Chapter 13
Damien disappeared for three weeks.
Not literally.
From me.
He stayed at his apartment.
Ignored calls.
Stopped going to clubs.
Sloane moved out of his life.
Good.
Then he came to Ruth.
Not me.
Better.
She told me afterward.
“He apologized.”
“For what?”
“Locking me up.”
Specific.
Good.
“And?”
“Kicking my cane?”
“That was Sloane.”
“He apologized for not stopping her.”
Better.
“Anything about me?”
Ruth smiled.
“You’re very needy.”
I laughed.
Damien eventually asked to see me.
He looked terrible.
No tailored suit.
No gloves.
Just a man who discovered his father had used him as disposable evidence.
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
He exhaled.
“For believing hurting you a little was acceptable if it saved what I thought mattered.”
That was accurate.
I waited.
“For Ruth.”
“Yes.”
“For the car.”
“Yes.”
“For grabbing your wrist.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“For not asking why Dad needed any of it hidden.”
There.
That mattered.
Sebastian trained Damien to evaluate orders by loyalty, not logic.
Questions felt disloyal.
Secrecy felt important.
He had to unlearn both.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“You’re out of Moreau operations.”
His face tightened.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded eventually.
No bargaining.
He still had his personal life.
Money.
Home.
Name.
No garage.
No crew.
No authority.
He asked:
“Can I see Aunt Ruth?”
“That’s Ruth’s decision.”
Again.
Family does not equal access.
Ruth said yes later.
Under one condition.
“He brings dinner.”
Damien did.
She made him eat beside the oil tray he once dumped hers into.
May you like
That was entirely her style.
I did not interfere.
