Chapter 3: The Billionaire's Regrets

"Smile, Damian. It's not a funeral," Gemma whispered, staining his cheek scarlet with her lips as he dropped into his seat.

Her curves strained against the dress as she leaned forward, a calculated tease under the Riviera's chandeliers, her champagne flute sparkling.

Fire met fire.

Her heat clashed with Damian's inferno. He hated her, but the sex they'd had? Rough and fucking addictive. It scorched hotter than what he explored with Chloe, but he'd cut that relationship too short—he'd thrown away a diamond for a rhinestone.

"Evening, Gemma." He forced a smile, snapping the napkin over his lap.

"You're late." Her grin flashed at a lawyer across the table, but her fingers clawed his arm. "Your dad's watching. Mine too."

"Perfect." He lifted his glass. "Wouldn't want to disappoint."

She leaned in, her too-sweet perfume assaulting his nostrils. "You should try harder. You're the CFO. Half the room looks at you and sees the future of Scott-Quinn."

"They should look somewhere else." He sipped his wine, ignoring the flash of irritation in her eyes.

"Missed you," she said, beaming at the guests.

"Nah, you didn't." His mouth curved into the same hollow shape it always did.

Her smile froze. "Careful, Damian."

"Why?" His gaze slid to a gorgeous Asian woman brushing past.

Brown eyes. Shapely legs. Not bad. But not Chloe.

"Because," Gemma hissed, "appearances keep your half-sister alive."

That landed. A punch under the ribs.

Fucking bitch.

His teeth gritted. "Never refer to Hope as half anything. Do that again, and I'll—"

"What will you do, huh? I know about the women in your whorehouse. You're a cheat. A liar. Hmm, another woman's scent on you again? Explains why you're late."

He scoffed. "You know shit."

"Don't worry. Things will change when we're married. Pappa wants this, and so does your mother. Your father and stepmother? They don't have a choice. I get a seat on your board, a lifetime of Dubai shopping trips, and Hope stays safe."

Damian wished his problems could just fuck off.

He hated being in a web spun by his influential family. Scott-Quinn Enterprise was a colossus, powering Lester Harbor's economy. Escaping these gatherings was futile, with his CEO father, Alistair Scott, and his uncle, Nick Quinn, who led the board of directors.

Damian knew the numbers cold: solar farms, oil and gas fields, skyscrapers, and tech start-ups. Business was clean on paper, but Nick liked to color outside the lines with Angelo Lucciano, the city's favorite mafia boss, known for his trust-fund smile and connections to politicians.

Still, Lucciano was an amateur compared to Saira Quinn, the city's own Griselda Blanco. 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.

And Damian?

He was collateral damage born from a contractual marriage to unite two powerhouse families, the Scotts and Quinns. It lasted about five minutes before the gloves came off. Now his parents were enemies, every grudge and power play cutting through him. Blood wasn't thicker than ambition.

"Damian, honey." Vera's voice broke the silence inside him. She leaned forward, smile soft, bob neat. "Come sit by me. I want to hear about Perth without yelling across crystal."

Gemma's nails bit into Damian's wrist. "Stay."

"Nope." Vera's words landed firmly. "He's with me." She tapped the seat beside her, and Hope scooted to clear space.

Damian rose, shaking off Gemma's hand.

"God, your stepmom's a bitch," she muttered as he passed, taking the vacant seat between Vera and Hope.

"Funny," he shot back, "My stepmother's the only one here who gives a damn."

Vera touched his hand as he sat. "How was Perth? Did Orion's engineers impress you?"

"Yeah, the visit was short, but I'll return next month," he said. "The team's efficient, working on tight deadlines to develop a new wellbore cleaning tool. It's a more sustainable solution."

"And the city?" She tilted her head, her mocha eyes kind.

"Beautiful. Didn't soak all of it. Buried in meetings."

"I'm sure he enjoyed the spreadsheets more than the scenery," Gemma cut in, smile razor-thin.

Damian didn't look at her. "Scenery's worth more."

Hope stifled a laugh beside him. Gemma's eyes flicked to the girl, venom hiding under her mascaraed lashes.

Vera smoothed it over. "Perth is special. When I was there with Alistair, the air just cleared everything."

Nick's laugh cut across the table. "The air's clean because nobody can afford to live there, Vera. Prices are a joke." He slapped Angelo's back, voice booming.

"What's wrong with a little inflation if it keeps the right people happy?" Angelo responded with a dry laugh.

Damian caught the subtext. The right people meant politicians paid to bend the rules and speed up contracts. Angelo had been greasing hands for decades. His uncle loved men like that. His father pretended not to.

