Chapter Thirty-Six

Past

W hat is pain?

How much can a heart endure it before it shatters? They say the heart is resilient, a muscle built for strength, yet mine feels like it’s crumbling with every passing second.

It’s been ten long days since my father destroyed my trust in the most unforgiving way. Ten days since I was dragged here, sedated, my cheeks still stained with tears. Ten days since something deep inside me died, leaving a hollow shell behind. Ten days of mere survival, hooked to an IV drip because my father, hell-bent on controlling me, resorted to this after I refused to eat or drink.

The door to my art studio creaks open, its sound breaking the deep silence of midnight.

I step inside, and the air feels a touch warmer compared to the cold emptiness of my old bedroom. I’ve longed to be here during these endless days of confinement. I wanted this. I needed to create something. My sanity depended on it. And now, after what feels like an eternity, I’m finally here.

I can’t pretend I am here by chance because my every movement is monitored. Being here came with a price.

A bitter smile tugs at my lips. Who would have thought I’d have to negotiate with my own father just to stand in my art studio?

Who would have imagined my own father would exploit my fragile state, using it as leverage to force me into making a public appearance at my 21st birthday celebration tomorrow?

This place, my passion, my very essence, has been reduced to a transaction.

Thick drapes cover the large windows, deepening the darkness in the room. I don’t bother turning on the lights; the darkness feels strangely comforting. Instead, I pull back a curtain just enough to let the moonlight filter in, casting a soft, gentle glow that brings a touch of light to the space.

I glance around numbly at the shelves, my eyes drifting over the pots, jars, mugs, the scattered tools, and the half-finished sculptures that have been left behind since I went to college and couldn’t come back to finish it.

I cross the cold floor, my bare feet barely registering the chill. I shouldn’t be surprised. When your heart shatters like mine has, numbness becomes the only thing you can hold onto.

The loose fabric of my top hangs off my shoulder, reminding me of how much weight I’ve lost.

The blocks of sculpting clay are stored in clean, sealed containers. I reach inside and unwrap a block. The clay is still slightly damp, a sign that Dad kept it in good condition while I was gone. It’s a cruel irony that he can be so attentive to my supplies but is also capable to shatter my trust in a way that’s impossible to fix.

I stop in front of the sculpting table. I push my hair out of my face, the curls tangled and knotted from days of neglect. It’s a mess, just like me. I haven’t bothered to brush it, haven’t cared about it like I used to, to keep it glossy and soft just the way Damian likes it. What’s the use of that when he isn’t here to appreciate it?

My chin trembles. Sniffling silently, I begin working on a new sculpture. Tears blur my vision as I work.

I press and pull at the material, but it refuses to take form. The more I try to shape it, the more it seems to mock my efforts. The sculpting tools in my hands becomes unsteady because of how much they are trembling.

Dad’s lies come crashing back, like a fresh wound that refuses to heal. I’m pulled into that memory again, the day I woke up in my old bedroom after being sedated. I remember how my confusion swiftly turned to dread. I remember throwing myself out of bed, stumbling toward the door, only to find it locked.

I remember how I screamed until my voice was a broken whisper. Cried until I could barely see through my swollen eyes. I begged for someone, anyone, to listen, but all that greeted me was the cold, suffocating silence. Not even food was brought to me that day. I wasn’t a person anymore—just a prisoner in a place I thought was home.

Being trapped in my childhood bedroom threw me back to when I was only five, back to the times when he would isolate me over the smallest things. I remember how I thought it was because of Mom’s death. I believed his strictness, his cold distance, was a way of coping, that he blamed me for her loss. But we worked through that… or so I thought.

Now I’m not so sure anymore. What kind of father locks up his daughter because she fell in love with his rival? What kind of father cuts her off from the world, taking her phone, her freedom, just to keep her away from someone he despises?

My hands move faster, cutting, shaping, destroying, rebuilding.

What kind of father tells his daughter to erase the one person she truly loves from her heart or else remain a prisoner forever? And what kind of father arranges his daughter’s marriage without her consent, threatening to destroy the man she loves if she doesn’t comply?

Mine does. My father is the kind of man who does all of that.

I choke on a sob, my throat tightening painfully as the tears spill over.

How do I explain to Dad that even though I love him, I can’t live without Damian? How do I tell him that while I’d do anything for him, I can’t leave Damian? It’s not even a choice anymore. Loving Damian is like breathing—I can’t survive without him. It’s beyond my control.

I carve again, faster this time, my hands moving on their own as I work with a desperation I never felt in my life before. The clay starts to blur under my frantic movements, its face shifting in and out of focus as my mind spirals. I can feel my sanity slipping, my heart beating too fast, too hard in my chest.

