Chapter Twenty-Eight

Past

T he party is everything I expected it would be. Dad wasn’t kidding when he said he was planning a grand celebration.

Our mansion unfolds in a lavish display with glittering chandeliers and flowing draperies, which bathe the polished marble floors in a radiant glow.

Live musicians play softly in the background. Couples dressed in glamourous gowns and expensive tuxedos sway in a slow dance across the spacious floor.

Despite being dressed in a stunning satin floor length gown, hair tucked into a sleek updo and make up done by a team of professionals, my stomach twists with anxiety.

It’s only been twenty minutes since I stepped into the venue, but the constant cycle of meeting and greeting and exchanging compliments and air kisses has already left me feeling drained.

The constant chatter, the flash of cameras capturing every move, and the pressure to maintain an impeccable appearance weigh on me. The dazzling smile I wear hides the discomfort I feel. The main cause of my unease is Edward’s hand on the small of my back and what I can read in everyone’s eyes— In their eyes, our entrance together feels like more than just a social appearance—it’s as if we’re announcing our relationship.

I hadn’t bargained for this when I agreed to come to this event with him. I’m sure even dad didn’t think of this outcome. Because I can’t bring myself to believe that he purposefully orchestrated all of this. And since I know Edward has feelings for me, it makes this situation even more uncomfortable.

“Shall I get you a drink?” Edward murmurs in my ear and I quickly shake my head. If I forced anything down my throat, even water, I’m afraid I’ll puke.

He frowns, his face etched with worry. Edward McAllister is good looking. In his tux, he had managed to turn heads of beautiful ladies when we arrived. He was respectful and polite. And I felt guilty every time I gazed at his pleased expression as we walked together, my arm tucked in the crook of his elbow.

But now, each step feels heavier as I navigate the room, trying to uphold the poise expected in this glittering social affair. With each passing minute, my frustration grows because everyone just keeps shooting us a teasing look.

I get this insane urge to shout out loud to set everyone straight. Their smirking faces are provoking me to cause a scene by declaring that I already have a boyfriend. But I refrain myself.

I am stuck between showing him off and hiding him from the world. Damian and I are happy. Since our almost breakup a week ago, I am extra cautious.

Because of the recent almost-breakup, Damian’s been going all out to make amends—being extra possessive, showering me with gifts, and drowning me in attention. It’s reassuring. And apart from his grand gestures, I see it in his eyes. I see that he was dead serious when he told me he’d never let me go even if I begged to. It gives me comfort. But a nagging anxiety lingers, fueled by the thought that external factors could still mess things up. Especially my dad’s disapproval.

Maybe with time, especially after my upcoming 21st birthday in a few months, I’ll feel more inclined to open up about Damian to my dad. Until then, I’ll have to endure this. That means maintaining the facade of an oblivious girl who can’t read the expressions of the guests who are grating on her nerves.

I lock eyes with Edward, silently pleading for an escape. He reads the distress in my gaze and seamlessly steers us toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the curious eyes.

My peace doesn’t last long though. Mrs. Thompson and her daughter, Melissa glide toward us with sugary sweet smiles. I swallow thickly and helplessly stare at the two women who made my teenage years miserable with their constant criticisms and cutting comments.

Mrs. Nadine Thompson is married to William Thompson, a name well-known for its power and influence in the business world. He’s also my father’s partner.

William Thompson, my dad, and Richard McAllister—Edward’s father—built the foundation of their empire on bold ambitions. United by their shared vision and hunger for success, the three of them embarked on a journey that eventually led to the creation of Innovare Dynamics Group.

IDG, under my father’s leadership, is a strong and influential conglomerate. Richard McAllister, with his expertise in renewable energy, plays a key role in the partnership, while William Thompson, a financial genius, secures the empire's stability and growth.

Innovare Dynamics Group was formerly known as Gibson Innovations Group. It bore our surname because it was Dad’s brainchild. That is the reason he still stands at the helm, leading the several high-profile technology companies under the IDG name.

Richard and William supported him when he needed it most. The inclusion of them marked a pivotal moment for the empire. They took control of the business during the darkest days of his life when he lost his wife and was trapped with a child he began to hate. In a nutshell, they became the only semblance of family left for him.

