The Fine Print of Us

Chapter Eighteen - I Choose You

The elevator chimed long after the sun had disappeared behind the skyline. The moment Mara heard the soft sound of polished shoes across the marble floor, her heart squeezed in her chest.

Damien stepped inside, looking like he carried the weight of Manhattan on his shoulders. His shirt was undone at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. He looked exhausted—unshaven, sharp-eyed, and far too handsome for someone who'd likely spent his entire day going for blood.

Mara didn’t wait.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest before he could say a word.

His arms closed around her instantly, tight and grounding.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to. He just held her like he’d been waiting all day to come home to this exact moment.

“I know what you did,” she whispered into his shirt.

Damien stiffened slightly, then relaxed again. “Ivy told you.”

She nodded, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “She showed me everything. You went after him for me.”

“I’d do it again,” he said without hesitation. “He dragged you into something ugly. He wanted to humiliate you to get to me. So I made sure he regrets it. I’ll burn anyone who thinks you’re collateral damage.”

Her throat tightened.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she felt. “I love you so much it scares me.”

Damien’s expression shattered—something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. Then he kissed her, hard, like the words had ripped the air from his lungs and she was the only way to breathe again.

She clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.

And maybe he was.

Damien didn’t need her to say more. He saw it in her eyes. She wasn’t just overwhelmed—she was raw. Stripped open by what that bastard had done, by what it could’ve cost her. And now, with it all out in the open, with his vengeance behind them, she wasn’t letting go.

He felt the tremble in her hands as she pulled at his shirt. She was quiet, but her body was screaming. Not for words. For connection. For grounding.

For him.

“Mara,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “You sure?”

“I need to feel you,” she whispered, already pressing kisses to his jaw, his throat, like she couldn’t get close enough. “I need this. I need you.”

God help him. That kind of desperation—he’d burn the world down if it meant she never felt that afraid again.

He scooped her up in his arms, her legs wrapping around him like muscle memory, and carried her straight to their bed. She didn’t stop touching him the whole way. Her hands were under his shirt, sliding against bare skin like she couldn’t get enough. Her kisses were frantic. Uncoordinated. She wasn’t trying to seduce him. She was trying to anchor herself.

He understood that better than anyone.

When he laid her down, he followed her, his hands moving slow but firm. His mouth found hers and stayed there until her breathing eased beneath him. Until the tension in her limbs turned to need, not panic.

“I’ve got you,” he told her softly, lips brushing her temple. “You don’t have to hold it together with me. Not here.”

She nodded, her eyes glassy, but her mouth found his again.

So he gave her what she needed.

All of him.

Every touch, every kiss, every inch of skin—meant to remind her she was safe. That she was wanted. That he would never stop protecting her, even from the shadows of her past.

Tonight wasn’t about dominance or heat. It was about being hers. About loving her with a quiet kind of intensity that said: I’m not going anywhere.

And when her hands finally stilled on his chest, when she drifted into sleep curled against him, Damien kept his promise.

He didn’t let go.

Mara woke to the warm weight of sunlight spilling through the curtains, but the other side of the bed was cold.

Damien was gone.

She reached for the pillow anyway, burying her face in it. His scent lingered—clean, sharp, unmistakably him. She curled into it for a few moments longer, letting her body remember the way he held her last night. The way he gave her everything without hesitation, as if she was worth the war he’d chosen to wage.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

With a sigh, she dragged her arm out from under the covers and squinted at the screen.

Ivy: He did it. The statement’s live. Check the firm’s site and their socials. And don’t panic. He handled it perfectly.

Her heart skipped.

She sat up in bed, tugging the sheets with her, and quickly opened the link Ivy had sent. The moment she saw the firm’s official letterhead and Damien’s signature at the bottom of the press release, her chest squeezed.

“It has come to our attention that private photos and information concerning my personal relationship were unlawfully and maliciously leaked to the media. The individual responsible—Andrew Reinhart—violated boundaries, betrayed confidences, and intentionally sought to damage the reputation of someone I care deeply about.

Let it be clear: Mara Lennox is not a scandal. She is not leverage. She is a woman of immense talent, strength, and grace, and any attempt to frame her as collateral damage in a personal vendetta will be met with legal consequences.

Our firm will be pursuing action accordingly. I stand beside Mara without apology. We are not hiding. We are not ashamed. We are moving forward—together.

—Damien Blackthorn”

Mara’s hands trembled as she lowered the phone.

He hadn’t just protected her behind closed doors.

He’d declared it. To the world.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Instead, she rose from the bed slowly, every muscle aching from last night, from the storm of emotion she hadn’t fully processed yet.

But this—this public statement—it wasn’t just defense.

It was devotion.

He was claiming her in the same way he did every time he looked at her like she was it. Like she was home.

She reached for her robe and tied it around her, already heading toward the kitchen. If he was home, she’d find him. If he wasn’t—she’d wait.

And when he came back, she’d be ready.

Because Damien Blackthorn had just made it impossible to keep pretending this wasn’t real.

Damien didn’t bother to stand when the door opened.

Andrew Reinhart entered the office like a man walking into a courtroom where he already knew the verdict. His face was pale, his eyes darting to the leather chair in front of Damien’s desk but never quite settling. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Good.

“Sit,” Damien said flatly, not looking up from the papers he was signing.

Andrew did.

“I assume you’re here to apologize,” Damien continued, voice calm—measured—but laced with ice.

“I—I didn’t think it would blow up like this.” Andrew’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for it to get so personal—”

Damien’s eyes cut up from the page. “You leaked private photos of a woman. You fed gossip outlets lies and innuendo. You turned your bitterness into ammunition. And now you sit here telling me you didn’t mean for it to get personal?”

Andrew flinched.

Damien set down the pen with precision and leaned back in his chair.

“You came for Mara to get to me. That was your first and last mistake.”

“Look—Damien—I was angry. She humiliated me. You humiliated me.”

“No,” Damien said, voice lowering to a deadly calm. “You humiliated yourself. You were a man who had everything handed to him and still couldn’t keep it together. And now? Now you’re just the coward who used a woman as a weapon. There’s no coming back from that.”

Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but Damien was already standing, slow and deliberate.

“You’re done here. In this city. I’ll make sure no one hires you again. No one touches your name without remembering what you did. Manhattan will chew you up and spit out your bones by the time I’m finished with you.”

Andrew looked like he might be sick. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Damien interrupted, stepping around the desk. “And I will. If you have any self-preservation left in that useless spine of yours, you’ll leave Manhattan and never look back. Because if I see your face again… you won’t like what happens next.”

He paused, voice dark and final.

“This was your warning. There won’t be another.”

Andrew stood shakily, then backed toward the door.

Damien didn’t watch him go.

He turned back to his desk, picked up the pen, and crossed Andrew’s name off a list.

It felt good.

Almost as good as knowing Mara would never have to face that coward again.

And that tonight, when he walked back into the penthouse, he’d be coming home to the woman he loved—untouched by Andrew’s poison. Safe.

His.