Chapter 10: The Weight of a Name
794 Words
Damien’s POV
I don’t dream about my parents anymore.
Not really.
Back then, I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing them—my mother’s laugh echoing off the hallways, my father’s voice, sharp and steady, barking orders from the study. The house used to smell like them. Her jasmine perfume. His goddamn cigar smoke.
Now?
Now they haunt me when I’m awake.
I stand on the balcony, glass of whiskey in my hand, the night air biting against my skin like it’s trying to remind me I’m still here. Still breathing. Still pretending any of this means something.
The city below glows like a live wire, all that light and life completely indifferent to me. I used to find comfort in that—being invisible in the middle of it all. Untouchable.
But tonight… I feel too visible.
Like someone’s looking through me.
Five years ago, I was a disaster.
A beautiful, headline-making disaster.
DAMIEN BLACKWOOD: BILLIONAIRE GONE ROGUE
FROM LEGACY TO LIABILITY
PARTY BOY CEO LOSES CONTROL
I lived in clubs, drowned in liquor, burned through women like matches.
I don’t even remember half their names.
Didn’t want to.
The whole world watched me fall apart and called it entertainment. I let them. Hell, I encouraged it. Because if the world thought I was numb, maybe I could convince myself I was too.
Then I got the call.
“You’ve got thirty days, Damien. Or you lose everything your father built.”
That was the turning point.
I put on the suit. Took the boardroom. Cleaned the mess.
Fixed the headlines.
But I didn’t fix me.
The glass is heavy in my hand. I haven’t touched it in minutes.
I know what I’d do if I had my phone. Call Sophia. Text her three words and she’d be here in twenty minutes, stilettos and perfume, ready to help me forget.
But I don’t want to forget.
Not tonight.
The balcony door creaks open behind me.
Of course it’s Theo.
“You could’ve called me if you wanted to brood like a dramatic Victorian widow,” he says, stepping up beside me with that signature s**t-eating grin.
I don’t look at him. “Don’t you have a hangover to recover from?”
“I rally fast.”
I finally glance his way. He’s watching me. Closely. Too closely.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking to my glass. “I don’t know. Maybe because you almost kissed Elara and now you’re out here looking like you’re debating the meaning of life.”
I clench my jaw. “It was a game.”
“Right. And I’m the f*cking Pope.”
I shoot him a glare.
Theo just laughs. Bastard. “Listen, man. I don’t know you that well, but I know the type. You disappear before anyone gets close. Heartbreaker. Untouchable. All edges, no center.”
He tilts his head, voice quieter now.
“But tonight? You didn’t run. You hesitated. You looked back.”
I exhale hard, rub my jaw, and stare out at the lights again.
Because he’s right.
And that’s the part that scares the hell out of me.
Elara.
She’s not like the others. She never has been.
She’s not trying to impress me. Or change me. Or trap me.
She challenges me. Meets me eye to eye like she’s not afraid of the darkness I carry. Like she sees it—and still stays.
That dare tonight?
It should’ve been nothing. A joke.
But for a second, I forgot the rules.
For a second, I wanted it.
Not just the kiss.
Her.
And that’s a problem.
Because I don’t do real. Not anymore.
Not since Cassandra.
The only woman I ever let past my armor. The one who swore she loved me while already cashing in on someone richer. Better.
I learned my lesson.
Love is leverage.
Emotion is weakness.
And weakness gets you ruined.
But Elara’s different. She doesn’t need anything from me. And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because it means if she breaks me?
She’ll do it without even trying.
Theo breaks the silence again. “Want some unsolicited advice?”
“No.”
He gives it anyway. “Don’t run from this one.”
I turn to him, frowning. “Why not?”
“Because for once, you looked like you gave a damn.” He shrugs. “And for what it’s worth? You’re way less of an asshole when you do.”
I don’t answer. Just finish the last of my drink and let the burn sit heavy on my tongue.
The worst part?
He’s right.
She makes me care.
And caring?
That’s the most dangerous thing I’ve done in a long, long time.
- Writer
