Chapter 62 A week
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Darcy reached out and took the glass from his hand, setting it firmly on the table.
“That is enough.”
“Ammi—”
“No.” Her voice was calm but unyielding. “Stop drowning in alcohol like your father did. Stop punishing yourself instead of fixing what you broke.”
“She needs space.”
“She needs to know you care.”
“I am giving her time.”
Darcy shook her head. “Time without effort feels like abandonment, Damien. Do you want her to believe you don’t care?”
His chest tightened.
“She thinks I only wanted to turn her into something ugly,” he whispered. “That I never cared.”
Darcy stood and walked to him, placing both hands on his face so he had no choice but to look at her.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“You are not that man anymore,” she said. “But she doesn’t know that yet. Because you scared her before you explained yourself.”
Her voice softened. “Jasmine is not like the women from your past. She is not hardened. She is not trained to survive monsters. She is a girl who already ran from danger once. And you became the danger.”
Damien closed his eyes.
“She trembled,” he admitted. “When I grabbed her wrist… I saw it.”
Darcy’s eyes filled with tears. “Then go undo it.”
He laughed bitterly. “What if she won’t see me?”
“Then you stand outside her door until she does.”
“What if she hates me?”
“Then you apologize until she doesn’t.”
Damien looked up at her, raw and lost. “What if I’ve already ruined everything?”
Darcy brushed her thumb across his cheek. “You haven’t ruined it yet. But you will if you sit here and drink instead of fighting for her.”
She straightened. “You married her, Damien. Not just by contract. By choice. You don’t get to hide now.”
“I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Tell her the truth.”
“That I was afraid of losing her?”
“That you were wrong. That you are sorry. That you will never put fear in her eyes again.”
He stood slowly. “And if she doesn’t forgive me?”
Darcy smiled sadly. “Then you keep trying.”
She grabbed his jacket from the chair and thrust it into his hands.
“Go.”
He hesitated. “Now?”
“Yes, now, pick up some flowers on your way. Before she believes you didn’t come.”
He stared at the door.
Darcy’s voice softened. “You fought an entire world to save me from that life, Damien. Now fight yourself to save her.”
His chest rose and fell sharply.
“She is your wife,” Darcy continued. “Go get her back.”
Damien slipped into his jacket, his movements urgent now.
~
Damien drove to Richelle’s house before he could stop himself.
The engine hummed beneath him, the road blurring into nothing but dark shapes and glowing streetlights. His grip on the steering wheel was too tight, his knuckles pale, his jaw clenched as though holding back something feral inside his chest.
On the passenger seat lay a bouquet of flowers.
Pink hibiscus. Jasmine’s favorite.
They rested exactly where she once had—curled into his jacket, her hair brushing his shoulder, her lips still swollen from the kiss they had shared that night. The memory burned through him with cruel clarity.
How long ago it felt.
How close and how far all at once.
Damien exhaled sharply through his nose and pulled into Richelle’s driveway. The house stood quiet, warm light glowing faintly from the upstairs window. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the door like it might reject him before he even knocked.
He picked up the bouquet and stepped out of the car. The night air was cool against his skin. He adjusted his jacket, then ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself.
For a man who had built his life on control, on calculation, on never allowing emotion to dictate his actions—he was unraveling.
His heart pounded too loudly. His palms felt damp. His thoughts raced.
He lifted his hand to knock… then stopped.
His fingers hovered inches from the door.
Damien cursed under his breath and dropped his hand, exhaling slowly. He pressed his forehead briefly against the doorframe, eyes closed.
Get yourself together.
He straightened and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voice.
Anxiety coiled tighter in his chest. He knocked again—four times this time, faster, more desperate.
“Coming!” Richelle’s voice called from inside.
Relief washed through him so hard his knees nearly weakened.
He heard the lock click, then the door opened only a crack. Richelle peered out at him, her expression a mixture of pity, concern, and something close to resentment.
Her eyes dropped immediately to the bouquet in his hands.
Her face softened just a little.
“…Damien,” she said quietly. “What are you doing here?”
He swallowed. “I’m here to see Jasmine.”
Richelle didn’t open the door wider. “She’s not ready.”
“I need to talk to her,” he insisted. “I need to explain. I need her to hear my side.”
Richelle shook her head slowly. “You scared her.”
The words struck deeper than any punch ever could.
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I hate myself for it.”
She studied him for a long moment. “It’s been a week, Damien.”
“It’s been a lifetime,” he replied. “Please. Let me in. Even if she refuses to see me… let her see that I tried.”
His grip tightened around the flowers. “I will come back every day if I have to.”
Richelle sighed in defeat and stepped aside. “Fine. But if she tells me she doesn’t want to see you, you leave.”
“I will.”
She opened the door fully and let him inside.
The living room felt too small for his nerves.
Damien stood in the center of it, stiff and uncertain, bouquet clutched in both hands like a lifeline. Richelle stared at him, surprised. “You look… nervous.”
He let out a dry laugh. “I am.”
She shook her head. “Wait here.” She turned and climbed the stairs. Damien began pacing immediately.
Back and forth.
Hand through his hair, hair jaw tight, heart pounding.