Chapter 93 YOUR BALLS.
~~~DAMIEN.
I stayed in the study, the glass of whiskey heavy in my hand as I stared at the laptop screen. The glow from it lit up the dark room, but I wasn't really seeing the emails or the reports piling up. My mind was a mess, replaying the argument with Serena over and over. I knew I was wrong to shut her out like that. Slamming the door on her questions, and walking away wasn't fair. She deserved better than my walls and secrets.
But what was I supposed to do? Tell her everything?
Just open my mouth and let twenty years of buried chaos spill out like it was nothing?
I let out a dry chuckle, shaking my head.
None of this should have even happened.
None of it would have happened if Gwendolyn had just stayed where she belonged, far away from my life.
Far away from us.
She had promised and had stayed gone for twenty years, and I had believed that was the end of it. I had moved on, built my life and my walls.
And then Serena came into it.
Soft, bright, and real.
She wasn’t supposed to be dragged into this mess.
She wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of something that had started long before she even knew me.
I took another sip, the burn sliding down my throat, warming the cold knot in my chest.
Serena was the best part of it, innocent and bright, untouched by the shadows I'd left behind. Dragging her into my web of secrets felt like the worst kind of betrayal. She didn't sign up for this when she said 'I do.' Our marriage started as convenience, sure, protecting her from my family's mess, and giving me a chance to start fresh, but it had grown into something different. I didn’t wanna lose her.
The clock on the wall ticked away, mocking me. How long had I been sitting here?
The whiskey bottle was half-empty now, and my head buzzed just enough to loosen the edges of my resolve. I couldn't keep avoiding her. Serena was upstairs, probably hurting, and I was down here drowning in regret. With a deep breath, I pushed back from the desk, capped the bottle, and headed up the stairs. The house felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break again.
When I pushed open the bedroom door, there she was, settled in front of her laptop at the small desk by the window. Books were scattered on the table in front of her, textbooks for her classes, and notes scribbled in her neat handwriting. The lamp cast a soft light over her, highlighting the tension in her shoulders. She didn't look up and didn't even acknowledge I'd entered the room. She just kept typing, her fingers moving deliberately, like she was pouring all her frustration into whatever paper she was working on.
I stood there for a moment, watching her. My wife, the woman who'd turned my world upside down with her fire and vulnerability. Now she was icing me out, and it stung more than I expected.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, my voice breaking the silence. It came out softer than I meant, almost tentative.
She didn't answer, didn't even pause. She just kept staring at the screen, her jaw set in that stubborn way. It was like I wasn't even in the space at all, or like I'd become a ghost in our own home. Frustration bubbled up in me, mixing with the guilt. I ran my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands as if that could pull some sense into my head. I'd messed up big time. Shutting her out had only made the rift wider, and now she was building her own walls.
I crossed the room, closing the space between us, and settled on the chair beside her. The wood creaked under my weight, but she still ignored me. Up close, I could see the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her lips pressed into a thin line. She was exhausted, and it was my fault.
“Ena,” I started, but she cut me off with a grunt.
“You reek of alcohol. Go wash up,” she said, her voice flat, not looking at me.
The words hit like a slap, but I deserved it. I leaned back, rubbing my face. “We should talk,” I said, my voice rough from the whiskey and the emotion clawing at my throat.
She finally stopped typing, but it wasn't in a good way. “We don't have anything to talk about. You were right, you didn't owe me anything. Our marriage is just of convenience, you don't owe me shit,” She pushed the laptop back with a sharp motion and stood up, her chair scraping against the floor.
Her words sliced deep, twisting the knife in my gut. Convenience? Is that what she really thought now?
I couldn't let her walk away thinking that. Instinct took over and I grabbed her wrist, pulling her back toward me. She stumbled, falling onto my lap with a soft gasp. Our bodies collided, her warmth pressing against me, and for a second, time froze.
I breathed heavily, our lips almost meeting. Inches apart, I could feel her breath mingling with mine, seeing the flicker of surprise in her eyes. My hands instinctively went to her waist, holding her steady as I gently caressed the curve there, my thumbs tracing small circles over her shirt. She felt so right in my arms, even now, in the middle of this mess.
“Let go of me,” she exhaled, her voice shaky, but she didn't pull away immediately.
“I want to tell you everything,” I said, my lips hovering above hers. The words tumbled out, desperate. I needed her to hear me, and to understand. My heart pounded, the whiskey making my head swim, but the truth was clawing its way out.
“Let go of me first, or I'd punch your balls,” she threatened, her eyes flashing with that feisty spark I both loved and feared.
“Moonlight,” I murmured, but she wasn't having it.
“Let. Go.”
There was no room for argument in her tone.
I sighed, then slowly released her.
She stepped back immediately, putting space between us like I had burned her.
And maybe I had.
She crossed her arms, waiting, expecting, and demanding.
My chest felt tight, and my throat dry but I forced the words out anyway.
“Gwendolyn and I had a baby!” I burst out, the confession exploding from me like a dam breaking. The words hung in the air, heavy and irreversible.
She stopped abruptly, her back to me, frozen in place.
Oh… Damn…