(Damien's POV)
Her eyes glisten, and when she finally speaks, the words slice deeper than I expect.
"You're still going to accept the proposal," she says, her voice trembling but steady enough to hurt. "You're going to marry my sister. So why…" her throat tightens, "why should you do this to me?"
For a moment, I just stare at her.
The accusation — the certainty in it — doesn't just sting, it digs in under my skin.
"You think that's what this is?" I ask, my tone low but sharp. "That I'm—"
"Yes," she cuts in, her voice cracking now. "Isn't it? You're Damien Kane. You don't… you don't pull people close unless you're trying to get something from them. And I—" she swallows hard, "I'm not going to be some part of your game before you marry her."
I can't stop the faint twitch of my jaw.
For the first time in years, someone's looking straight at me and thinking they've got me all figured out — and they're wrong.
"I was trying to pry the answer out of you," I admit, stepping back just enough for the air between us to feel colder. "That's all. You think too highly of yourself if you believe I'd—"
Her face falls in a way that twists something in my chest, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral. If I let the softness show, I'll undo the walls I've spent too long building.
I run a hand over my jaw and look away, giving myself a second before my voice drops to something measured. "You should get some sleep."
I don't wait for her response.
Turning on my heel, I walk out of the bedroom without looking back, the sound of her uneven breathing still following me down the hall.
The guestroom door clicks softly behind me when I push it open.
It's quiet here — too quiet. I stand in the middle of the room for a long time, staring at the shadows stretching along the wall.
Her words replay in my head on a loop. You're still going to accept the proposal… why should you do this to me?
I tell myself it shouldn't matter. She shouldn't matter. She's a complication I don't need, a question I should have already answered and moved past.
But lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, I can still see the way her hands trembled. I can still hear the crack in her voice.
And I hate the way it follows me into the dark.