Damian’s POV
The storm had stopped sometime before dawn. Damian knew because he had heard the rain fade into silence, the steady beat on the roof reducing until only the occasional drip from the leaves remained. Now, at seven in the morning, the estate felt washed clean. The air carried a freshness he rarely noticed in New York, sharp and cool, sliding through the slightly open window of his bedroom.
He sat at the edge of his bed, tying the cuff of his shirt with deliberate precision. His movements were practiced, automatic, as though he could will order into himself by keeping his appearance flawless. It was a habit cultivated long ago, when Gregory’s eyes would run over him at breakfast and the smallest wrinkle in his shirt would earn a lecture on discipline.
But this morning, Damian’
