(Evelyn's POV)
The morning light spilled in through the curtains, soft and golden, but it did nothing to soften the man standing in the doorway. Damien leaned against the frame with his usual composure, a shadow of power in the early glow. His black shirt was buttoned to the throat, his cuffs precise, his presence so sharp it made the air around him feel heavier.
"Get dressed."
Two words. Nothing more.
I froze, still holding the dishrag from cleaning up breakfast. My pulse quickened, and I realized my fingers had curled so tightly into the fabric that my knuckles had gone white.
"For what?" I asked cautiously, my voice smaller than I intended.
His gaze flicked to me, slow, unhurried, the way a predator might study prey that had nowhere to run. "We're going out."
There was no room for questions in his tone. No warmth, no explanation. Just command.
I swallowed, nodding stiffly before retreating upstairs to change. My legs felt like they were moving through water. He hadn't even looked at me fully, but somehow he'd stripped me of breath, leaving me on edge, like the ground could shift beneath me at any second.
---
By the time I returned, dressed in a pale dress and jacket, he was already waiting by the door, car keys in hand. His expression betrayed nothing—no irritation at my delay, no approval either. Just that calm, chilling indifference that made me want to scream, to claw at him until he gave me something. Anything.
The drive was silent.
His car, sleek and black, purred down the road with effortless grace. I kept my hands folded in my lap, staring out the window as the trees blurred by. Every so often I felt his gaze flick toward me, though I could never catch him in the act. The silence was unbearable, suffocating.
Finally, I worked up the courage. "Where are we going?"
His hand tightened imperceptibly on the wheel. "To finish something that should have been finished long ago."
The words were vague, heavy, and I knew better than to press. Still, my heart thudded against my ribs. Because deep down, I knew where he was taking me.
And I was right.
---
The Rothwell estate loomed into view, its stone walls and sprawling grounds carrying an air of wealth that had once felt untouchable to me. Now, it felt like a trap.
By the time the car rolled to a stop, my palms were clammy, my throat dry. Damien stepped out first, the slam of his door sharp in the quiet morning air. He didn't wait for me, didn't offer a hand. He simply strode forward, each step certain, unyielding, as though the earth itself bent to accommodate his will.
I followed, heart in my throat.
The butler opened the grand doors before we even knocked, ushering us into the familiar dining hall where my parents were already seated. Clara sat too, her posture stiff, her eyes widening when she saw Damien. Hope flickered across her face. Foolish, desperate hope.
"Damien," my father greeted, his tone measured but eager. "We weren't expecting you so soon."
Damien didn't respond immediately. He took his time removing his gloves, setting them neatly on the table, before lifting his gaze to Henry Rothwell with a calm that was more dangerous than anger.
"I came to give you my answer."
The room shifted. My mother's lips parted in surprise. Clara straightened, her hands clasping together so tightly her knuckles paled. My father leaned forward ever so slightly, expectant.
Damien's voice was steady, low, and lethal.
"I don't want your deal. And I don't want your daughter."
The words dropped like shards of glass into the silence. Clara flinched as if struck, her breath hitching audibly.
"You can't be serious," my father said, his brows pulling together. "After all the—"
"I don't repeat myself," Damien cut in, his tone sharp as a blade. "Your proposal was insulting. I do not marry for alliances. I do not bend for convenience. And I certainly do not settle."
His eyes flicked to Clara, cold and final. She looked stricken, as though the ground beneath her had been ripped away.
"You're cruel," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.
Damien's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "No. I'm honest. Cruelty would be letting you believe you ever had a chance."
My chest tightened. His words were merciless, brutal—but that was Damien. He didn't sugarcoat. He didn't soften. He struck clean, sharp, leaving nothing but truth in his wake.
---
And then his gaze shifted.
To me.
I stiffened under the weight of it, my pulse racing.
He stepped closer, his presence filling the room, suffocating in its intensity. When he finally spoke, his words weren't aimed at Clara or my parents. They were for me alone.
"You," he said softly, dangerously. "Do you still want this? Do you still want me?"
The room went utterly still.
My parents looked at me with wide eyes, Clara with disbelief, but all I could see was him. Damien. The man who had haunted my thoughts, my nights, my very breath.
And now he was asking. Not demanding. Not assuming. Asking.
But the way he asked—cold, unreadable, like he could walk away this very moment and never look back—made my throat close.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came. My heart screamed yes. My fear screamed no.
His gaze sharpened, waiting, testing, like my answer could decide everything.
And for the first time, I realized… it could.