CRASHING INTO YOU

EPISODE FIVE: BETWEEN PRETEND AND TRUTH

CHAPTER FIVE: BETWEEN PRETEND AND TRUTH

The bell above the café door jingled as I stepped inside.

The warm scent of fresh pastries and roasted coffee beans wrapped around me, and for a fleeting second, I felt… normal. I ordered my coffee and two butter croissants — one for me, one for Dad — and moved aside to wait.

Then I heard a voice I knew far too well.

“Well, well… Leah.”

The sound slid down my spine like ice. I turned, and there she was — Isla. My former best friend. The girl who once knew all my secrets. The girl who, until last year, I would’ve sworn would never betray me.

She smiled like we’d bumped into each other at a high school reunion. “It’s been a while. You just disappeared.”

A thousand things I wanted to say lodged in my throat. My tongue felt heavy, my chest tight. She slid into the seat she’d just stood from, the one across from me, and my stomach dropped — because sitting there now, leaning back like he owned the place, was Ryan.

My ex.

The man I’d loved for seven years.

Isla lifted her left hand, and the diamond on her finger caught the light. “We’re getting married,” she announced, her voice dripping with the smugness of someone who thinks she’s won. “You’re invited, of course.”

Before I could even form a reply, Ryan stood, circling the table until he was right in front of us. He slipped his arm around Isla’s waist like a trophy he wanted to show off.

“It’s good I left you, Leah,” he said, his smirk sharp enough to cut. “My life’s been better since I chose Isla.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I’d told myself I’d moved past this — past them. But there it was again: the ache in my chest, the heat of humiliation in my cheeks.

I swallowed it down. No way was I giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. I turned to leave.

That’s when his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. “Oh, so now you’re too good to talk to us? Who do you think you are?”

I yanked back, but he tightened his grip, the muscles in his forearm tensing like a challenge. My pulse hammered in my ears.

Then — in one fluid motion — my hand was freed. Ryan staggered backward, his hand flying to his jaw as a fist connected squarely with his face.

He hit the ground hard.

I turned sharply, my breath catching. Damian stood over him, his expression as cold and lethal as a blade fresh from the forge.

“How dare you touch her,” he said, his voice low but carrying enough steel to silence the whole café. He grabbed my hand — not gently, but firmly, as if to make sure no one else tried — and led me outside.

Around the car, he opened the passenger door for me without a word. I climbed in.

The moment we pulled away, the tears came. I tried to blink them back, but the sting was relentless, and soon the sobs broke through. Every betrayal, every humiliation from that day a year ago came rushing back, raw and unfiltered.

Damian didn’t say anything. Just reached for the tissue box in the console and handed me one, his eyes fixed on the road.

After a while, when my breathing finally evened out, I realized something strange — we weren’t heading home. In fact, we’d been circling the same streets for a while.

“You okay now?” he asked, glancing briefly at me.

I nodded.

He pulled into a parking space in front of a small store. “I’ll be right back.”

It threw me off. Damian never explained himself, never asked how I was doing. That wasn’t him.

He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of wine and a paper bag. Neither of us spoke until we were back at the penthouse. I was halfway to my room when he called after me.

“Wait.”

I turned. He was already in the kitchen — the open one in the living area — pulling two glasses from the cabinet. He set them down, uncorked the wine, and poured.

“I think we both need this,” he said simply.

We sat at the counter, and for the first time since our marriage, we talked. Not about the arrangement, not about rules — about us.

He told me about losing his parents. I told him about Ryan, about the accident, about the hospital. It felt strange — not quite confessional, but closer than we’d ever been.

When I finished, Damian leaned back, studying me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Then I guess I should thank him,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “If he hadn’t cheated, I wouldn’t have met you.”

I laughed. He did too. It was… nice.

I stood, ready to retreat to my room, but Damian rose too.

Each step he took toward me had me backing up until my spine hit the wall. I tried to slip to the side, but he braced one hand on the wall beside my head, trapping me there.

His eyes locked on mine, and for the first time, I noticed the color — deep, sharp, and impossible to look away from. He smelled faintly of something expensive and clean, and my heart pounded harder.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

Then he kissed me — a single, soft press of lips that stole my breath. He pulled back, almost as if to leave… but I grabbed his shirt and pulled him in again.

This time, it was hungry. His hands found my waist, pulling me close, his height forcing me onto my toes to reach him.

With Ryan, I’d always been taller. With Damian, I felt small — not weak, but wrapped in something stronger than I could push away.

I felt his fingers at the buttons of his shirt as I tugged them open, my own hands trembling. He slid my zipper down, then lifted me easily, his hands gripping my hips, holding me as if I weighed nothing at all.

The first thing I noticed was the ceiling — high, painted white, with crown molding I’d never seen before. It wasn’t my room.

I blinked a few times, trying to orient myself. My head was pounding, my mouth dry, and the sheets beneath me felt far too soft to be my own. When I turned my head, my breath caught.

This was Damian’s room.

It was bigger than my entire old apartment — dark wood furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the air.

Then I realized… I was naked.

Heat rushed to my cheeks as flashes of last night returned — the wine, the laughter, the kiss that had turned into something far more dangerous. His hands on me. My fingers tangled in his shirt. The sound of his voice when he’d whispered my name.

I groaned softly, covering my face with my hands. What had I done?

The space beside me was empty. No Damian. No note. Nothing but the heavy silence of the morning — or afternoon, judging by the light streaming through the windows.

I scrambled out of bed, wrapped the sheet around me until I could find my dress on the floor, and hurried to my own room. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding — not just from the memory, but from the question I didn’t want to ask myself: had he left because of what happened?

It was Saturday. He should’ve been home.

For a moment, a stupid, irrational panic gripped me. What if he regretted it so much that he didn’t even want to be in the same place as me?

Shaking it off, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and that’s when I saw them — eight missed calls from the care home.

My stomach dropped.

I hit redial so fast I almost fumbled the phone.

“Hello? This is Leah,” I said breathlessly. “I missed your calls — is my father okay?”

The woman on the other end spoke quickly. “Your father went into shock earlier this morning. We rushed him to the hospital and tried reaching you. Everything is stable now, but—”

I braced myself.

“—your husband is here with him.”

I froze. “My… husband?”

“Yes. He’s been here since they brought your father in.”

For a second, I just stood there, phone pressed to my ear, as if I’d misheard her. Damian? At the hospital? With my father?

I didn’t wait for more explanation. I grabbed my keys and left, my heart in my throat the entire drive.

At the hospital, I practically ran to the reception desk. “Leah—Damian’s wife,” I blurted. “Where’s my father?”

The nurse glanced at her chart, then gestured toward a private wing. “Room 304. VIP section.”

VIP. My father had never been in a VIP section in his life.

I followed the quiet, polished hallway until I reached the room. The door was half open, and I pushed it gently.

There he was.

Damian sat on the couch in the corner, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t on his phone, wasn’t looking at the clock — just watching my father sleep, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, I stood in the doorway, unsure what to say.

Because in that instant, I realized something: Damian had no idea about my real life, my real history, the truth behind everything that had happened to me. To him, I was still the woman he’d painted for his grandfather — the one from a wealthy family, the one who’d never struggled, the one who didn’t have scars.

And yet… here he was.