Chapter 50

Damian’s POV

The night refused to end.

Damian had barely slept—he’d sat in the dark of his penthouse with a glass of scotch that had long lost its burn, watching the skyline blink in slow, unfeeling rhythm. Manhattan’s lights didn’t falter for anyone’s grief or confusion; they simply shone, indifferent.

The words from his mother still rang in his head. “Your father’s will left no ambiguity, Damian. The heir to Marshall Holdings must be married and produce a legitimate successor. Otherwise, control of the company defaults to the trust, and the board will vote on an external steward.”

It was the kind of clause his father would have crafted—strategic, manipulative, final. The man had controlled every aspect of life, even in death.

Damian pressed his fingers against his temple, exhaling slowly. He’d built the company’s global expansion with his own hands—late nights, failed ventures, negotiations no one else had the courage to take. Every inch of progress was his. The thought of losing it all because of a clause from a dead man ignited a slow, simmering rage in his chest.

He didn’t want marriage. He didn’t even believe in it—not after watching his parents turn their union into a polished cage. His mother’s tears had been diamonds in the dark—brilliant, cold, and unseen by the world.

Yet, here he was, haunted by the same cycle.

His gaze drifted toward the untouched phone on his desk. He hadn’t answered her follow-up message from last night. He didn’t want to talk to her. Not now.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. And despite his best effort to bury it, Kayna’s face surfaced behind his lids.

The memory of her from the gala flickered—how she’d stood beside him, poised but a little uncertain, her eyes quietly searching the room. How his mother had stared her down. How Alex had leaned in to whisper something flirtatious just to provoke him, and she’d handled it with disarming composure.

He’d been proud of her. Irrationally so.

And that, more than anything, made him uneasy.

He shoved himself to his feet, pacing. He couldn’t think about her. Not when everything was falling apart.

By the time Damian arrived at the office, his jaw was tight and his patience razor-thin. His team could sense it—the way conversations dimmed when he walked through, the subtle exchange of nervous glances.

He’d sat through two back-to-back meetings without absorbing a single word. Every projection, every budget figure blurred. His mind was elsewhere, circling the impossible situation he’d been handed.

When Kayna knocked lightly and stepped in to confirm his afternoon schedule, he looked up—and for a moment, something inside him steadied.

She wore a soft cream blouse tucked into slate trousers, her hair pinned back loosely, the strands framing her face. Her tone was professional, her movements efficient, yet there was something about her presence that quietly anchored him.

“Your meeting with the Cosmo team has been rescheduled to three, and Julian asked if you’re free for a few minutes before then,” she said, her eyes flicking up briefly.

He nodded. “Send him in.”

She turned to leave, and for a moment, he wanted to call her back—to ask something meaningless just to keep her there a few seconds longer. He caught himself and pressed his lips together.

When Julian came in, it was like a gust of levity breaking through the pressure. “You look like hell, boss,” he said with that easy grin, dropping into the chair opposite Damian’s desk without invitation. “Rough night?”

Damian didn’t bother denying it. “Something like that.”

Julian leaned back, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Well, if you’re planning to brood yourself into an early grave, at least do it with better whiskey. That bottle you keep at home tastes like regret and wood varnish.”

Damian almost smirked. Almost. “Not in the mood, Jules.”

“Clearly.” Julian studied him for a beat, and the teasing in his voice softened. “So. What’s eating you?”

For a moment, Damian said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the desk. “It’s my father’s will.”

Julian blinked. “You mean the one your mom’s been threatening to hang over your head for years?”

“The same.” Damian’s voice was flat. “There’s a clause I never knew existed. Apparently, the heir to Marshall Holdings must be married and have a child—within a year—or the board gains power to vote control out of the family’s hands.”

Julian let out a low whistle. “That’s… diabolical. Even for your father.”

“It’s manipulation,” Damian said coldly. “He’s still running my life from the grave.”

Julian drummed his fingers on the armrest, processing. “And your mother dropped this bomb when?”

“Last night.”

“Lovely. So you spent the night drinking your way through existential rage?”

“I spent the night trying to figure out how to stop everything I’ve built from being ripped away.”

Julian’s humor dimmed. “What are your options?”

Damian gave a humorless laugh. “Options? Get married. Produce an heir. In twelve months. Or lose the company.”

Julian tilted his head, studying him. “Technically, that’s two separate actions. You could—”

“Don’t.”

Julian lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. No jokes. Yet.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the low hum of the city outside.