I pour everything into the sculpture. My pain flows out. Heartbreak spills through my fingers. The sense of betrayal. Loneliness. The deep hollowness in my chest. Everything. I don’t pay attention at what my hands are creating. I just let my instincts guide me.

I don’t know how long I have been working on the sculpture, all I know is my legs feel numb, my back hurts, and my cheeks are wet. But I don’t dare stop. Because I know if I stop, if I let my hands still, the silence will swallow me whole.

The harder I work, the further my mind drifts into chaos. Everything around me feels like it’s crumbling, and I can’t seem to find a way to stop it. How do I escape this prison of my father’s making? How do I convince him to understand?

In the past, I preferred this isolation. But now that I have Damian, every minute, every second without him is unbearable. I crave his presence. I want to see him. I need to see him. I want to feel the warmth of his palm against my face. I want his arms around me so I could feel safe again. I want to hear his gruff voice. I need him to tell me that everything is going to be okay.

My hands shake so badly I can’t hold the tool anymore, and it clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the silence.

And then, just as I think I can’t take it anymore, just as exhaustion begins to take me under, I see it.

His face.

Damian’s face.

Perfectly formed in the clay, staring back at me with the same intensity. My breath catches in my throat as my vision swims again, black spots dancing across my eyes.

I reach out, my hand trembling as I trace the line of his jaw in the clay, my touch feather-light. My Damian.

But just as the warmth fills my chest, the world tilts on its axis. I collapse on the cold marble floor. A sad smile touches my lips and a warm, fresh tear escapes my eye as I longingly take in his features. That’s the last thing I see before surrendering to the darkness.

◆◆◆

“You look just like your mother,” Dad says, stepping inside the lounge room where I’ve sat numbly for the past two hours, surrounded by stylists and makeup artists.

The compliment would’ve brought a big smile on my face in the past. But not today. Not only because my birthday reminds me of her loss but also because tonight I’m getting engaged to Edward.

Dad walks over to where I am sitting in front of the mirror. I feel his eyes probing my features but I keep them blank.

“Indeed! You look beautiful, cara .” The makeup artist croons, her rich Italian accent thick with warmth. The tension between dad and me must be really palpable if the famous makeup artist, Fiorenza, feels the need to step in herself.

Well, I can’t pretend to care tonight. Dad demanded my compliance. And here I am, dressed to the nines. My curls beautifully tucked into a sleek updo. Makeup exceptionally done to mask the dark circles under my eyes and my deathly pale complexion.

I look exactly how a billionaire heiress is expected to on her birthday and engagement night. But on the inside? I feel sick to my stomach. A throbbing pain pulses in my temples, making me dizzy. I’d rather spend the entire night passed out on the cold marble floor of my art studio than take part in this charade. Yet, I have no choice but to comply. His words come back from this morning:

“You will do as I say. Present yourself as my obedient daughter tonight and show everyone how genuinely happy you are to be engaged to Edward. And if you so much as falter in your role, I promise there would be consequences.”

“I’ve pulled strings to cut off his funding for a new project.” When I gasp, he says, “What? You dared to sculpt that lowlife’s face under my roof, he had to pay the price.”

His big palm settles on my shoulder. He gives me a gentle squeeze. “I am doing this for your own good, sweet pea. You’ll thank me later, I promise you.”

I lift my head and meet his eyes in the mirror. “Can I keep my hair down, Dad?” My voice is soft, his face immediately transforms, his eyes softening.

“You look great, River. Why do you want it down?” He smiles as he asks.

I turn and look up at him. “Because Damian likes it.”

His eyes blaze with fury and he looks like he wants to hit me. But instead turns abruptly and leaves.

I smile tiredly at Fiorenza. “Let’s get this over with please.”

After I’m finally ready, they let me out of the room, only to guide me downstairs like a puppet on strings.

Edward’s smug, mocking smile greets me the moment he sees me approaching, and it’s all I can do not to recoil.

For the longest time, I believed Edward might be a decent man, even when he first proposed this marriage for the sake of our business. I told myself his practical nature was just a product of his upbringing. But now, I see him for what he truly is.

“You look beautiful.” Edward’s gaze sweeps over me with a sense of entitlement, and I suppress the urge to shudder in disgust. His fractured arm still rests in a sling over his tux, though the bruises on his face have faded completely.

His hollow compliment does nothing for me. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze with cold resolve. “Can we drop the charade? I’ve already agreed to this circus. You don’t need to waste time with compliments I neither want nor believe.”

Edward doesn’t care about me—not in any real sense, anyway. How could he, when the whole point of this marriage is to preserve our families’ precious empire? So why even bother pretending?

“Why not?” he counters with a shrug. “You’re really beautiful, River. Well bred. You suit me in every way that matters.”