"When are we getting married?" Gemma asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He stabbed his fork into his salmon, forcing himself to calm down. Don't give Gemma the scene she wants. Don't let them see the crack.

But his thoughts spun anyway, dragged to the deal that had cost him Chloe seven years ago. He'd walked into his mother's prison cell, hating every second, and listened to her lay out the terms like it was nothing.

“My lawyer, Grant Rochefort, will keep Hope safe. But you'll marry his daughter before you turn thirty,” she’d said. “Gemma's practically family. A beautiful girl with the right connections in the legal system. And more, with the right husband. A reasonable price for your half-sister's life.”

Damian had tried to convince himself that breaking Chloe's heart was no big deal, like other relationships. He'd been wrong.

He never got over her.

Now Gemma stretched her hand, reaching for his. "When, Damian? We're all waiting."

He turned to her, eyes empty. "I can't fake what doesn't exist."

"You owe me better than this."

"I don't owe you a thing."

"You owe Hope's life."

He shot her a look sharp enough to slash wrists. "I've made a decision. There won't be a wedding."

Her smile froze, voice dropping to a hiss. "Remember who holds the leash."

That was it.

His chair screeched back. Heads turned. Conversations died.

Gemma's lips tightened. "Sit down."

He stood taller. The chair toppled behind him. His palms slammed onto the linen, crystal trembling, silverware clattering.

Fury burned in his glare. "I'm done with you. We're over."

Gasps rippled. Angelo swore under his breath. Nick froze mid-laugh. Even Alistair's composure cracked.

Damian didn't care.

Let them stare.

He turned and strode out, his polished Oxfords pounding against marble. He'd suffocate if he spent another second beside Gemma. Seeing Chloe today was a revelation.

He had a choice: find heaven again or stay in hell.

By the time the Riviera doors slammed behind him, his chest was aflame. He'd make his enemies pay—his mother, the Rocheforts. Every last one of them.

The Lamborghini's engine roared like an animal freed from its cage. Damian's hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles hurt. The restaurant vanished in the mirror, replaced by the blur of city lights streaking past his window.

He barely registered the streets, the pedestrians craning to see who flew by, the flash of cameras outside the restaurant doors as he'd stormed out. Let them have their gossip. Let the headlines scream tomorrow.

Fifteen minutes later, he signaled a wave to the security personnel, who opened the steel gates to his estate. The main house was a stunning blend of stone and glass carved between the sea and mountains. Lush gardens unraveled into a private forest, and a saltwater pool glittered in front of the guest villa.

This was his haven where no one touched him unless he let them in.

He killed the engine and sat in the silence. His pulse hammered in his ears. He wasn't angry anymore. Not even exhausted. What he felt now? It was something closer to grief.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing past the keys, past his phone, to the one thing that mattered.

The business card.

It belonged to a woman who treated him with respect once upon a time. A woman he discarded like yesterday's socks. Like the idiot he was. He was wiser now.

Hard lessons don't come any other way, do they?

The paper felt cool and crisp against his skin, contrasting the fire burning in him. He traced his fingers over the embossed letters as a soothing calmness washed over him.

Her laugh came back to him in flashes. Greasy burgers in a roadside diner, rain pelting the windows, her eyes daring him to strip away the mask and show the man underneath. Then his bedroom—her peeling out of his shirt, the fabric gaping. Teasing. Coffee-colored nipples on teardrop-shaped breasts. His erection pressing thick against her black pubic hairs, sliding into the warmth of her honey. She knew what she was doing to him, the way she smiled.

God, he missed her.

He raked a hand through his hair as he strode through the front doors. An indoor pond glimmered under recessed lights, throwing ripples across the granite walls. He tossed his jacket across the sofa, fingers tugging his collar loose, tie sliding free. He closed his eyes and drew one steady breath.

One call. One chance. Everything could change.

He crossed to the bar, reached for a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and poured a glass. The cool wine steadied him, gave his hands something to do while his mind slipped backward.

The first time they met...

Chloe's fox-brown eyes catching him across a crowded room, sparking the chaos that had started it all.

For the first time that evening, his lips split into a genuine smile. The card in his pocket wasn't just paper. It was his way back to heaven.

***

Chloe sat cross-legged on her ancient velvet couch, savoring her Merlot and listening to rain slide down her brownstone windows. Her apartment smelled like lavender and burnt toast, every inch crowded with books and thrift-store finds. A tattered paperback of Confessions of a Shopaholic lay open, face down on her coffee table.

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 long ago and changed her number. Even moved across town. 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.