CH 12
It was well past midnight when Damian finally pushed open the grand oak doors of his family estate. The weight of the day clung to him like the stale scent of his cologne. His tie hung askew, and his shirt was damp with sweat from the day’s turmoil. RareGem’s latest crisis had kept him chained to his desk—an aggressive new competitor had shaken the market, sending their stocks plummeting. Exhaustion pressed down on him, but sleep was the last thing his restless mind would allow.
The estate was quiet except for the faint hum of the central air system. The scent of lavender polish greeted him as he stepped inside—a sharp reminder of his mother’s obsession with order and appearances. Damian barely nodded at the butler, who inclined his head with polite detachment, but it wasn’t the servant’s presence that made him pause.
“Damian! You’re back!”
His mother’s voice rang out, unnaturally bright for the hour. She appeared in the foyer, her golden silk robe shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her eager smile was far too suspicious, even for her.
He sighed, already tugging at his cufflinks as he trudged toward the staircase. “Good evening, Mom.”
“How was work?” she asked, following closely behind.
“Productive,” he muttered, the sarcasm in his tone evident as he barely slowed his pace.
“I made dinner,” she pressed, her tone softening. “Won’t you eat something? You look like you haven’t eaten all day.”
Damian hesitated at the base of the staircase, her words tugging at a thread of guilt he didn’t want to examine too closely. His mother’s concern wasn’t new, but tonight it felt more pointed.
“I’m not hungry—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand brushing his arm. “You look like you’re wasting away.”
Before he could argue, a deep voice rumbled from the dining room.
“If the boy doesn’t want to eat, Isabella, let him be. He’s as stubborn as his father.”
Damian pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly, suppressing the retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode toward the dining room. He might as well get it over with.
The polished table gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier, laden with an impressive spread of dishes. His mother’s triumphant smile greeted him as he pulled out a chair, her victory evident in the smug arch of her brow.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the serving spoon.
Isabella settled into her chair, her expression shifting to one of careful calculation. “So,” she began, her voice laced with feigned nonchalance, “how was work, really?”
Damian didn’t look up from his plate. “Fantastic,” he said dryly. “We only lost a quarter of our stock value today. Could’ve been worse.”
Isabella winced but didn’t falter. “Where’s Enzo? I haven’t seen him all week.”
“You have his number,” Damian replied, scooping a generous portion of rice onto his plate.
“I’d rather hear it from you,” she said sweetly, leaning forward. “Speaking of people we haven’t seen, I spoke to Odelia today. She’s free this weekend. You should meet her.”
Damian’s fork paused mid-air, the weight of her words sinking in. “Mom,” he said, his tone low and deliberate, “we’ve been over this. I’m not interested.”
“And I’m not giving up,” she shot back, her smile unyielding.
“You’ll give up when I’m married,” he replied flatly, resuming his meal.
From the far end of the table, his grandfather let out a dry chuckle. “Well, that’s never going to happen if he keeps turning down every girl.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath.
The older man leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Maybe you’ll surprise us. Maybe you’ve already got someone hidden away.”
The words struck a nerve Damian hadn’t realized was raw. He smirked, the expression more bitter than amused. “Actually, I do.”
His mother’s fork clattered onto her plate. “What? Who?”
“You’ll meet her soon,” Damian said, shoveling another forkful of rice into his mouth to cut off the conversation.
His grandfather laughed loudly, shaking his head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Damian stood abruptly, brushing off his hands. “Good night, Grandpa. Mom.”
---
The hot spray of the shower did little to ease the tension in Damian’s shoulders. He leaned against the tiled wall, letting the water cascade over him as his mind raced. The day’s chaos had been relentless, but it wasn’t RareGem’s plummeting stocks or his family’s meddling that occupied his thoughts now.
Stepping out, he grabbed a towel and his phone from the counter. A single notification blinked on the screen—a message from Arian, one of his closest friends.
[Thought you’d find this interesting.]
Attached was a file. Damian hesitated for a moment before opening it, his curiosity piqued. As the document loaded, his pulse quickened, the words on the screen blurring for a moment before snapping into focus.
'Ivelle.'
The name leapt off the page, hitting him like a physical blow. His Ivelle.
He scrolled through the document, each line a punch to the gut. She had been adopted by the Hudsons during an overseas trip, moving from the States to Italy. She owned a matchmaking firm—*The Luxe Affair*—which had recently merged with an event planning company.
Then came the detail that made his blood run cold.
'Engaged to Arden Marino.'
Damian’s hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white. He knew the name—Arden Marino was a smug, entitled socialite he’d met once at a gala. The thought of Ivelle tied to someone like that made his stomach churn.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, his mind spinning. Could she really have moved on? Had she forgotten him so easily?
His phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Irina, his assistant, reminding him of his upcoming matchmaking consultation. Damian stared at the message, a plan already forming in his mind.
Grabbing his phone, he dialed Irina’s number. She answered groggily, her voice thick with sleep. “Sir?”
“Reschedule the matchmaking consultation,” he said sharply.
“But I thought you wanted—”
“Just do it, Irina,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. He ended the call before she could protest.
Damian leaned back against the headboard, his thoughts a chaotic storm. If it was her—if Ivelle was truly here—he had to see her. To know the truth.
Whispering a quiet prayer into the stillness, he closed his eyes. “Let it be her.”
---
Downstairs, Isabella sat across from her father-in-law, her expression tight.
“He’s lying,” the old man said gruffly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
“Of course he is,” Isabella replied, her voice soft but resolute. “But I’ll make sure Odelia comes around. He can’t avoid her forever.”
Her father-in-law snorted, shaking his head. “He needs to move on. That girl—what was her name?”
Isabella’s lips thinned. “He never told me, but it doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”
The words felt hollow, even as she said them. Deep down, Isabella knew Damian wasn’t just stubborn. He was grieving.
And that worried her more than she cared to admit.