Damien's Willing Captive のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

Damien’s POV “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Prince Charming?” The voice rang out, suspicious, furious… and even disappointed. Fuck. That was when I remembered why I had dropped her in the first place. Fucking Olivia. Always with the worst timing. I turned, my face tight with a forced smile that hurt to wear. “Uhm… Liv… she hurt her leg. So I want to gently set her down in the bedroom and…” “Gently? Bedroom? Damien, for Christ’s sake, what did you drink? Isn’t it too early to get drunk? Why are you being soft with the enemy? Literally!” The word enemy hit like a whip crack in the room. “Enemy?” some of the guys echoed in confusion. “Since when did doll become our enemy?” Andy blurted out, and I shot him a glare that promised broken bones if he didn’t shut up. He flinched back instantly, aware of his obnoxious question. “Liv,” I said through my teeth. “Just settle down, and I’ll be back in no time.” But she wasn’t settling down. Not Olivia. She marche

Isabella’s POV His voice dragged the word across the air like a blade. “What the hell is going on in that pretty head of yours, doll?” he growled. I kept my face a small, obedient thing. The pressure of his hand was steady. The tremor in my throat was real, but the rest was performance. Men like Damien read the body long before the mind. He wanted spectacle…confession, collapse, contrition. He wanted to close the argument with my surrender. He would not get it. Not tonight. “You’re choking me, Boss,” I wheezed, as if the air leaving me might pull pity from him. He swore and banged his fist against the doorframe, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch for show. Good…noise covers movement. He wanted spectacle. I’d give him one that let me breathe. When he left earlier with his friend I nearly squealed. A tiny, private celebration…barely a sound…burst in my chest the second they left the living room. From the look on the girl’s face, I could see a way out of this prison, a

Damien's POV Before long, we rolled into Churchill Street. It wasn’t like the estates near my penthouse…the kind of streets where the trees were groomed, the lampposts ornate, and the air smelled faintly of privilege. No. Churchill Street was ordinary. The kind of street where life moved at its own pace, the kind where neighbors waved to each other, where kids on bikes squealed past parked cars, and the occasional dog barked at anything that moved. Apartment blocks rose modestly on either side, their paint peeling in places, balconies crowded with potted plants or laundry flapping in the breeze. It was…real. Harshly real compared to my polished world. Jaxon slowed in front of a narrow, beige apartment building. I didn’t wait for him to climb down before I did. “Drag her out here,” I said sharply, leaning against the car, letting the street absorb my presence. My phone buzzed in my hand, but I ignored it, scrolling through business news with a practiced disinterest unti

Damien’s POV Just as I was jubilating inside my head, already picturing the expression on Isabella’s face when she saw those photos of Ariana and Jace Salvador holding hands, the bastard leaned sideways and whispered something into Osmond’s ear. It was like watching a storm ripple across a man’s face. Osmond’s grin froze, his jaw ticked, and then his eyes darted from his daughter to Jace with a flicker of pure irritation. The room held its breath as everyone watched. He cleared his throat, smoothed his lapel, and puffed his chest like a goddamn rooster before taking the mic again. “Ladies and gentlemen…” Osmond’s voice boomed, that politician’s charm coating every syllable. “Seems there’s been…ah…a little mix-up.” The crowd shifted, curious murmurs rising like smoke. “This handsome young man here has clarified that they are not officially”....he lifted his fingers, making exaggerated air quotes…“engaged. No, no, no. They are just… working things out.” Gasps, chuckles

Damien's POV The scream split the room like a thrown glass. Mrs. Osmond came crashing through the double doors in a storm of satin and screeching pearls, hair wild, mascara streaked into war paint. Her voice tore across the chandeliers: “Carlos! You scum! How dare you…on our daughter’s birthday? On our bed?!” She stamped like a woman carving a new history with every step. The room convulsed. Conversations hiccupped into silence, then rose into a howl. Forks clattered. Someone knocked over a flute; it shattered into high, accusing notes. People clustered like frightened birds, necks craning for the show. Carlos stood like a man half-dressed for confession: his belt still undone, his shirt rumpled, tie loosened as if someone had tried to drag gravity back into him and failed. He looked small in the open light, staggering as if each breath cost more than the last. There was a slow, ridiculous slant to his stance…the way an old horse rocks when it’s had too much work and not