The wife the Ruthless Billionaire Couldn’t Keep

Damien’s pov The day I caught my wife betraying me, I didn't lose my marriage. I lost the last piece of myself that still believed people could be trusted. "Mr. Vale, the board is waiting." My assistant's voice barely registers. I'm already walking, already buttoning my jacket, already wearing the face they expect from me. By the time I push through the boardroom doors, there's nothing left of the man underneath. Just Damian Vale. CEO. Untouchable. Twelve men sit around the table. Twelve men who won't meet my eyes for longer than a second. "Gentlemen." I take my seat at the head of the table. "Tell me why I shouldn't fire whoever approved the Hendricks contract without my signature." Nobody answers. Good. Silence means they're finally learning. Thomas Reyes, my CFO, clears his throat. "It was a judgment call, Damian. We thought "You thought." I let the words sit there, cold and flat. "I don't pay you to think, Thomas. I pay you to check with me before you sign anything with my name on it." He nods, jaw tight, and doesn't argue. Nobody argues with me anymore. That's the thing about losing everything once you learn exactly how much control costs, and you make sure you never run short of it again. The meeting drags for two more hours. Numbers, projections, a merger nobody in this room has the spine to push back on. I sign what needs signing and reject what needs rejecting, and the entire time, some small, useless part of my brain drifts somewhere I don't let it go anymore. Six years ago, I sat in a room just like this one, except back then I still smiled at people. Back then I still believed the woman waiting for me at home actually wanted to be there. I shove the thought down before it finishes forming. It doesn't get to ruin my afternoon. "That's all for today," I say, standing before anyone can ask another question I don't want to answer. Alexander catches me in the hallway outside my office, two files under his arm and that look on his face that means he's about to say something I won't like. "You were harder on Reyes than usual," he says. "He deserved it." "He's been with the company nine years." "And in nine years he should've learned not to sign anything without me." I push my office door open. "Was there something else, or did you just want to critique my management style?" Alexander doesn't flinch. He's the only person left who doesn't. "Your father called the office. Twice. He said your phone's been off." I glance at my phone. Six missed calls. All from him. Something in my chest tightens before I can stop it. My father doesn't call twice. He calls once, leaves a message, and waits for me to get back to him on my own time. Twice means something's wrong. "Thank you," I say, already reaching for my phone. "Close the door on your way out." Alexander hesitates like he wants to say more, then nods and leaves me alone. I call my father back standing at the window, looking down at a city that's made me richer than I ever thought I'd be and hasn't made me happy for a single day of it. He picks up on the second ring. "Damian." His voice is wrong. Thinner than it should be. Tired in a way I've never heard from him. "Dad. Alexander said you called twice. What's going on?" "Can you come by tonight? I need to talk to you." "About the merger? I told you I've got it handled…" "It's not about the company." That stops me. My father has never once called me about anything that wasn't the company. Business is our language. It's the only one we've ever been fluent in together. "Then what's it about?" A pause. Long enough that I pull the phone away from my ear just to check the call hasn't dropped. "Come tonight, Damian. Please." He's never said please to me in his life. "I'll be there by seven," I tell him, and I hang up before he can hear whatever's happening in my own voice. My father's house hasn't changed in twenty years. Same dark wood floors, same portraits of relatives I never met lining the staircase, same smell of the cedar he's always kept burning in the fireplace even in summer. I used to think it was the warmest place in the world. Tonight it feels like a funeral home. He's sitting in his study when I walk in, a glass of water in front of him instead of the scotch he'd normally have poured for both of us. That's the first thing that tells me this is serious. My father doesn't skip scotch. "You look terrible," I say, because it's easier than asking what I actually want to ask. "Thank you for that." He gestures at the chair across from him. "Sit down, son." I sit. I don't like how steady his eyes are, like he's already rehearsed whatever he's about to say. "Dad, you're scaring me. Just tell me what's wrong." "I saw Dr. Feldman on Tuesday." The room goes very quiet. "And?" I ask, though some part of me already knows I don't want the answer. "Pancreatic cancer. Stage four." He says it the way he'd report a bad quarter. Flat. Controlled. Like if he doesn't let it shake, it won't shake me either. "They're giving me months, Damian. Maybe less." I don't remember standing up, but I'm on my feet, both hands braced against the back of the chair like it's the only thing keeping the floor where it should be. "That's not…we'll get a second opinion. A third. There are treatments, there are trials, I'll fly in whoever we need to fly in "Damian." His voice cuts through mine, gentle but final. "I've already seen three specialists. This isn't something money fixes." I want to argue with him. I want to throw every dollar I have at this problem until it goes away, because that's what I do, that's the only tool I've ever trusted. But the look on his face tells me he's already made peace with something I haven't even let myself understand yet. "How long have you known?" I ask quietly. "Three weeks." "Three weeks." My voice cracks on the second word and I hate myself for it. "And you're only telling me now?" "I needed time to think about how I wanted to spend whatever's left." He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it, which tells you everything about how much this has already broken me. "Sit down, Damian. Please." I sit. My legs don't feel like they belong to me. "I've built a company," he says. "I've built a legacy. I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes. But I'm going to leave this world without the one thing I actually wanted." "What's that?" "To watch you happy. To know you weren't alone." "I'm not alone. I have the company, I have … "You have people who work for you and are afraid of you." His grip tightens on my hand. "That's not the same thing, and you know it." I look away first. I always do. "Dad, don't do this. Not tonight. Not like this." "When else, Damian? When would be a better time?" His eyes are wet, and I have never once in thirty-four years seen my father cry. "I watched Vivienne destroy you. I watched you close every door after her until there was nothing left of the boy who used to laugh at my terrible jokes. I let it happen because I thought you needed time." His voice breaks. "I don't have time to give you anymore." "So what do you want from me?" I ask, and it comes out harder than I mean it to, because anger is easier than whatever this actually is. He takes a breath, and for a second he looks like every version of himself I've ever known at once — the strict father, the brilliant founder, the man who taught me how to tie a tie and how to close a deal in the same afternoon. "Before I leave this world, Damian… I want to see you married." I stare at him like he's lost his mind. "Married. Now. To who, exactly? You want me to propose to a stranger because you had a bad appointment with an oncologist?" "I already found a solution."