Then Julian said, almost offhandedly, “So what kind of bride are we shopping for? Someone strategic? Someone quiet? Someone—”

“Enough,” Damian snapped.

Julian leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You have to talk about it, Damian. Pretending it doesn’t exist won’t change the deadline.”

“I’m not marrying someone just to satisfy a contract clause.”

“Then what’s your plan? Lose the company?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I’ll find another way.”

Julian studied him for a long moment, the humor slowly draining from his face. When he finally spoke again, his tone had shifted—quieter, grounded. “You’re not invincible, man. You can’t fight everything with brute force. Sometimes… you need strategy. And optics.”

Damian said nothing.

Julian hesitated, then sighed. “All right. You’re going to hate me for saying this, but—what about Kayna?”

The name hit him like a punch.

Damian’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Think about it,” Julian continued carefully. “She’s the only woman people have seen you with publicly who hasn’t ended up in a scandal or headline. The gala pictures—those already stirred rumors. You two have a natural dynamic. She’s discreet, loyal, grounded. If the world believes you’re together, it solves two problems—PR and the clause.”

Damian’s voice was ice. “She’s my assistant.”

Julian didn’t flinch. “She’s also the one person who could keep this quiet. She doesn’t care about your money or the attention. And from what I’ve seen—” his voice softened, “—you actually trust her.”

Damian rose from his chair, pacing toward the window, his pulse a storm. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” Julian said simply. “But it’s better than marrying a stranger or letting your mother handpick someone who’ll bleed you dry.”

The idea churned inside him—repulsive, impossible… and yet frighteningly logical.

Kayna.

Her name alone stirred something he couldn’t explain. She’d seen him in unguarded moments, challenged him, made him laugh when he’d forgotten how. But using her? Turning her into a pawn in this twisted inheritance game? That was something else entirely.

He turned, jaw tense. “She deserves better than to be dragged into this.”

Julian’s gaze softened. “I didn’t say she wouldn’t. I’m saying you trust her to keep this quiet. To help you buy time.”

Damian shook his head, the conflict in his chest clawing for air. “You think I haven’t already considered how the media would eat that alive? What it would do to her? She’s worked too hard to build credibility in this company.”

Julian leaned back, letting the words settle. “You’re not wrong,” he said finally. “But the board won’t care about ethics or emotions, Damian. They’ll care about control. You’ve got twelve months before your father’s clause triggers, and if your mother starts whispering in the right ears, you could lose your vote before then.”

Damian raked a hand through his hair. “I need time. I need leverage.”

“Then find a way to make it believable,” Julian said quietly. “Whatever it takes.”

The room fell silent again. The tension between them thickened—old friendship colliding with loyalty and realism.

Finally, Damian exhaled, his shoulders sinking. “I can’t ask her to do that.”

chapter

Julian gave a small, almost sad smile. “Maybe not yet. But if it’s the only way to protect what you’ve built, you’ll find a way to justify it. You always do."

That night, Damian sat on his balcony, the city sprawling beneath him like an electric pulse. A half-finished drink sat untouched beside him.

Julian’s words wouldn’t leave his head.

Kayna’s face wouldn’t either.

He’d spent the entire day trying to bury the thought, but it kept resurfacing, each time stronger than before. She was the only person he could trust implicitly, the only one who hadn’t tried to use him or gain something from proximity.

She’d been loyal beyond reason.

And now, the only way to keep his legacy safe might involve her.

He hated the idea.

He hated that it made sense.

And most of all, he hated the flicker of something inside him when he imagined what it would look like—her standing beside him, not as his assistant, but as someone more. The thought was dangerous. Poisonous.

He drained his glass and stared out at the skyline.

You’re losing your edge, he thought bitterly.

The phone on the table buzzed. He glanced down. A message from his mother.

Mother: Have you made your decision?

Damian’s grip tightened around the glass until it creaked. He stared at the screen for a long moment, then set the phone facedown and leaned back, closing his eyes.

The city hummed below, indifferent and alive.

He had decisions to make.

And every one of them felt like a betrayal of something—his principles, his father’s memory, or the quiet, steady woman whose name he couldn’t stop thinking about.

The drink burned his throat as he swallowed, whispering into the night:

“I can’t drag her into this… can I?”

The silence didn’t answer.

But the phone buzzed again, relentless.

Another message.

Mother: The board meets in three weeks. Don’t make me decide for you.

He exhaled sharply, eyes glinting with the city’s reflection.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And somewhere deep inside, he already knew the direction his next move would take—

even if it meant crossing lines he’d sworn never to touch.