CHAPTER FOUR - DAMIEN

I slipped into the private elevator and made my way to my office. The cleaner was gone, but her scent lingered—lavender and defiance. I should have forgotten it. I hadn’t.

“It’s just the detergent,” I muttered, setting my briefcase down. But that didn’t explain why she was still in my head. Her absence annoyed me. Or disappointed me. I couldn’t tell which, and that bothered me more. She should’ve been here to answer for anything she’d done wrong—like the others.

But the office was spotless.

I took off my jacket and joined the first of three virtual meetings. The screen lit up with Mr. Harlan, one of our senior partners at Lockewood Heights Group—the luxury real estate empire carrying my name.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Damien,” he said tightly. “Pulling out of the East River project now will spook investors.”

“Then let them be spooked.” I scrolled the projections. “Fear keeps people honest. I don’t build partnerships on wishful thinking.”

“You’re risking a quarter billion in contracts.”

“No. I’m protecting two billion in reputation.”

A beat of silence. Then a stiff nod. “Understood. I’ll inform the board.”

“Do that.” I ended the call.

The next two meetings were uneventful—numbers, projections, proposals. Predictable, yet still tedious. It was past midday before I realized it, and dread for the upcoming family dinner began sinking in. I reminded myself I was only enduring it for Anna.

I pressed the intercom.

“Send a bouquet of Anna’s favorite chocolates before close of business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And wrap them with white ribbon. Not pink.”

A pause. “Noted, sir.”

I sighed. Crybaby and sweet tooth—disastrous combination. That I’d do anything for her did not mean I was trying to get her diabetes.

My phone buzzed. Dad. I hesitated, then answered.

“You’re calling early.”

“Try not to start a fight with your mother tonight,” he said.

“You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You usually are,” he chuckled, then hung up.

Typical Robert Lockewood—man of few words who somehow said too much. Anna led to family; family led straight to irritation. Half of them were money-hungry leeches, the other half power-drunk opportunists. And none of them cared that Grandma Sherry was gone.

“She said I was too much like her,” I murmured, staring at the skyline. “Sharp edges in a world that wanted you soft.”

My throat tightened. Maybe that’s why they killed her.

My thoughts spiraled—Dad, patient and principled. Always at odds with my approach. Then Diane—my mother—whose affection existed only for cameras. She preferred being called Diane, as if motherhood was beneath her.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Focus, Damien. Numbers, not nostalgia.”

By evening, nothing was solved. The numbers pretended to add up but didn’t. At 6:52 p.m., Diane’s voice echoed in my mind: punctuality, respect. I grabbed the bouquet and left.

I arrived five minutes late to the family home—a shrine to wealth and tension. Diane’s lecture was inevitable.

Anna spotted me first. “You came!” she squealed, throwing herself at me.

“Of course I did.” I steadied her before she dropped the chocolates.

The second she had them, she cradled them like a newborn.

“The bribe worked,” she teased.

“I prefer peace offering.”

She dashed off to show Dad, leaving me in the foyer.

Dinner was about as interesting as a bag of rice.

Dorothy leaned forward. “How’s business, Damien?”

“Fine.”

Uncle Peter added, “George is almost out of school. You’ll fit him somewhere, right?”

“If he qualifies,” I replied, sipping my drink.

Diane’s voice glided across the table. “Family helps family.”

I met her eyes. “Then maybe family should start by helping themselves.”

Silence. Anna shot me a warning look. I sighed, set my napkin down, and stood just as my phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping outside. I didn’t go back in.

Anna found me by my car a few minutes later.

“You’re leaving already?”

“I have work,” I lied.

“You always do.” She smiled sadly, adjusting my collar like when we were kids. “Thanks for coming.”

“Next time, just you and I. Somewhere nice.”

She gasped dramatically. “What did you do to my brother?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I said, smirking.

“Hell no. I’m texting the address.” She ran off squealing.

The next morning came too soon. After my workout and shower, I dressed in one of my signature suits. I grabbed the morning newspaper and met James downstairs—punctual as always.

“Morning, sir,” he said, opening the car door.

“Morning. Straight to the office.”

The drive was quiet. By the time we reached Lockewood Heights, I’d forced last night out of my mind. On the twentieth floor—my domain—unwelcome memories crept in.

The cleaner.

The one with tits that deserved worship and hips made to fit my hands. That she crossed my mind at all irritated me. I shook it off...tried to.

Then a faint trace of lavender drifted through my office door.

I stilled. My pulse tightened.

I pushed the door open and froze.

She stood at my desk, holding the financial reports I’d left yesterday.

Heat shot through me. Fast.

“What,” I said slowly, voice dropping an octave, “the fuck do you think you’re doing?”