Chapter 157
Isabella's POV
I returned to his room. The soup bowl sat untouched on the nightstand, a thin film forming on its surface.
Damon hadn't moved. Still lying in the same position.
"You need to drink something at least," I said, gentler this time. "You're going to make yourself sick."
"Already sick." His voice came out muffled beneath his arm. "Sick of this. Sick of everything."
I sat on the edge of his bed, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going through your head."
He laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "What's the point? You'll just tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. That I brought this on myself. That I need to think about the family's reputation."
"Is that what you think I'd say?"
"Isn't it?" He finally lowered his arm, turning to look at me with red-rimmed eyes. "Isn't that what everyone's thinking? That I fucked up? That I deserved this?"
My heart twisted. "Damon—"
"Because you'd be right." His voice cracked on the last word. "I did fuck up. I fucked up so badly that Elena—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "She looked at me like I disgusted her. Like I was nothing. And the worst part is, I can't even blame her."
I reached out to touch his shoulder, but he flinched away.
"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't try to make me feel better about this. There's no making this better."
"Then what do you want?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady. "What do you need?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I want to see her. Elena. I need to talk to her."
My stomach dropped. "Damon, I don't think that's a good idea—"
"I don't care." He sat up abruptly, and I saw the desperation in his eyes now, raw and undeniable. "I need to explain. To apologize properly. Phone calls and messages aren't enough. If I could just see her face-to-face, maybe—"
"Maybe what?" I couldn't help the sharpness in my tone. "She'd forgive you? Come back to you? Damon, she's engaged to someone else now. She made her choice."
"I know that!" He raked both hands through his hair, pulling hard enough that I winced. "I know. But I can't—I can't just leave things like this. I can't."
The raw pain in his voice made my own eyes sting. This was my son. My baby. And I was watching him break apart over a girl who didn't want him anymore.
"If I could just talk to her," he continued, quieter now. "Face to face. No interruptions."
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell him that reopening this wound would only make things worse.
But looking at him now—hollow-eyed and desperate, barely holding himself together—I couldn't bring myself to say no.
"I'll call her," I heard myself say.
His head snapped up, something like hope flickering in his expression. "You will?"
"I can't promise she'll agree," I warned. "And if she does come, you need to accept whatever she says. Do you understand?"
He nodded frantically. "Yes. Yes, I understand. Just—please. Ask her."
I nodded and left the room, pulling out my phone.
The call connected after three rings.
"Elena." I swallowed hard, pride warring with maternal desperation. "I need your help."
After I explained Damon's condition and request, silence filled the line.
Then came the sharp reply.
"I can't help you. I can't help him."
---
Elena's POV
My words hung in the air between us on the phone line, silence filling the space.
"Elena, please—" Isabella's voice had lost its usual authority.
"When you locked Caleb up back then," I cut her off, gripping the phone tightly, "when you threw him into that tower—did any of you care what that would do to him?"
Her sharp intake of breath told me the blow had landed.
"That's not—this isn't about—" She fumbled for words. "Damon is hurting. He's my son."
"And Caleb is Marcus's son." My voice came out flat. Cold. "But that didn't stop any of you."
"You don't understand what it was like back then," Isabella said, her tone turning defensive. "He was dangerous."
"He was ten years old."
The words dropped like stones. Isabella went silent.
I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to steady myself. "I can't help you."
"Elena, he won't eat. He won't—"
"That's not my responsibility anymore." My throat tightened. "It never should have been."
"After everything he's done for you—" Isabella's tone shifted, hardening. "All those years he protected you, took care of you—"
"Protected me?" The word tasted bitter. "He left me standing alone at that engagement party while everyone stared. He went to her. He always went to her."
"He made a mistake—"
"One mistake?" I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Which one? Leaving me at the enforcement station? Bringing me on that trip just to cover for his real girlfriend? Telling his friends I was boring?"
"He was confused. That woman—she manipulated him—"
I cut her off. "A man who blames everyone else for his choices will never grow up. You protecting him like this? You're destroying him."
The line went deadly quiet.
"How dare you," Isabella whispered, her voice shaking with fury. "You ungrateful little—you have no idea what I've sacrificed for this family—"
"I need to go."
"Elena—"
I ended the call.
My hands were trembling. I stared at the phone screen, watching it go dark, and felt something shift in my chest. Something that had been wound tight for years suddenly loosened.