In other words, I am just convenient for him. I’m to be his trophy wife. After all, I’m Christopher Gibson’s daughter. Sure, Edward’s father might be Dad’s partner, but my father holds the controlling share, making him the one with the real power. Marrying me is a strategic win for Edward and his family. Beneficial for him in every possible way.

Skylar and her friends gush over my gown, their admiration sickly sweet. I force a smile, wondering if Skylar even knows how I’m being forced to marry her brother.

Next come Melissa and her mother, Nadine, offering hollow congratulations. Their smiles are as real as the joy on my face.

Across the room, I spot Dad deep in conversation with Richard and William, his business partners. Even though he’s speaking to them, his eyes never leave me. His unspoken message is crystal clear: Don’t screw this up. Be grateful you’re allowed to mingle with the guests, or you’d be back upstairs, locked away .

I make the rounds with Edward glued to my side, enduring the knowing smiles from the guests as if they all already know about the impending announcement. It’s suffocating, each polite nod and forced smile.

By the time an hour passes, my cheeks are aching from pretending. I excuse myself under the pretense of needing the bathroom, scanning the room for Dad. He’s distracted, locked in conversation. Perfect. At least he won’t send anyone after me.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I sag against it, letting out a shaky breath.

I sink onto the nearest settee, my legs giving out beneath me. I just can’t do this anymore. I am sick and tired of this. Every part of me is screaming to stop, to run, to break free, but there’s nowhere to go without alerting the bodyguards.

The sharp knock on the door startles me, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I shoot up from the settee. Clearing my throat, I call out, “It’s occupied—” I stop when the door swings open without warning.

I freeze when Damian steps inside and shuts the door, locking it. Then he turns and leans his back against the door. I continue to remain motionless, shocked beyond belief as he pushes his hands in his pockets and fixes his gaze on me.

Just like his sculpture had. Those eyes. Those night eyes. Oh, how much I craved to see them.

Dressed in a black suit, he looks big and hard and intimidating and absolutely breathtaking.

Is he real? Is he really here?

I begin to tremble. And something wet slips down my cheek. “Damian…” I choke.

I tremble harder when he pushes off the door and strides toward me with purpose. He doesn’t stop even when he is in front of me. In a second, I’m swept off my feet as he lifts me into his strong arms effortlessly. I wrap my arms around his neck, a sob escaping as I cling to him like my life depends on it while my heeled feet dangles in air. My body molds against his chest, and I can feel his warmth enveloping me, shielding me from all the pain. The heartache I suffered.

Suddenly, I feel so spent. So drained. It feels like I’ve finally come home after a war that lasted for years—tired, but relieved that I survived. Damian’s strength is the only thing keeping me upright; without him, I’d have collapsed by now as I’m still struggling to process that he’s here, that I’m back where I belong. In his arms.

“I’ve missed you, angel,” he says roughly.

It’s so unlike him. He hardly talks about feelings. Barely expresses them. It’s so touching to hear him admit that. I smile through my tears. “I missed you too, Damian. So much. I haven’t felt alive until just now.” I tighten my arms around his neck then pull back to kiss his clean-shaven jaw but he seals his lips to mine instead.

Hot, salty tears overflow down my cheeks, only this time, they are happy ones. Every fear, every ache, every torment I’ve carried vanishes. All that remains is the need of kissing him back. And kiss him back I do. I melt against him, desperately clutching onto him, pressing into him in an attempt to become a part of him, to feel his heartbeat in sync with mine.

I love this man. He has no idea the agony I’ve endured without him, the countless moments I felt my heart shatter in his absence. How I died a thousand times in every moment I spent without him.

He gently lowers me to the floor, though he bends to keep our lips locked as if he, too, can’t bear to break away.

Head swimming, mouth tingling, I gaze up at his hard features. His jaw ticks as he wipes my tears gently. Unable to stop myself, I clasp his face in my hands and go on my tiptoe to press my quivering lips on his forehead.

His big hand cups my cheek. I turn and kiss his calloused palm and screw my eyes shut. “Take me away, Damian.” I choke. “I can’t live without you. I don’t want to.”

I cry out in surprise when he picks me up in his arms and settles down on the settee with me on his lap, looking down at me with a fierce frown. “You’ve lost weight.”

I don’t pay attention at his disapproval because I am too busy taking my fill staring up at him, running my gaze over his features. It’s like I’m memorizing him all over again. Every inch of him. It’s a wonder I survived this long without seeing him. I missed him so much. Even his scowls.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come for you?” he asks grimly.

That makes me focus. I lower my eyes. His fingers slide beneath my chin, tilting my face up toward him. “You’re mine. No one can keep me from you. Not even your father.”

I shake my head frantically. “You don’t understand, Damian. He can ruin you. He’s already begun.”