That’s the main reason I couldn’t bring myself to tell Dad about the subtle insults Mrs. Thompson kept throwing my way. The weight of her words, like tiny knives, dug into my confidence, but the last thing I wanted was to burden him with the painful details of my struggles.

The click of her heels on the polished floor echoes louder in my ears. Beside her, Melissa dressed in a perfect gown, radiates an air of entitlement.

As they approach, Mrs. Thompson’s gaze flickers over my attire in a not-so-subtle assessment.

I straighten my posture, steeling myself. Melissa, her daughter, wears a smile that barely conceals the disdain in her eyes.

“Ah, River, darling,” Mrs. Thompson purrs. “You look positively radiant tonight.”

I begin to smile but it dwindles when she continues, “Your updo is a wise choice; it suits you much better than those unruly curls left wild. It’s remarkable how a simple change can transform what some might find... challenging into something almost acceptable, don’t you think?”

The question is aimed at Edward who looks a bit uncomfortable. Beside her, Melissa chimes in, her eyes running over Edward as if he was a seven-course meal she intended to devour. “Edward, you’re looking quite dashing tonight. A real shame you got stuck with River here instead of someone who could truly appreciate your company. Must be a challenge for you, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, frowning.

“Ever since you came, I’ve noticed River hardly utter more than two words in your presence.”

“Were you spying on us?” he says dryly.

Her cheeks pinken. “O-of course not. It’s just your grand entrance together grabbed everyone’s attention.”

Watching her daughter’s red face, Mrs. Thompson cuts in, “Edward, dear, how delightful to see you again. I’m so happy you got to work on this contract. Your father must be proud.”

He smiles. “I consider myself fortunate to have been a part of the team. I can’t take all the credit for the success. I’m just a small part of the achievement.”

The women happily ignore me as they chat with Edward.

Soon the subtle jabs begin while I stand, invisible and disregarded.

At one point, Mrs. Thompson brings up my mother in the most cruel way. She starts talking about my ill manners, blaming it all on the fact that I’m a motherless child. A surge of pain tightens my chest and I fight to suppress the tears welling in my eyes.

Please , not now. Not in front of them. I feel a lump forming in my throat. The mere mention of her feels like reopening of a wound that never truly healed.

Edward, this time, changes the topic abruptly, making them blink in surprise. But only for a second, because they skip to another topic. The merger.

They go on and on about the contract the firm won. After praising her husband, she goes on to talk about how ruthlessly my dad invited the owner of the competing company who lost.

I don’t pay much attention when they talk about the owner being present. They commend his bravery for showing up at a celebration of his competitor.

All I can think about is wanting to weep in Damian’s strong arms. But he is not here. He is in London at the moment on a business trip. When I told him about the party, he bought me the stunning gown I’m wearing and the diamonds adorning my neck and ears. I reach up and run my fingers over it, trying helplessly to hold on to his thoughts so I don’t lose it in front of them.

When it becomes too much, I part my lips to excuse myself but halt when Dad and his partners join us.

The conversation quickly becomes about this win and how they defeated their competitor.

Just when I contemplate excusing myself now that I waited long enough to not come across as rude, Mrs. Thompson’s piercing inquiry redirects the spotlight onto me. “And what are your plans for the future, dear?” she asks, a deceptively sweet smile playing on her lips.

The group seems to hush, and all eyes turn toward me. “Oh, I’m still figuring it out,” I reply.

Mrs. Thompson’s smile widens as if she hit jackpot. “Figuring it out? Well, dear, some of us have known our paths from the beginning, haven’t we?”

Dad chuckles. “Give her time, Nadine. Not everyone has life neatly mapped out.”

“She must be good at something, though, right? Some skill or hobby?”

“River is into pottery and sculpting,” Dad reveals casually and I can feel my face flush, heat creeping up my neck.

“Really? How charming,” Mrs. Thompson says with a big smile. “So, are you planning to keep it to yourself, or do you have plans for an exhibition? I know a few people who could help you—”

“Oh, she’s not that good at it,” Dad interrupts. The laughter from the group is instant.

I pale. The words hit me like a slap. He doesn’t even know how much I’ve worked on my art, how much I’ve poured into it. He didn’t even see my sculptures and pots. How can he say that? That too in front of everyone? All I can do is stand there, my stomach sinking as I watch them make fun of me including Edward and Dad.

