Married To My High School Bully

Chapter 9

Damien’s POV

I sat behind the sprawling glass expanse of my mahogany desk, my eyes glued to the empty space near the doorway where she had been standing less than ten minutes ago.

She hadn't let it show. She had kept her spine straight, her jaw set, and her chin tilted up in that infuriatingly stubborn posture of hers. But beneath the sharp banter and the defiant glare, I could sense it. I had hurt her. The realization settled heavy and cold in the pit of my stomach, twisting into a sharp, unfamiliar knot.

For the first time in more years than I cared to count, I felt completely off-balance.

The last time a feeling quite like this had hit me was back in boarding school—a place and time I spent most of my adult life actively trying to forget. In all honesty, when I backed her into a corner today, I had expected a completely different reaction. I had expected her to break down, to admit defeat, and to finally stop calling me by that ridiculous, lingering moniker. It sounded so awfully, painfully familiar. It was the exact way Benny used to say it, dragging out the syllables with that mix of exasperation and quiet defiance. The way Avery said it now... it cut straight through my armor.

Maybe orchestrating her termination hadn't been the right move. I tried to justify it to myself—she would have had to step down from that small-time accounting firm sooner or later anyway once our arrangement became public. But the woman simply had an uncanny knack for pressing every single one of my wrong buttons at the exact same time.

I needed to apologize. The mere thought felt alien, sliding awkwardly through my mind. I didn't know the first thing about apologizing to someone like her. What was I even supposed to say? I stood up and began pacing the plush rug of my top-floor office, running a hand through my hair as I tried to map out a strategy. What if she snapped? What if she decided the pressure was too much and walked away from the marriage altogether? My entire transition into the chairmanship hinged on this union running smoothly. I needed to execute damage control, and I needed to do it immediately.

An hour slipped by, and I was still pacing, trapped in my own head. Avery wasn't the kind of woman I could pacify with a designer handbag or an all-expenses-paid weekend in Paris. She wasn't shallow or status-obsessed like most of the women in my social circle. And then there was the strangest detail of all: she wasn't remotely attracted to me. Every other woman I interacted with seemed to fall over themselves trying to earn a second glance, yet Avery looked at me as if I were a mild inconvenience she was forced to endure. It was bizarre. I honestly began to wonder if someone had dropped her on her head when she was a baby.

The sudden, harsh chime of my desk phone shattered the quiet. I snatched up the receiver, my patience already worn down to a fraying thread.

"Mr. Kingsley?" my assistant’s polished voice wafted through the speaker.

"What is it?" I snapped, not bothering to mask my irritation.

"There is an urgent quarterly report that requires your immediate sign-off—"

"Not now," I cut her off.

"Sir, the department head said it is extremely time-sensitive—"

"Tell Sam to handle it," I commanded smoothly, stepping around the desk. "Postpone all my remaining appointments for the rest of the day."

Before she could offer another word of protest, I slammed the receiver back onto its base. I grabbed my car keys off the polished wood and headed for the private executive elevator. How hard could a simple apology possibly be?

Stepping out of the sleek interior of my car onto the quiet residential street, I paused to smooth down the front of my tailored suit jacket. I straightened my cuffs and began silently rehearsing my delivery.

Avery, I am deeply sorry for being... Avery, I shouldn't have crossed the line with your employer...

I walked up the short paved path to her front door. Just as I reached out to knock, the latch clicked, and the heavy wooden door swung inward. Seeing it unlocked, I stepped straight into the foyer.

The house was far from quiet. The smooth, rhythmic beat of Kelly Rowland’s I Like My Kisses Down Low was blaring through the living room speakers, vibrating through the floorboards. An interesting choice of music, to say the least. I strolled deeper into the house, knowing instantly that she was home alone. Her father was still at his office, and her mother had spent the morning dragged around town by mine, hunting down high-end wedding planners.

I turned the corner into the bright, open kitchen and came to a dead stop.

