Chapter 5

"Damien's busy right now. Can I take a message?"

It wasn't his voice. It was hers. Carson.

A wave of cold dread washed over me, more chilling than the pain from my ribs.

Demetrius smirked, his eyes glittering with triumph. "Well, well, well. Look who answered the phone. Carson Wall. Put my cousin on the line."

There was a pause on the other end. Then Carson's voice, sharper now, laced with suspicion. "Who is this?"

"This is the man who has your boyfriend's little pet," Demetrius snarled. "And if he ever wants to see her again, he'll listen to my demands."

He hung up before she could reply.

He kicked my side again, for good measure. "So, he's with her. Figures."

I curled into a ball, my body screaming in pain. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the image in my head: Damien and Carson, together, while I was here, being beaten for his sake.

A deep, primal fear seized me. Not for myself, but for him. Demetrius was unhinged. He could ruin everything Damien had worked so hard for.

Just as Demetrius was about to order his men to hurt me again, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and his expression shifted. It was a private number.

He walked a few feet away, turning his back to me. His voice was low, but I could hear snippets of the conversation. "...Yes... The price we agreed upon... She's a mess, just like you wanted... Don't worry, he'll never find out it was you."

A deal. He had made a deal.

He hung up and walked back over to me, a look of cold satisfaction on his face. He sneered, then turned and walked out of the warehouse, leaving me with his two thugs.

I thought they were going to kill me. But a few minutes later, the door opened again.

It was Carson.

She walked in alone, her expensive heels clicking on the concrete floor. She looked at me, crumpled and bleeding, and her face was a mask of cool indifference. She handed one of the thugs a thick envelope of cash. They took it and left without a word.

"Get up," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion.

She helped me to my feet, her touch surprisingly strong. "I'm taking you to a hospital."

I couldn't speak. My jaw was throbbing, and I was sure some of my teeth were loose.

The hospital was a private clinic, clean and quiet. The doctor was discreet. He stitched my lip, checked my ribs, and fitted me for a temporary dental bridge to cover the gaps where my teeth had been knocked out.

Carson watched from the doorway, her arms crossed. When the doctor was finished, she stepped inside.

"Thank you," she said, her voice low. "For taking the beating that was meant for him."

She had arranged the whole thing. The threat from Demetrius, the kidnapping, the beating. It was all her. She had created a crisis only she could solve, making Damien even more indebted to her.

"What did you promise Demetrius?" I managed to ask, my words slurred.

"That's not your concern," she said sharply. "What is your concern is that I can protect Damien, and you can't. You saw it yourself. He left you in a burning building. He didn't answer your call. He has moved on. It's time for you to do the same."

I spent the next week healing, hiding in the apartment. I walked the city streets at night, revisiting the places that held our history. The cheap diner where we celebrated his first patent. The park where we used to sit for hours, planning a future that would never happen.

The city that had once felt like a promise now felt like a cage. I didn't belong here. I had built my entire world around Damien, and without him, I was just a ghost. He had put down deep roots here, but I was just a weed, easily pulled and discarded.

One evening, my phone rang. It was him.

"Where are you?" he asked, his voice tight with an emotion I couldn't place.

I told him the name of the park I was in. He was there in ten minutes.

"What are you doing out here alone?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over my bruised face.

"Remembering," I said. "Do you ever miss it, Damien? The struggle? The days when it was just us against the world?"

He was silent for a long moment. He looked out at the city skyline, at the gleaming towers that represented his success.

"No," he said finally, his voice flat and hard. "I don't. I hate that time. I hate being weak. I hate being a charity case."

His words were a final, brutal blow. Our past, the foundation I thought our love was built on, was a source of shame for him.

I wanted to ask him, 'Was I a part of that shame? Was my love just a reminder of a past you wanted to erase?'

But I didn't. I already knew the answer.

I forced a smile, the stitches in my lip pulling painfully. "You're right. We should both look forward, not back."