Chapter 9
~CINDY’S POV~
By the time I made it downstairs, the ache in my knees had dulled, only to be replaced by the burn of walking in on the Callahans enjoying breakfast without me.
All spoons halted midair as their sharp eyes pinned me in place, especially Mr. Hen-prick’s.
I almost smiled at the Damian-induced nickname, but his expression upstairs kept replaying in my mind, tightening my chest.
I shoved it away, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin under their collective glare.
The table was a picture-perfect spread: fluffy scrambled eggs gleaming golden under the light, stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, sizzling bacon curling at the edges, fresh bread still steaming in a wicker basket. The smell wrapped around me, warm and rich, making my stomach tighten with hunger.
Monica’s handiwork, of course. Lydia and Vivian couldn’t cook to save their lives.
When I married into this family, I cooked for them despite my condition.
But ever since Monica arrived, she’d taken over, probably thinking I’d feel threatened.
If only she knew how much relief it brought me, and how short-lived her little role was going to be.
Still, Monica’s arrival had also meant my permanent exile from breakfast.
I decided I’d just grab something from the kitchen, assuming they hadn’t locked it again like Vivian had two weeks before.
Petty bitch.
The kitchen was behind the dining room, so there was no avoiding their burning eyes. My legs threatened to falter, but I steadied myself.
You won’t disgrace me.
“Your fake lover left so soon?” Henry’s voice was mocking, halting me midstride.
My breath caught in my throat. Did they hear us argue earlier?
I turned, ready to scorch him, but a sinfully deep voice beat me to it.
“Babe, you’re awake?”
My heart did a treacherous somersault.
Damian?
I spun to see him strolling through the front door like he owned the place.
The living room and dining room, despite how wide they were, were separated only by a railing, making it impossible to miss his arrival.
Did he forget something?
He crossed the living room in slow, easy strides until he was beside me.
Without hesitation, he wrapped me in a hug, pressing a kiss to my temple like we hadn’t been at each other’s throats minutes ago.
My brows arched.
The man’s ability to switch personas surely deserved a standing ovation.
“Didn’t want to wake you earlier,” he said smoothly, “but I’ve got an emergency at work. Boss gets cranky.”
Boss? Since when did he have a boss?
I smiled on cue, slipping my hand to his chest, smoothing a wrinkle in his shirt.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
Henry’s spoon clattered onto his plate, making Monica and Vivian jump.
Lydia sighed, rubbing her temple.
“Fucking sick,” he muttered.
Damian’s head turned like a predator locking on prey. His gaze zeroed in on Henry’s flushed face.
“Look at you,” Damian said with a slow grin. “Red’s a good color on you. Makes you look almost alive.”
Henry slammed his fist hard against the table, rattling the silverware.
“You don’t get to waltz into my house and act like you own everyone,” Henry spat. “And last warning—get your flirty hands off my wife.”
“Wife?” Damian’s laugh was low and dangerous.
“Please. She stopped being your wife the moment you decided to cheat on her. And trust me, if I wanted my hands on anyone, even your mother, I wouldn’t need your permission. And we both know you’re too bloody weak to stop me.”
Henry’s jaw flexed so tight I thought it might break.
Damian pulled out a chair for me, guiding me into it two seats from Monica.
I watched in silence as he reached for the bowl of scrambled eggs.
Lydia’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist.
“We don’t feed orphans.” She sneered at him.
His eyes flicked to mine. I gave him the smallest nod.
“Fine,” he said lightly before smirking and grabbing the jug of orange juice sitting pretty on the table.
He moved with precision, almost leisurely, pouring the bright liquid into the bowl of eggs. The golden curds broke apart, collapsing into a pale, wet mess.
The sharp citrus scent burst into the air, clashing violently with the savory smell of breakfast.
He didn’t stop there; he tipped the jug toward the pancakes, watching syrup and juice pool together into a sticky, acidic sludge. The bread basket was next: the soft rolls soaked instantly, turning soggy and collapsing under their own weight.
Gasps and shouts erupted around the table.
Vivian bolted upright, eyes burning wide. “How could you?!”
“If my woman can’t have it,” he said, his voice low and taunting, “no one will.”
My chest tightened.
Watching him like this, facing them head-on, defending me despite the things I’d thrown at him earlier—it made something shift deep inside.
Monica clutched Henry’s arm, screaming, “Do something!”
“Let go!” he barked, jerking away, his eyes now locking on me.
I held his gaze head-on.
The last time Henry had looked at me like that was three years ago, when I got hit by that truck. The fear in his face that day—I could see it now.
“Next time,” Damian said, tossing the now empty jug back onto the ruined table, “remember to serve her breakfast in bed. Or I might be forced to poison y’all for real if you ever try this BS with her again.”
He caught my hand, tugging me up.
“Go back in your room. I’ll have my driver bring you a real breakfast,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t be eating with peasants anyway.”
Then, with one last kiss on my temple, he walked out.
Leaving me standing there—heart racing, knees weak, surrounded by a table full of horrified Callahans and a traitorous heart that couldn’t decide if it wanted to kill him… or kiss him.