It's Okay Not To Love

Chapter 4

The Cost of Warmth

DAMIEN

It’s okay not to love.

Not everyone does. Some people build empires, while others build feelings. Love is a luxury, one I can’t afford. I’ve learned that solitude brings peace, and peace is the only thing that doesn’t leave when everything else does.

Love is for those who haven’t seen what I’ve seen, for those who don’t wake up with ghosts gripping their throats. Love doesn’t fix people. It just breaks the ones foolish enough to believe it can.

Last night stretched endlessly. Her words about love wouldn’t stop replaying in my mind. Every syllable pulled at something I buried years ago.

The woman I married had seen me at my weakest, a moment I would’ve taken to the grave. Now I can’t breathe under the same roof without feeling exposed. Vulnerability is a sin in my world. Weakness is an invitation to be devoured.

Morning sunlight slipped through the blinds, cruelly bright. Dr. Lawrence had already been waiting in the living room for over an hour.

He looked annoyingly comfortable, legs crossed, a glass of wine spinning lazily between his fingers. When I entered, he jumped up with a forced smile.

“Your wife insisted,” he said quickly, pointing at the bottle beside him.

Of course she did.

“Leave us,” I said to her without looking back.

I heard her soft sigh before the door clicked shut.

Dr. Lawrence sat down, that same knowing smirk on his face, the one he used whenever he was about to dissect me.

“You look worse than usual,” he started. “Let me guess, the nightmares?”

I gave a single nod.

His eyebrows shot up. “So, she knows now.”

“She does.”

“Isn’t that a good…”

I raised a brow.

“Right,” he corrected, scribbling something in his damn notepad. The scratching sound made my skin crawl.

“Damien,” he said, “you know this can’t go on forever. You need to talk to her.”

“I need those pills,” I interrupted. “The ones that keep me awake.”

He sighed, digging into his briefcase. “You’re addicted to not sleeping, you realize that?”

He tossed me the bottle. I caught it midair.

“Consider that my last act of friendship,” he said dryly.

“For once,” I murmured, “you’ve done something useful.”

He placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “Ouch.”

My phone buzzed, cutting him off. I glanced at the caller ID and felt the familiar chill.

“Father,” I muttered.

I answered. “Yes?”

“Dinner. Tonight. Bring your wife.”

“I have…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a moment. “Hell has extended an invitation,” I muttered.

Dr. Lawrence smirked. “Family dinner?”

“Something like that.”

He tilted his head. “What’s your wife’s name, anyway?”

I blinked. “Esther. Or something.”

He froze. “You don’t know her name?”

Before I could answer, a voice came from the doorway.

“You don’t know my name?”

I turned. She stood there, delicate but fierce, eyes locked on me.

Perfect. Another reason to hate mornings.

“Could you remind us?” I said dryly. “Dr. Lawrence seems curious.”

She didn’t speak. Her silence said enough.

“Yes,” I said instead, “my father wants to see us.”

Her eyes glossed with restrained tears. “Sure,” she said quietly, and left.

The door shut.

Dr. Lawrence looked at me like I’d kicked a puppy.

“What?” I snapped.

---

By evening, the air between us was thick enough to choke on. She sat beside me in the car, twisting her hands in her lap. She hadn’t said a word since morning.

I didn’t blame her.

The Wells mansion rose in the distance, tall and cold, a monument to power, and everything that ruins people.

Inside, Barry’s laughter echoed like poison. He sat at the table with a glass of wine, smirking before I even reached him.

“Well, look who crawled out of the gutter,” he said. “The bastard son and his shiny new bride, Elena.” Her name was sticking to my head this time.

John snickered. “Careful, Barry. Maybe she likes the thrill of being someone’s charity case.”

I ignored them and sat. Elena followed, silent, graceful, the calm to my storm.

“Damien,” Father said without looking up. “You’re late.”

“I didn’t realize punctuality mattered in a family that doesn’t eat together,” I said.

Barry grinned. “Careful, brother. That tone could cost you what little dignity you’ve managed to steal.”

“Enough,” Father warned. But Barry’s grin lingered.

Dinner passed in hostile silence. Every word tasted like venom.

Then, a touch.

Her hand slipped into mine under the table. Light. Warm. Steady.

She didn’t look at me. She didn’t have to.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. Forgot that I was the bastard, the outcast, the cursed reminder of my father’s sin. Her touch silenced the noise.

Something in my chest shifted, a strange, dangerous pull.

I pulled my hand away. I had to.

“I need air,” I muttered, standing abruptly.

Outside, the wind was sharp and cold. I welcomed it.

Footsteps followed. Barry.

“You think walking away makes you better?” he snarled.

“I think walking away saves me the boredom.”

He stepped closer, fury boiling in his voice. “Say something, you arrogant…”

His fist connected with my jaw.

I didn’t move. Didn’t react.

Then,

“Enough!”

Father stood in the doorway.

Barry instantly clutched his cheek. “He hit me first!”

Liar.

“Both of you,” Father ordered coldly. “Ten lashes.”

I smiled. “Of course.”

The whip cracked through the courtyard, slicing the night air.

I didn’t flinch.

But her scream did it.

“Let me go! Please, he didn’t do anything!” Elena’s voice tore through the silence.

Brian’s calm cruelty followed. “You don’t want to see this, sister-in-law.”

I closed my eyes. She shouldn’t have seen this. Not this part of me.

Hours later, I sat shirtless on the bed. The sting was still alive on my back.

Elena entered, carrying a bowl of warm water and a towel.

“Don’t,” I said. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she whispered, kneeling behind me. “But I want to.”

Her touch burned, not from pain, but gentleness. Her breath brushed my shoulder with every movement.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have seen it.”

She ignored me, cleaning each wound carefully.

“Why do you let them do that to you?” she asked softly.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I said. “They’ve already decided who I am.”

She stopped. “You’re wrong. You’re more than what they think.”

Her voice, small, fierce, unshaken, cracked something in me.

When she finished, she stayed still. The silence between us shifted. Heavy. Electric.

I turned slightly. Our faces were inches apart.

“Elena…” I began, but she cut me off.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore, Damien.”

Before I could speak, her lips crashed into mine.

The kiss was soft, desperate, like she was trying to erase everything ugly that had touched me.

I froze, then exhaled against her mouth, torn between restraint and surrender.

I breathed her name, a whisper against her mouth and suddenly, my heart began to skip several beats.

I couldn't be reacting this way because of a kiss. Or could I?