voice strained as he kissed the cheek of the woman beside him. The grandeur of their surroundings mocked him, a glaring reminder of the empty glamour of his existence. He longed for the authenticity of the roadhouse diner near Montville University, where he and Chloe sought refuge in a burger during a torrential downpour—a lifetime ago.

"You're late," Gemma hissed, her eyes narrowing into icy slits before morphing into a disingenuous smile for the other guests. Her beauty, though striking, was cold and uninviting, much like the caviar she enjoyed—overpriced and stale, a far cry from the simple pleasures Damian craved.

With her beach-blonde hair and slender figure, Gemma Rochefort was every man's dream. Yet she was the antithesis of what he desired. She was an emblem of luxury without a soul. Tied to his mother's dark legacy, Gemma was a constant reminder of the sacrifices he made to protect his half-sister, Hope.

Gemma's presence tonight was strategic, a part of a broader agreement to shield his family, particularly Hope, from his mother's machinations. Sacrificing his chance at true happiness with Chloe was a bitter pill he swallowed for the family's sake, leaving him trapped in a life he never chose.

"I missed you," Gemma purred, her touch as unwelcome as her presence. She stirred a mix of disgust and pity within Damian. How different his world would be if the woman he truly loved were by his side instead.

"Likewise." He smiled tersely, his voice hollow. Memories of Chloe lingered in his heart.

Why Gemma, of all people?

The lawyer’s daughter. Saira’s handpicked protégé. Gemma was a walking reminder of every dirty alliance, every innocent left behind—nothing but a chess piece in his mother’s twisted game. But it was his parents who sealed the deal: Gemma for Hope’s safety. His freedom was traded for his sister’s life.

His mother had always been a world-class shit-stirrer—no scandal too dark, no line she wouldn’t cross. Damian's memories were haunted by nights of vulnerability where young trafficking victims sought refuge in his room during Saira’s wild sex parties. These distressing occasions, orchestrated for the elite's indulgence, blurred the lines of morality for entertainment. Even as her son, Damian was not spared the unsettling advances of a paying guest, a transgression propelling him to flee his mother's home. He was barely a teenager at the time.

He met his stepmother, Vera, for the first time that same night he ran to his father’s door. She was everything his mother wasn’t: a soft voice, steady hugs, a maternal figure he’d never had. Tonight, she stunned the guests with a new hairstyle, a chic bob that softened her features. His father was by her side, engaged in a lively conversation with his uncle and a senator.

"Damian, honey, how was your visit to Perth last week? Did you spend time with Orion’s engineering team?" Vera's voice cut through the tension between him and Gemma, offering a lifeline from across the table.

Damian turned to Vera, catching the kindness in her eyes. “Yeah, it went well,” he said, leaning into the relief her question brought. “Met some old colleagues, made a few new contacts. The numbers look good and the project’s on track.”

Vera's smile brightened, yet it couldn't mask the concern in her eyes. "That’s great to hear. Building bridges is important. And how did you find the city? Is it still as vibrant as you remembered?"

Before he could answer, Gemma cut in—her tone frosty enough to chill the wine. “I’m sure Damian found the company’s projects more interesting than the local scenery.”

Damian let her jab slide and turned back to Vera. “Perth’s still gorgeous,” he said, giving her a small, genuine smile. “But honestly? It was all work this time. Wish I had more time for sightseeing.”

“I can’t hear you, hon,” Vera said, turning to her daughter beside her—a teenager with dark-blonde hair and wary brown eyes. “Hope, sweetie, can you scoot over to that empty seat? Let’s have your brother sit right here between us.”

Heat flashed in Gemma’s eyes, her lips tightening around a protest. “But—”

"No buts. I want to talk to Damian without straining my voice and shouting across the table," Vera asserted. She patted the newly vacated seat and nodded at him.

“God, I hate your stepmother,” Gemma muttered under her breath.

“Funny, she’s the only one here who actually cares. That’s rare, you know?” He didn’t miss the way Gemma’s jaw went rigid, her polished act starting to fracture.

The thought of marrying her made Damian’s skin crawl. But choice wasn’t really on the menu. It all went to hell the year before he graduated, when someone threatened Hope in the worst way. He’d dragged himself to see Saira in prison, hating every second. Deep down, Damian knew she’d orchestrated the whole thing, but there was never enough evidence to nail her. Not that it mattered. Saira always got what she wanted.