The sight that greeted me was nothing short of captivating. Avery was standing near the stove, dressed in a pair of tiny denim hot shorts and a fitted tank top. She was holding a wooden spatula like a stage microphone, singing along at the top of her lungs while rhythmically swaying her hips to the beat.

She was so entirely lost in her performance that she didn't hear me walk in. Not wanting to give the poor girl a heart attack, I leaned against the doorframe and cleared my throat with a deliberate, low raspy sound.

She spun around instantly. Her eyes swept over me, widening until they were practically dinner plates. Panic and embarrassment flashed across her features before she practically dropped the spatula into the stainless steel sink like a hot potato.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" she demanded, her cheeks flushing a deep, radiant pink.

"Just enjoying the performance," I said, allowing a slow, lazy smirk to tug at the corner of my mouth.

She scoffed loudly, brushing past me while maintaining as much physical distance as the hallway allowed. She retreated into the living room, grabbing the remote to turn the blaring music down.

"What do you want, Junior?" she asked, turning to glare at me with her hands on her hips.

There it was again. The nickname poked at a raw nerve. The girl truly did not possess the ability to listen.

"Would you please stop calling me that?" I snapped, the defensive irritation flaring up before I could check it.

"Why? What else am I supposed to call you?" She spun back around to face me, taking a step closer and holding my gaze without an ounce of fear. "Isn't that your actual name? Why do you suddenly look like you want to sever my head every single time I say it?"

She held her ground, her jaw set, her dark eyes flashing with pure fire. Damn, the girl had incredible spunk.

"It's just..." I paused, rubbing the back of my neck as I searched for a plausible lie. I couldn't exactly confess to my fiancée that the specific way she drawled Junior mirrored the exact tone of a girl I had harbored an embarrassing crush on throughout my teenage years. "I can't fully explain it. It's just a name people used for me when I was younger, and I feel like it doesn't fit who I am anymore. My name is Damien. You can call me Damien."

I took a slow breath, cutting straight to the point before I lost my nerve. "Look, I came here to apologize."

Her dark eyebrows shot clear up toward her hairline. "Someone pinch me. Apologize? You? The great Damien Kingsley?"

"You aren't making this easy for me," I growled lightly, crossing my arms over my chest. "Believe it or not, I am entirely capable of feeling remorse."

A soft, genuine chuckle escaped her lips. She walked over to the sectional couch in the center of the room and sank into the cushions, crossing her legs. "Go on then, big guy. Let's hear it. Apologize."

I cleared my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "I... I shouldn't have used my leverage to get you terminated from your firm. Though, in my defense, you were going to have to resign sooner or later once the wedding preparations picked up."

Avery tilted her head, giving me a deadpan stare. "That isn't an apology, Damien. That's a pathetic attempt at justification."

"Avery, come on," I sighed, taking a step toward the sofa. "I'm genuinely trying here. Look, how about we make a deal?"

She rolled her eyes, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You really love pulling those out of thin air, don't you?"

"That's precisely what makes me an extraordinary businessman," I countered smoothly.

"And completely full of it," she shot back without missing a single beat.

I let out a long, dramatic sigh of utter exasperation. How was it possible that she had managed to push half a dozen of my buttons in less than ten minutes?

"You need a position," I stated, changing tactics and adopting my professional tone. "After the ceremony and the honeymoon are wrapped up, you can step in as the head of the accounting division at Kingsley Enterprises. To be frank, you're vastly overqualified for anything less than a managerial role anyway. I already reached out to your former employer to clear the board."

She blinked, staring at me as if I had suddenly spoken in a foreign language. "You want me to come work for your company?"

I weighed my next words with extreme care. If I tripped up now, I would be forced to restart this entire humiliating process from square one. "Well, you wouldn't be reporting directly to my office. But technically speaking, yes." I let out another quiet sigh, holding out a hand. "Avery, please. Take the position. It's yours if you want it."

She went quiet, leaning back into the sofa cushions. I could almost hear the gears turning rapidly behind her expressive eyes as she carefully weighed the pros and cons of the offer.