Nadine smirks, eyes glittering with amusement. “I’m sure it’s a lovely way to waste time.”

Biting my lip, I lower my head to hide the trembling of my chin. As the tear slides down my cheek, I hastily brush it away, desperate to maintain the facade of composure.

“Only someone who’s never done anything worthwhile would call it a waste of time.” A deep, dark drawl interjects.

My head whips up and meet the astonishing dark eyes. For a shocking second, everything and everyone disappears. No sound penetrates my ears. The sound of chatter of the guests, the melody playing in the background, everything goes silent. All I can hear is my heart pumping hard.

Damian .

Though my lips form his name, no voice comes out. He is standing few feet away, a tall, dark force, looking intimidating in a tuxedo.

My lower lip trembles, suddenly all the suppressed emotions flooding out breaking the dam.

This is one of those times when you are trying so hard to be strong. Trying to hold it in, refusing to show yourself at your lowest to anyone, yet when you spot the person you love in a room full of strangers, it’s like a wave of emotions hits you. It feels as if the walls you’ve built to protect yourself start to crumble just with a single look. And you just give in to the emotions because you know they will be there for you. To protect you. To give you a shoulder to cry on.

A lone tear manages to leak out of my brimming eye. A muscle jumps at his clenched jaw as his eyes slowly glide over my face. He lets his eyes linger on my probably pale cheeks, glistening eyes and quivering lips.

It’s minute, but I catch the tiniest shake of his head, as if he is telling me not to cry. And for some reason, the vice grip around my heart begins to loosen.

Breaking the silence, my father steps forward, extending his hand to Damian with a polite yet forced smile. “Damian, good of you to join us.”

“You personally invited me.”

Dad’s ears turn red. For the first time in my life, I see my dad faltering. “I thought it’d be a shame if you missed the celebration, even with us competing over the contract. In the end, it’s just business, nothing personal.”

Damian’s expression remains stoic. “Congratulations.”

With a glint of triumph in dad’s eyes, he says, “Thank you. Now, let me introduce you to my business partners and family.”

As the introduction proceeds, Mrs. Thompson steps forward with a charming smile. “That was pretty harsh but I’m a forgiving person. I’m Nadine,” she says, extending her hand toward Damian.

Damian glances at her hand but doesn’t reciprocate the gesture. Instead, he gives her a curt nod. “Damian Montgomery.”

Mrs. Thompson’s face colors but she still attempts to engage him. “I’ve heard so much about your success. It’s impressive.”

No response.

Melissa, apparently having forgotten about Edward, shoots Damian a dazzling smile. “Well, aren’t you the serious type? I bet I could change that.”

Damian’s response is cutting, “I doubt it.”

Edward who was silent all this time narrows his eyes. It seems he doesn’t appreciate Damian’s straightforwardness. It’s a shame he didn’t mind in the least when Mrs. Thompson and her daughter were ripping me to shreds. “Looks like you don’t have a date.” Edward makes a show of glancing around, probably in an attempt to embarrass him.

Damian nods without skipping a beat. “Mind if I steal yours?”

Melissa gasps. Mrs. Thompson grinds her teeth. I remain like a statue whereas my dad glowers but surprisingly stays silent as Damian offers me his hand. “Dance with me, River.”

Wide eyed, I slowly lift my trembling hand. Damian closes his fingers around mine and on a possessive squeeze, he pulls me away from the group, leaving them in stunned silence.

On legs that feel dangerously like jelly, I try not to fall as I walk with him. As though he could sense it, his arm snakes around my waist and steers me onto the dance floor.

Turning me in his arms, he guides us around so that his broad back is to the group, shielding me from their probing eyes.

When he draws me closer, my nose tingles with emotions. “Damian,” I whisper. He cups the back of my head, gently guides it to rest against his chest and starts to move slowly.

With my six-inch stilettos, my head fits beneath his chin. Despite the noticeable difference in our heights, dancing with him feels surprisingly graceful and not awkward at all.

The band plays a soft, romantic song and I close my eyes, following Damian’s lead. If it weren’t for the thoughts racing in my head, I’d be savoring the way he moves.

