Chapter 9 : Not broken
1122 Words
Clara’s POV
“My mother.” I say it fast, already reaching for my bag, hoping brevity will let me get past him without more questions. “Family emergency. I have to go.”
“Go where?” Damian steps closer instead of letting me pass, his eyes sharp with concern. “Clara, what happened?”
“I don’t have time to explain right now, I just need to get downstairs.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, my hands shaking too badly to manage the clasp properly.
“Then let me walk you down.” He falls into step beside me before I can argue, matching my pace toward the elevator. “What kind of emergency? Is she hurt?”
“Her heart. She collapsed at home.” The words come out clipped, tight, everything in me focused on getting to St. Agnes as fast as possible. “Mia’s with her already. I just need to go.”
“Of course.” He presses the elevator button, then studies my face while we wait, something calculating behind his concern. “Do you have a way to get there? Do you need me to call a car?”
“I already called one.” The elevator doors open, and I step inside, expecting him to stay behind. He doesn’t.
“What hospital?” he asks, stepping in after me.
“St. Agnes Memorial. Damian, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” The doors close, and he leans against the wall, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight. “Is this the same hospital from before? The heart condition you mentioned?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate further, my mind already racing ahead to the waiting room, to Mia’s shaking voice on the phone, to everything that could be happening right now while I’m standing in this elevator.
“I remember you mentioning it a few weeks ago. When you were trying to explain the resignation letter.” He says it carefully, like he’s testing whether I’ll shut the conversation down entirely. “You said medical bills were part of it.”
“They are.” My voice stays clipped, though something in his tone makes it harder to keep the wall up completely. “It’s expensive. Chronic conditions usually are.”
“How expensive?” he asks, quiet now, genuinely asking rather than prying.
“More than I want to discuss in an elevator, Damian.” I press my palm against my eyes for a second, willing the panic to recede just long enough to get through the next twenty minutes. “Please. Not right now.”
“Clara.” His voice softens, careful now. “The bill for tonight. For whatever she needs. I want to cover it.”
“No.” The word comes out immediately, sharp enough that it startles even me. “Absolutely not, Damian.”
“Clara, just let me—”
“I said no.” The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and I step out fast, needing the distance, needing air that doesn’t feel so thick with his attention. “I don’t need you to fix this for me.”
“I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m trying to help.” He follows me across the marble floor, his voice carrying an edge of frustration now, something rawer underneath the calm. “Why is that so impossible for you to accept?”
“Because I’ve spent six years making sure I never once became someone you had to take care of.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate how exposed it makes me feel, standing in the middle of the lobby with security watching us both. “I’m not a charity case.”
“I never said you were.”
“Then stop offering me money like I am one.” I round on him, six years of careful composure finally giving way to something hot and uncontained. “You don’t get to swoop in with a checkbook every time something goes wrong in my life, Damian. That’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.”
“Clara—”
“You want to help? Fine. Approve the raise you already promised me for the merger project and let that be enough.” My voice shakes, equal parts fury and fear, everything I’ve held back for six years finally spilling out in the worst possible place. “I don’t need rescuing. I need you to stop treating me like something broken that money can fix.”
“That’s not what I think of you.” He reaches for my arm, and I step back before he can touch me, the movement sharp enough that a passing security guard glances over.
“I have to go.” My voice comes out unsteady, panic and anger tangled together so tightly I can’t separate them anymore. “My mother needs me. I don’t have time for this conversation right now.”
“Clara, please, just let me finish—”
“I’m done finishing conversations with you today, Damian.” The words come out sharper than anything I’ve said to him in six years, and I watch something in his face actually flinch at the sound of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I turn and walk out through the revolving doors before he can say another word, my heels striking hard against the pavement, my car already waiting at the curb. I don’t look back to see his expression. I don’t trust myself to look back at all, not with my hands still shaking and my chest still burning with everything I just said.
I climb into the car and give the driver the hospital address, and only once we’re moving, only once the office building is shrinking behind us in the side mirror, do I let myself think about the stunned look on his face when I snapped at him. Six years, and I’ve never once raised my voice to Damian Cole.
Something about tonight, about the fear and the exhaustion and the sheer impossibility of everything happening at once, finally cracked the composure I’ve spent six years building around myself. I don’t know if I regret it. I don’t have room to examine that right now, not with my mother waiting somewhere in that hospital and my sister counting the minutes until I arrive.
I press my forehead against the cool window and close my eyes, willing the car to move faster, willing my heart to slow down enough that I can actually think straight by the time I reach St. Agnes.
- Writer
