CHAPTER 30
Damien’s POV
I sat in silence for a long time, the document still open on my desk, the edges curling beneath my fingers.
Genevieve’s name stared back at me, bold and inarguable in transaction logs and email metadata.
I couldn’t reconcile it. The woman who had stood beside me through everything and had been such a great friend–why would she involve herself in something like this? Why target Celeste?
I groaned, my head swimming with confusion, my heart constricting from the rising emotions.
And yet, I couldn’t just go to her–not when she had walked away with that terrifying calm, as if everything between us had meant nothing. Not when she had thrown away her ring and hadn’t looked back.
But I could fix this, I could clean up the mess, silence the voices, and push back against the vultures circling her name.
I can protect her. Even if she doesn’t want me to.
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the edge of my desk–where a photo sat half–obscured beneath a folder.
Oh, Celeste…
She wasn’t even looking at the camera in that shot–someone had caught her mid–step, sunlight brushing against her cheek, her hair swept back by the wind.
She looked… free. God, did she even know how much I missed her?
I reached out, my thumb brushing lightly against the edge of the photo. The faintest tremble traveled down my arm before I snatched my hand back and exhaled sharply.
Then I called my assistant. Mark entered, tablet in hand. “Sir?”
I stood. “Send an invitation to Celeste. For the gala.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t question it.
I continued, my voice cold and final, “Make sure it’s formal. Discreet, No one else needs to know it came from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to leave, but I wasn’t finished.
“Have someone keep an eye on the press c
coverage. If there’s even a hint of harassment at the event, I want the source buried before it sees daylight.”
“Yes, sir,” he repeated before slipping out.
1/3
+20 Bonus
I sat back down, forcing the air from my lungs.
It wasn’t for me, but for her. At least, that’s what I told myself. But deep down, I knew better.
Yet the memory of her indifference during the divorce, the way she seemed almost… unbothered afterward, gnawed at me.
She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t begged. She hadn’t even hesitated. She’d just walked away like I was nothing more than another closed chapter in her life.
And here I was–Damien Vaughn, a man who commanded boardrooms and bent industries to my will–now debating whether or not to call my ex–wife.
So pathetic.
I tapped my fingers against the desk, thinking of a possible excuse to call her. Then, like a lifeline tossed by my own pride, it came to me. I grabbed the phone and hit dial. The moment her name appeared on the screen, my pulse kicked up.
Stay calm. Keep it casual.
She picked up after the third ring.
“Hi, Celeste,” I said, voice even. “Just a heads–up–there are still some of your things at the house.”
Silence.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. “I had someone c delivered. If not, I’ll toss them,”
clear out the last of it. If you want them, I’ll have them
More s
silence.
I couldn’t tell if she was caught off guard or just refusing to give me the satisfaction of a response.
Damn it, say something.
And then–finally, I heard her voice. Cool and detached.
“I already have everything that I need. Just throw it all away.”
The line cut like a blade, cleaner than it had any right to.
I stared at the phone for a second longer than necessary, resisting the urge to say something–anything–that might make her stay on the line.
But I had too much pride for that. So I leaned back again, letting my voice fall into something casual and careless.
“Oh,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me, “you might as well come to the charity gala. Your name’s on the list, anyway.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time–it was heavy and measured. And then her answer came, cool as ever. “I’m not interested.” Then a click followed, signaling that she’d already ended the call.
2/3
+20 Bonus
My jaw clenched, knuckles tightening around the phone. It hit harder than I expected. Harder than it should have.
My good intentions–whatever the hell they even were–thrown right back in my face like I was nothing more than a stranger selling invitations to pity.
Goddammit! Why did she always have to be this stubborn?