As if he didn’t hear me, he reaches down, his fingers deftly working to remove the pins from my updo. “Let him try.”

“But—” He captures my lips in a fierce kiss. Then sets me back on my feet before rising to his full height. “You need to go out there. They’ll start looking for you.”

I still, then begin shivering. “No.” I shake my head frantically. “I don’t want to go, Damian. Please, let’s just get out of here.”

“I’m not the kind to run like a coward. And neither are you,” he says, gripping my chin when tears begin to well in my eyes.

I grab his hand that was gripping my chin with both of mine desperately. “You don’t understand! They are going to announce my—”

“Engagement. I know.”

“Then why would you tell me to go back out there?”

“Do you want to marry Edward?”

“ What? ” I look at him stupefied and to be honest, a bit appalled.

“Do you, River?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

With his hands on my hips, he pulls me to his chest. “What about me? Do you want to marry me, angel?”

I gasp. “Are you asking?”

“Answer me.”

My cheeks heat and I stutter. “Y-you know I’m yours.”

He releases me and pockets his hands. “Then go out. And trust me.”

For a second, I hesitate but I take a breath and obey, knowing that I trust him with every fiber of my being. I trust him with my life.

As I rejoin the party, my father is immediately at my side, gripping my elbow with an iron-like grasp. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” His voice is a furious whisper, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“I—”

“Doesn’t matter. Come. It’s time.” He begins to steer me toward the grand staircase where Edward is waiting, my palms clammy with anxiety as I feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on me. I desperately scan the crowd for Damian, but all I find are the curious faces of the elite surrounding us.

Once we reach the foot of the staircase, my father pivots to face the room, and I hold my breath, bracing for what’s to come. But before he can utter a word, a commanding voice slices through the murmurs of the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

All heads snap toward the voice. They part like the Red Sea, revealing none other than Damian.

The shock of his presence sends a ripple through the room, and my father’s grip on me tightens.

Edward, who had been standing proudly by my side, instinctively takes a step back, his expression morphing from arrogance to fear.

Damian strides forward, his movements purposeful and fluid. The tension thickens as he reaches the dead center of the room, eyes locked onto mine.

“I know it’s unusual to steal someone else’s moment,” he says, his voice resonant, “but I have something that needs to be said.”

The air crackles with electricity as he extends his hand toward me. “Angel, come here.”

In a heartbeat, I find myself moving toward him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. The crowd blurs around me, their whispers and shocked gasps suddenly muted. I can’t think about anything but reaching him.

To my surprise, my father’s grip on my elbow slackens. Perhaps recognizing the scandal brewing or he seems to understand that confronting Damian here would only make matters worse. I don’t know the reason and I don’t care.

As I reach him, Damian doesn’t take my hand; instead, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close against his side. I blush furiously because his hand rests possessively beneath my breast. And nobody misses that. Especially my father and Edward. It’s a clear message to the world. That I am his.

The room falls into a heavy silence, everyone anticipating, curious. My heart races, but in this moment, I feel unbreakable, safer, shielded by the man beside me.

“I’m glad to see so many familiar faces here tonight,” he begins, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife. It’s amusing how detached he sounds, as though he couldn’t care less about the crowd around him. My lips twitch into a small, private smile. That’s Damian.

“I have an announcement to make.”

I glance up at him in confusion. He looks down at me intently as he addresses the room. “River has consented to be my wife.”

My eyes widen. I hear ripple of gasps and murmurs. A camera flashes but all I can do is stare up at him. Everything was happening so fast, I couldn’t concentrate. One second, Damian was announcing about our supposed engagement and the next I hear Dad’s bodyguards ushering everyone. For what? I have no idea. I only register Damian’s head lowering as he captures my mouth. All I remember is us kissing. Like really kissing, greedily, hungrily, our tongues sliding together in a heated, erotic, shameless dance.

Without caring about the audience, my hands reach up and circle his neck. All that matters is the feel of his mouth on mine, the way his hands grip me like he never wants to let go.

He picks me up with strong hands and begins walking without breaking the kiss.

Am I dreaming? If so, I never want to wake up. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but it doesn’t matter. The only thing I’m aware of is the heat of his body, the way his mouth refuses to part from mine, and the thudding of my heart.

Tonight, Damian claimed me, he didn’t ask, he just took what he believed was already his. Me. As his future wife.

A sharp thrill courses through me, and suddenly I remember something. My wish. I had wished to be his in every way on my 21st birthday. And here we are, my wish becoming a reality, only more intense than I could have ever imagined.

It was really meant to be. Me and him. With a kiss on my eighteenth birthday, he stole my heart. And on my twenty-first, I willingly bound my fate to his with another kiss.

I’m his now. Entirely, unmistakably his.

I’m going to be Mrs. Damian Montgomery.