"Fine," she finally said, pointing a slender finger in my direction. "I'll accept the position. But only on one condition."

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "Name it."

"Dinner. Tonight."

I frowned, caught completely off-guard by the request. "That's it? You just want dinner?"

"Yes," she said, a wicked, triumphant grin spreading across her face. "But I get to choose the location."

An hour later, I was standing on a cracked concrete sidewalk outside a weather-beaten wooden shack located several kilometers away from her family home. Above the entrance, a bent neon sign buzzed loudly, blinking the words Mama L's Burgers in bright, garish letters.

"This is really where you want to eat?" I asked in absolute disbelief, watching as Avery casually strolled up to the counter to place our orders. She looked entirely in her element, practically glowing with self-satisfied glee.

She turned around, flashing me a brilliant, mischievous smile. "Look at it this way, Damien: every time you cross me or pull a corporate stunt, I'm going to find creative ways to make you suffer."

The greasy takeaway spot was overwhelmingly crowded, and in my three-piece bespoke suit, I stood out like a sore thumb in a dark alley. Every single red plastic chair scatter-shot along the curb was occupied, meaning we had no choice but to stand on the pavement. The roar of passing traffic and shouting street vendors was nearly deafening.

Before long, a worker handed us two wrapped paper parcels. I took mine, staring down at the dripping paper in sheer horror. There was absolutely no way this concoction met basic health standards; the sheer volume of grease seeping through the wrapper was a legitimate hazard.

Avery, on the other hand, unwrapped her burger without a moment's hesitation and took a massive bite, chewing with pure, unadulterated delight as if she hadn't seen food in a week. Watching her eat suddenly brought back a faint memory of my mother mentioning off-handedly how much Avery adored good food.

"Well?" she prompted, her cheek bulging slightly as she pointed her burger at me. "Are you going to stand there judging it all night?"

I hesitated, then took a tiny, extremely cautious bite. I chewed slowly, letting the complex blend of heavy spices, smoky grilled meat, and melted cheese hit my palate.

"See?" she nudged my arm, her eyes sparkling under the neon light. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

I swallowed, keeping my expression entirely neutral. "It is... surprisingly edible."

She threw her head back and laughed—a rich, melodic sound that cut straight through the surrounding street noise. For the first time since we had been thrown back into each other's lives, I took a moment to truly look at her. I realized just how breathtakingly beautiful she was when she wasn't putting up armor, when she was genuinely, effortlessly happy.

A quiet, sudden realization bloomed in my chest: I wanted to be the reason she stayed that way.

The following morning was absolute chaos. My schedule was packed back-to-back, leaving me without even a spare moment to touch my morning coffee—a direct consequence of abandoning my executive duties halfway through the previous afternoon. Yet, despite the mounting workload, I had woken up in an exceptionally good mood. I had even stunned the main floor receptionist by flashing her a cheerful greeting on my way through the lobby.

My evening with Avery had been unexpectedly wonderful. She was clearly beginning to warm up to me, even if she kept a thick, invisible wall built firmly around her deepest thoughts.

I was sitting at my desk when Sam, my Chief Operating Officer and closest cousin, barged into the room without knocking. He dumped a massive stack of quarterly financial documents directly onto my glass desk. My morning coffee was already lukewarm. I pressed the intercom button to request a fresh cup from my assistant before Sam could launch into his usual frantic tirade about our daily targets.

"Damien?" Sam said, his voice unusually strained as I distractedly flipped open the top folder.

"Yeah, Sam?" I responded, keeping my eyes fixed on the financial figures.

"I don't suppose you've taken a single second to check your personal phone, your email, or any social media platforms today, have you?"

I frowned, still looking at the paperwork. "I haven't had the chance. I recall giving you explicit instructions yesterday to clear out my high-priority tasks, so I'm somewhat bewildered as to why my desk is still buried under mountains of work."

"Damien, stop reading for a second," Sam said, leaning over the desk. "You're trending."