Damian proves to be a skilled dancer, effortlessly guiding me as we sway to the rhythm. With each second in his arms, the tension begins to fade, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

Then, I suddenly grow still. Nadine and Melissa’s words echo in my ears from earlier. About Dad’s competitor. They chuckled and commended Dad for sending the invitation to his rival so he could show the “loser” his place. How he had specifically arranged this so he would be humiliated.

Damian was the competitor who lost. This was a deliberate move to plan his public embarrassment. But… why? Why would he do this?

Dad might’ve cracked a joke about my art, but beneath that humor, he’s truly the most compassionate person I know. He is known for supporting those in need of guidance. His kindness extends beyond mere words. And I’ve seen him in action myself. He can’t do something so cruel. He is not a bully. Right?

When I begin to tremble, his warm hand moves in a slow caress up and down my back. His cheek rests against my hair. The tenderness leaves me raw and I bite my lip, struggling to keep the tears from spilling over.

He is comforting me when it should be the other way around. I have so many questions. When did he return from London? Why didn’t he tell me that he was invited to my dad’s party? And why didn’t he tell me about this contract? He mostly shared everything with me. Then why didn’t he… just then, like a sudden bolt of lightning, the realization hits me.

Being with you is costing me too much.

That’s what Damian had said a week ago. And on that same day Dad came to my college to invite me for the party.

He was ready to leave me because of his rivalry with my father. He was ready to leave me because he thinks I was costing him his contract. He was willing to throw away everything we had for something beyond my control. Was I truly that unimportant to him?

“You’re leaving me?” My weak yet alarmed voice from the past reverberates in my ears.

“I should.” He had said a week ago, confirming my worst fear. The two words that he had uttered then strikes me again so hard that my heart bleeds.

I pull my head back to stare at him. I stare at the man who I love more than life itself. All the evidence points at the obvious yet… I refuse to believe that he would choose a piece of paper over us.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, his brows lowered.

I love his voice. It is deep and velvety and it gets even deeper when something bothers him.

I shake my head slowly, forcing a small smile to my lips. I don’t want him to see the momentary lapse of faith that flickered through my mind. For just a fleeting second, I allowed myself to entertain the possibility that Damian could choose business over me, that he could hurt me in such a way.

I can’t let him know that. I can’t bear the thought of him thinking that I have such a low opinion of him. Because in reality, my admiration for him knows no bounds. In fact, I hold him in the highest regard. So much so that sometimes I feel unworthy of him. Sometimes, I fear that he might see me as weak or unworthy of his love.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then reaches up and brushes a tear with his thumb gently. He lifts my chin. “Tell me why are you crying.”

“I just missed you.” Another tear slips. It hurts, but I smile up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the party? When did you return from London? How was your trip—”

“River.” He conveys his impatience in the two syllables, as though he knows I’m steering the conversation away. Thankfully the song comes to an end and I step out of his arms.

“I’m sorry about… the whole thing with dad.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I take a hasty step back. “Please enjoy—”

“Where are you going?”

I blink, not sure how to reply without revealing the quiver in my voice. “I should go socialize with other guests.” I blurt then turn abruptly and leave.

◆◆◆

Escaping the crowd with making excuses that they neither care about nor I remember, I slip away, leaving my father’s grand mansion behind like I did on my eighteenth birthday.

My steps carry me to the sanctuary I’ve cherished throughout my life, the treehouse.

Under the moon’s soft silvery glow, I make my way through the darkened woods.

I move with purpose, my footsteps soft against the forest terrain, the earthy scent of pine comforting me.

The distant sounds of the party fade as I approach the familiar silhouette of my treehouse.

I slip off my heels and toss them to the ground before ascending the ladder. Lowering my head, I step inside. The faint moonlight filtering through the branches is the only source of light. Instead of lighting up the candles like usual, I sit in the dark for a while.

The air inside is musty. I take a deep breath, the scent comforting, familiar. I feel my way to the far corner where an old chest lays.

With trembling hands, I rummage through the contents. My fingers graze the worn leather of a journal, its binding softened by years of handling. Memories flood back as I recall the countless nights spent pouring my heart onto its pages.

I remember making the last entry on my eighteenth birthday after Damian had left that night. I turn my head and glance at the cushions, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Slowly, the younger version of me comes to life in front of me. With a sad smile, I watch her lying on her stomach as she writes furiously in her journal with a smile that can light up the whole world.