“Why worry? I’ve got powerful friends. Grant Rochefort will ensure Hope’s protected, plus she’ll get her cut of the Scott-Quinn fortune.” Saira’s voice had dripped with reassurance, every word a promise sharpened by leverage.

There was one catch.

Damian had to marry Grant’s daughter before he turned thirty—his next birthday looming closer every day. “Gemma’s practically family,” his mother had said, all fake warmth and steel. “She’s stunning, Damian. And she could be so much more with the right husband. It’s a good price for your half-sister’s safety.”

Breaking up with Chloe seemed to be a temporary pain he believed he'd overcome, like past relationship breakups. He couldn't have been more mistaken.

Damian never got over her.

Chloe’s absence was a hole nothing else could fill. But with time and a few scars, he finally saw things clearly. This time, he’d do whatever it took to win her back, make it right, and claw his way to redemption. All without risking Hope’s life.

Damian was about to get up when Gemma pulled his hand hard. "Remember who holds the leash."

Her harsh words hit him like a physical blow, raising his anger to a boiling point. His fists tightened as he struggled to maintain control. How dare she speak to him like that? How dare she try to manipulate him?

He stood, the chair clattering behind him, and slammed his hands on the table. The sound echoed through the room, but he paid it no mind. His eyes blazed with fury as he glared at Gemma, his once calm demeanor shattered.

"I'm done with you," he spat. “We’re over.”

He didn’t spare her a second glance. He strode out, every step resonating with stormy anger. Let them stare. He couldn’t stand another minute breathing Gemma’s poison. By the time he hit the street, revenge roared in his head. He’d make them pay—his mother, the Rocheforts. Every last one of them.

Damian’s Lamborghini purred to a stop outside his mansion, a stunning blend of stone and glass carved between the sea and mountains. The main house opened into soaring hallways and sleek bedrooms, with floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping the expansive living room. Beneath it, an indoor pool shimmered, complete with a sauna and jacuzzi. Outside, lush gardens unraveled into a private forest, and an outdoor saltwater pool glittered in front of the guest villa. This was Damian’s sanctuary, where no one touched him unless he let them in.

He reached into his pocket to open the garage door. Instead, he grasped the smooth business card of a woman who had always treated him with respect and kindness. The paper was cool and crisp against his skin, a sharp contrast to the fire burning within him. He traced his fingers over the embossed letters, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. Chloe's gentle voice echoed in his mind, reminding him to stay strong.

Gripping the business card tighter, he knew he would call her. He took a deep breath and sighed, feeling the tension leave his body. Gemma's words still stung, but he felt the strength to rise above them. He smiled, grateful for the smooth paper guiding him to a better path.

As he tapped her number into his phone, thumb hovering over the call button, a vivid memory flashed—Chloe’s foxy brown eyes catching him across a crowded room, sparking the chaos that started it all.

***

Chloe sat cross-legged on her ancient velvet couch, sipping cold tea and listening to rain slide down her brownstone windows. Her home smelled like lavender and burnt toast, every inch crowded with books and thrift-store finds.

Still, the air felt different. Restless.

Damian’s presence lingered in her heart, refusing to let go.

She’d sworn off that name, years ago. She’d deleted his number, and there was nothing left to tether her—at least that’s what she told herself. Yet, all it took was one accidental run-in, and suddenly every nerve remembered the danger, the want, the way he could set her on fire with a look.

She pressed her palm to her chest, felt her heart riot beneath the soft cotton of her pajamas.

You’re not that girl anymore, Carter. You’re smarter now. Stronger.

But in the quiet, when the city outside blurred to rain and night lights, her mind betrayed her, replaying his broad shoulders, sharp cheekbones, and baritone voice.

Tomorrow, she’d wake up, iron her blouse, send out résumés, and pretend she didn’t care. But tonight, under the rain, she let the truth bleed in. He was under her skin, and she wanted more.

Chloe closed her eyes.

And just like that, she was back at that wild college Halloween party with pounding music and flashing strobe lights. Her eyes had landed on him: sandy hair, green eyes, and a sinful grin that promised trouble and tasted like temptation.