Chapter Fourteen: The Confession
1065 Words
Margo made him strip off his wet coat and sit by the gas stove with a blanket and a mug of soup.
Damian looked absurd — the billionaire CEO of Thorne Industries, wrapped in a quilt covered in cartoon lobsters, sipping chicken noodle soup like a penitent child. His hair was still damp, plastered to his forehead in dark curls. His expensive shirt was wrinkled beyond repair. His shoes squelched when he walked.
He had never looked less like a monster.
And he had never looked more human.
Lena sat across from him, her belly a mountain between them, her arms crossed protectively over the baby. The candles flickered. The wind howled. The rain hammered the windows.
"Talk," she said.
Damian set down the mug. His hands were trembling. She had never seen his hands tremble before. Not in boardrooms. Not at the gala. Not even when he had offered her twenty million dollars to kill their child.
"I went back to the east wing the morning you left," he said. His voice was quiet, raw. "The ring on the pillow. The books missing from the library. The smell of your shampoo still in the air." He paused. His throat moved. "I sat on your bed for six hours. I didn't move. I didn't eat. I just sat there."
"Why?"
"Because I finally understood what I'd lost."
He looked at her — really looked, the way he had that night in the library. His gray eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. He had been crying. He was still crying, though he was trying to hide it.
"You asked me once what we were doing," he said. "I said breaking every rule I wrote. But the truth is, Lena — I was breaking something else. I was breaking myself against you. And instead of telling you that, I offered you money to kill our child."
The word our hit Lena like a physical blow. She flinched. Her hand moved to her belly, protective and trembling.
"I was terrified," he continued. "My mother died bringing me into this world. Every doctor told my father she'd be fine. They said it was a routine pregnancy. A healthy baby. Nothing to worry about." His voice cracked. "She wasn't fine. And for twenty-four years, I've been convinced that if I loved anyone — truly loved them — I would lose them the same way."
Lena's breath caught. Her eyes burned.
"So I built walls," Damian said. "Contracts. Rules. Distance. I told myself I was protecting people. But I was just protecting myself." His hands clenched around the blanket. "And then you left. And I realized — the walls didn't protect me. They just made sure I was alone inside them."
The fire crackled. The wind howled. The baby kicked.
"Damian," Lena said softly. "Why are you really here?"
He set down the mug. Slowly, carefully, he knelt on the worn wooden floor in front of her.
This proud, cold, impossible man — on his knees.
He placed his hands on her belly. His palms were warm. His fingers were shaking.
The baby kicked against his palms.
His eyes filled with tears.
"Because I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm sorry, and I will spend the rest of my life making this right if you let me."
Lena stared at him.
The room was silent except for the storm. The candles flickered. The shadows danced. Margo had disappeared into the kitchen, giving them privacy, though Lena could see her silhouette in the doorway, watching.
She thought of everything. The contract. Twenty-three pages of poison. The cold salmon on her first night in the manor. The ultrasound in her coat pocket. The night he had followed her to the east wing bar, the night he had said "stay" in the dark, the night she had almost believed he could be human.
She thought of her father's voice: "Trust your gut."
Her gut said something else now.
Don't wait.
Don't make him wait.
She took his face in her hands — his sharp jaw, his stubbled cheeks, his beautiful broken eyes — and kissed him.
Not like the wedding. Not cold or clinical.
Like a homecoming.
When she pulled back, Damian was crying. Ugly, silent tears that tracked down his cheeks and dripped onto his shirt. His whole body shook. His hands pressed harder against her belly.
"I don't deserve this," he whispered.
"No," she agreed. "You don't."
She pressed his hands more firmly against her belly.
"But she does."
Damian's head snapped up. "She?"
"Margo says it's a girl. And Margo delivered forty-seven babies, so I'm trusting her."
A sound came out of Damian — not a laugh, not a sob, something in between. Something raw and real and broken. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to her belly.
"Hello, baby girl," he whispered. "I'm your father. I'm sorry I'm late. I'm going to do better."
The baby kicked — right against his forehead.
Lena laughed.
The sound surprised her. It was bright and full and real, and she hadn't made it in so long. It felt like coming home.
"We have a lot to talk about," she said. "Therapy. Boundaries. What happens when we go back to the city."
"I know."
"I'm not signing another contract."
"I wouldn't ask you to."
"And if you ever offer me money to leave again, I'll take it and disappear somewhere you'll never find me."
Damian looked up at her, his eyes still wet, his face open and vulnerable in a way she had never seen. "I would never—"
"You already did. Once." Lena's voice was steady. "I believe you've changed. But believing isn't forgetting. You have to earn my trust, Damian. Every day. For as long as it takes."
He nodded slowly. "I will."
"How do I know you mean it?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper — old, worn, the edges soft. Lena recognized it immediately.
The contract.
"Consider this my first act of good faith," he said.
He tore the contract in half.
Then in quarters.
Then eighths.
He let the pieces fall to the floor.
"New contract," he said. "One clause only."
"What's the clause?"
He took her hand. Pressed it to his heart.
"Love," he said. "That's the only clause. However long we have. However hard it gets. Love."
- Writer
