Damien Crowe Novels & Stories

I rubbed my hands together looked at her straight in the eye, and noticed how puffy they were, maybe there was trouble in paradise after all. “I have some bad news for you this morning.” I began. She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. “What is it?” She asked. “Damien called in sick this morning.” “Oh? That is so terrible, what's wrong with him?” she seemed genuine enough. “Not sure yet. But I told him to go see a doctor and spend some time recuperating at home.” The lies were easier than I had thought. “I hope he gets better. So who's going to go with me to school, I have an early lecture this morning.” her brows creased in confusion.

Confusion mixed with a flicker of hope in my chest as I hesitantly obeyed their command, cautiously stepping out into the dimly lit corridor. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Damien. He stood a few paces away, still bearing the signs of his recent injuries crutches supporting his weight, bandages peeking out from beneath his clothing. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and I fought against the overwhelming urge to rush to his side. He looked everywhere but in my direction his face scrunched in disgust.

Turn on the news. Celeste looked at Damien. They were still in the hallway. Guards were after them. “What? Now?” she asked. “Just do it,” he stated. She grabbed her smartphone and opened an information app. The headline hit her like a punch. "DAMIEN CROSS DECLARED TRAITOR BY HIS OWN RELATIVES." There has been an image of Damien and his father. A public statement below it. “What is this?” she whispered. Damien’s face went tight. “Rylan. He beat me to it.”

Damien emerged from the car, standing tall at six-foot-four, the lights flaring from the dome, glinting off his styled, long blonde hair, giving him some kind ofl halo. His custom designed suit was black and hugged his muscular frame sharply, the material stretching across his broad shoulders. A simple Paul Newman Daytona Rolex peeked out from under the cuffs of his sleeves as he straightened his tie. The crowd gave an audible gasp in unison at the sight of him, then started screaming in a frenzy at the next instant. The cameras flashed wildly as the reporters yelled "Over here, Mr Romero! Over here!" The crowd was wild and shocked at Damien's appearance. It's been five years since the Greek

Richard's hand moves toward his pocket. "Don't." Damien's voice cuts through the warehouse. He steps out from behind a pillar. Gun raised. Steady. Professional. Pointed at Richard's chest. "Hands where I see them." "Mr. Cross. How unexpected." Richard doesn't move. Doesn't raise his hands either. "I thought you'd be in police custody by now." "Turns out I have friends in low places. And they're interested in a wealthy CEO who threatens college students with bombs." Damien keeps the gun level. His breathing is controlled. Measured. Like he's done this before. "Call it off. Now."

I opened my mouth, the word no trembling on my lips, but before I could speak, Damian's voice cut through mine. “This is Vanessa Crowne,” he said, his hand tightening around her waist. His tone was warm, his lips curving with that rare smile. “She’s the one who truly supports me.” The words echoed, heavy and final. Someone in the crowd raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding toward me. “And what about her?” he asked, chin tilting in my direction. Dozens of eyes turned toward me. My skin burned under their stares, my palms damp. For the first time that evening, Damian’s gaze followed theirs, landing on me like a blade. His gray eyes were flat and didn't show any anger.

“He’s just someone I trust.” A few minutes later, we were in Dr. Harris’s office. The man looked to be in his late forties, with kind eyes behind thin glasses. He smiled warmly when he saw Damien. “You again. What’s it been, six months?” “Five,” Damien corrected with a grin. Dr. Harris chuckled, then turned his attention to me. “And who’s this?” “This is Macey,” Damien said, his tone softening in a way that made my heart flip. “She’s not feeling too great.”

Let’s see how the bastard reacts when I show him exactly what I think of his little proposition. By the time I stormed through Cross Inc. 's lobby, I was pure fire. The staff stared. Secretaries called after me. Nobody dared stop me. “Sir, you can’t just ” a woman tried, but Adam blocked her path. I shoved open the door to his office. Four suited men looked up. But it was Damien who caught my eyes. Damien Cross. Perfect hair, perfect face, every inch the arrogant golden boy from the business magazines. If I weren’t already seething, I might have admitted he was gorgeous.

I returned the gaze suspiciously. “We have a very important guest today,” Dad said just as footsteps echoed through the room. I turned to see him—Damien. Dressed all in black, looking like a king. His outfit and presence commanded power. “What the fuck…” I cursed under my breath, wondering why he was dining at my house. “Damien Kings, welcome,” Dad said, standing to shake his hand. Theo followed suit.

I said. Imran walked towards the table slowly, his eyes moving across the room first. He always did that now. Observed before speaking. Measured people carefully. Again, dangerous. He stopped beside me, glancing down at the papers scattered across the table. “What happened?” “Three shipments interrupted,” Dante explained. “Different locations.” Imran frowned slightly. “And you think it's connected?” “It is connected,” Marco said sharply. “We're trying to figure out who the fuck is responsible.”