I watch her stopping several times to bury her red face in the crook of her elbow as she replays her first kiss in her mind over and over.

Then just like that, she disappears and I’m alone again in the treehouse.

As I delve deeper, I uncover other treasures buried within the chest, smiling as I feel the rough texture of the rock I stole from the beach as a keepsake. The perfectly imperfect rock is from the first time Dad had taken me to the beach. He had spent his entire day me.

I remember hiding the rock under my pillow. Recall the seven-year-old me clutching it with my tiny hands every night. I’d press my lips to its rugged surface, whispering fervent prayers into the silence. I begged God to make this version of Dad last forever.

Smiling, I bring it up and press a kiss over it before putting it down.

I sift through other items before my fingers finally find what they were seeking. Lifting the framed photograph, I hold it close, even though all I see is darkness. Yet, as my fingertips graze the surface, I can feel the contours of her face, etched into my memory. In my mind’s eye, I see her smiling, her eyes alive with warmth and so much love as she cups her swollen belly.

I lie down on the cushions. Curling into a fetal position, I clutch my mother to my chest and close my eyes. Then I finally allow myself to do what I couldn’t out there. I cry. My body racks with silent sobs.

I’m not sure what triggered it. My mother’s picture. My dad laughing with Nadine. Or Damian’s harsh words from a week ago. Or is it all of the above?

Perhaps it was that particular incident when Nadine maliciously brought up my mother. Or my art.

I don’t know the exact cause behind my tears. All I know is, shedding tears feels like you are parting with the pain. Each droplet carries a chunk of it, making you feel lighter by the time you are done. It’s a strange kind of comfort. So I let it all out.

I don’t know how long I stay like this, lost in the grip of grief, but gradually, my sobs turn into sniffles.

Suddenly something touches my shoulder. A large hand. My shriek is loud as I’m rolled onto my back. My heart races, thundering in my chest as I find myself staring upward, into dark eyes.

“Damian?” My voice comes out a bit hoarse and nasally from all the crying. I blink my tear-drenched eyelids rapidly.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I’ve been searching for you everywhere.” His jaw is set in a harsh line, he surveys me with his phone’s flashlight, taking in my disheveled appearance.

“I…”

Damian’s face darkens further as he helps me sit up. “Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head mutely, avoiding his intense stare.

“When was the last time you ate?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.

As I struggle to recall, I realize it has been longer than I care to admit. Damian is silent and I squirm. He settles down on the cushions, leaning against the wall. Then he circles his arm around my back and tugs me and before I know it, I find myself on his lap with my head against his chest.

His fingers deftly release the pins, allowing my curls to cascade down. His hand then cradles my head, tenderly stroking the curls. Tears well up in my eyes again.

Nadine’s taunt about my curls comes back to me. But his touch… his touch becomes a balm to the wounds inflicted by her criticism, erasing the hurt and insecurity it caused.

“Don’t cry, angel.” The arm around my waist pulls me tighter against him. “Nobody deserves your tears. Least of all me.”

That makes me pull back. And though his phone’s flashlight has illuminated the treehouse a bit, it’s still hard to decipher his expression.

“I’m sorry.” He curves his big palm around my jaw.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because even though I should, I won’t leave you alone.”

“Won’t or can’t?”

“Won’t.” He brushes away the wetness on my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I hurt you last week. I might hurt you again or I could keep hurting you in the future. But I have decided to keep you, River.”

A voice within me whispers to run. To flee from the impending future that could bring more tears. It warns me against the potential for more pain. But as I gaze into his eyes, I see a reflection of my own loneliness. Just like two years ago. I saw emptiness in them that mirrors the fractured pieces of my soul.

Even if I were to part ways from him, his presence would linger like an indelible mark upon my soul. Because he is my heartbeat. How can a heart be without its heartbeat? Without him, I would be dead in every sense of the word.

Without him, I would be nothing but a hollow shell, devoid of purpose. So if being with him means enduring pain, I’ll smile through my sufferings.

I cup his cheek in my small trembling hand. “I’m yours, Damian.” I agree even if he didn’t ask me. “But hey, try not to hurt me too much, okay?” I add, attempting to make him smile.

He stares at me for so long, my smile falters. Then he drags me back to his chest, silently promising me that he won’t.