Damien Sterling

Chapter 20: I Shouldn't Care, But I Do

(Damien's POV)

I walked away.

Because if I didn't, I was going to do something stupid.

Like apologize.

Like tell her I wasn't like my father.

Like stay and figure out why the hell it bothered me to see her cry.

I should have been used to this.

I had spent years watching people break.

But this time?

This time, I hated it.

---

I didn't go back to my office.

Didn't go to the gym.

Didn't do anything except storm into my room and slam the door behind me.

Because for the first time in a long time, I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me.

Why I was still hearing her voice in my head.

"You're no better than him."

"I hate you."

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply.

I should have fought back.

I should have told her she was wrong.

But the problem was—

I wasn't sure if she was.

I sighed, leaning against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

She wanted to leave.

She wanted to get away from me.

And that shouldn't have pissed me off as much as it did.

---

By the time I walked downstairs, the dining table was already set.

Sophia was there. My mother was there. Richard was there.

Ava wasn't.

I sat down, ignoring the weight in my chest.

Sophia glanced at me, raising a brow. "Where's your fiancée?"

I ignored her.

Richard smirked. "Sulking, I assume."

I clenched my jaw. "She's upset."

Richard took a sip of his whiskey, unbothered. "She'll get over it."

Something in me snapped.

"Maybe if you didn't threaten her family, she wouldn't have to."

The table went silent.

Richard finally looked up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I said coldly.

His lips curled. "I did what was necessary."

I exhaled slowly, my fists tightening under the table. "You didn't have to go that far."

Richard set his glass down, his eyes turning sharp. "And since when do you care what happens to her?"

I didn't answer.

Because I didn't know.

And that?

That was the worst part.

---

I found myself standing in front of her room.

Not knocking. Not speaking.

Just standing there.

Because for some stupid reason, I wanted to know if she was okay.

I wanted to know if she was still crying.

I wanted to know if she still hated me as much as she said she did.

I exhaled sharply, turning away.

Because none of that mattered.

Because she wasn't supposed to matter.

And yet—

I still hated the fact that she wouldn't come out.

That she was hiding.

That I was the reason for it.

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