Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Damian

The warmth of May filters through the study windows, the late afternoon sun painting streaks of gold across the dark wood paneling. It’s the kind of light that usually brings comfort, but today, it feels like a spotlight, exposing every crack in the walls I’ve built around myself. My father’s chair creaks softly as he leans back, gesturing for me to sit, but I don’t. I can’t. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud, my chest too full of things I can’t say.

“I heard the resort had a strong season,” he says, his tone calm, detached, as if he’s discussing the weather. “You’ve done well, Damian. You should be proud.”

The words feel hollow and distant. I should grab onto them, let them fill the aching void inside me, but they don’t. They never do anymore. “Thanks,” I reply, the word falling flat, devoid of the gratitude I know he expects.

His eyes narrow slightly, studying me the way he always does when he knows something’s off but won’t say it outright. “You’ve been distant lately,” he observes, his voice edging closer to something resembling concern. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Distant. That’s one way to put it. Skipping family dinners, dodging McKay’s knowing glances, avoiding Bishop altogether. Pulling myself so far out of the orbit of the people who should feel at home that I’m not sure I’ll ever find my way back. And Paul? Paul, who’s out now, living his truth while I stay here, rooted in my silence, unable to even whisper mine.

“I was hoping you’d tell me what we’re going to do with the resort,” I say, my tone sharper than I mean for it to be. I push the conversation back to safe ground, or at least ground that feels less like quicksand. “Ski season’s over, but the clock’s ticking. We can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when we both know it isn’t.”

He doesn’t react right away, just watches me with that measured calm that used to make me feel safe. Now it feels like another weight pressing down on me, another expectation I’ll never meet. “We’ll make adjustments as needed,” he says finally. “There’s no rush, Damian. The resort’s thriving.”

“Thriving?” I laugh, the sound hollow, almost bitter. “For now, maybe. But if we don’t adapt—if we don’t evolve—it won’t last. You know that. I know that. So why aren’t we doing anything about it?”

My father’s expression tightens, just slightly, but enough to tell me I’ve hit a nerve. “You’ve done well, Damian,” he repeats, as if that’s enough to close the subject. “The resort isn’t your only responsibility.”

I take a step closer, my hands curling into fists at my sides, not out of anger but out of sheer frustration. “If I don’t fight for this place, who will? You? Bishop? Knightly? No one else seems to care that we’re running out of time.”

His gaze hardens, but I press on, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “And don’t tell me I should be proud of what we’ve done so far. Proud doesn’t mean shit if we can’t keep it alive.”

“Damian,” he says, his voice firmer now, a warning wrapped in a single word.

But I’m not done. Not yet. “You want to know why I’ve been distant?” My voice cracks, the frustration giving way to something deeper, something raw. “Because I’m fucking tired, Dad. Tired of carrying all of this on my own. Tired of being the one who has to fix everything while everyone else gets to coast. Tired of hearing how I’m a greedy bastard, while no one sees that if I don’t keep an eye on the business, we’ll lose it—forever. And maybe . . . maybe I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. You know how fucking hard is to be the last Kentbury?”

And when I finish, I regret everything I said. All the truths I hadn’t meant to say out loud are hanging in the air. My pulse roars in my ears as I brace myself for his response.

My father leans forward slightly, his hands clasping together as his eyes lock onto mine. “What are you trying to say, Damian?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry, the air in the room too thick to breathe. “I don’t know,” I say finally, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I just . . . I can’t keep doing this. Not like this.”

The only sound is the faint rustle of the curtains as the air conditioner filters through the room. My father doesn’t speak, doesn’t press. And somehow, that’s worse than any reprimand he could have given.

He stiffens, his expression hardening. “You’ve always had a dramatic streak. If this is about the business?—”

“It’s not just about the business.” My voice rises, the anger and frustration spilling over. “It’s about me. About who I am. About the parts of myself I’ve buried for years because I have to carry my family’s legacy. Plus, I have to make everyone happy, be an example . . . be someone I’m not.”

The silence that follows is deafening. His gaze intensifies, and I can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to piece together what I’m saying.

“Damian,” he says slowly, cautiously. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I force the words out. “I’m gay, Dad. I’ve known for years, but I never said anything because I didn’t want to disappoint you or the fucking town. Because I didn’t want to be the son who failed to live up to your expectations.”

The air between us feels charged, like a storm about to break. He leans back in his chair, his face unreadable. For a moment, I think he’s going to lash out, to tell me I’ve ruined everything.

Instead, he surprises me.

“And you think this changes how I see you?” he asks, his tone measured but not cold.

I blink, thrown off balance. “Doesn’t it?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “Damian, you’ve always been hard on yourself. Always trying to prove something to me, to everyone. The moment your mom died you wanted to take over the family and . . . I shouldn’t have let you be so hard on yourself. But you’re my son. That doesn’t change.”

His words hit me like a punch in the gut, unexpected and overwhelming.

“But—” I start, my voice cracking.

“No, Damian,” he interrupts firmly. “You’re my son. You’re a damn good man. You’ve built a life you should be proud of. If this is who you are, then stop hiding. Love freely and live your life.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” I admit, my voice quiet, uncertain, as if saying the words aloud makes me too vulnerable. My chest feels tight, and I brace myself for the rejection I’ve spent years fearing.

“You’re my son,” he says again, his tone resolute, unwavering in a way that makes me pause. “That’s enough for me.”

The room changes, the tension that’s been suffocating me for years softening like a storm breaking apart in the distance. The air feels lighter, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I can breathe.

“What about the town?” I ask, the words tinged with hesitation. The question feels too big, too dangerous to leave unspoken. “What if they don’t accept it? Me?”

He leans forward, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that doesn’t waver. “The town is kind, Damian. And if some people judge you? Screw them. We don’t live our lives by their standards. You shouldn’t live yours by their expectations.”

His response stuns me. It’s so simple, so absolute, that for a moment, I don’t know what to say. “Just like that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “What about Mom’s legacy? The perfect family image she built?”

“Your mom’s legacy wasn’t perfection,” he says firmly. “It was love. That’s what she gave us, Damian. That’s what she lived for. She’d love you no matter what, and anyone who tells you otherwise didn’t know her well.”

His words hit me like a tidal wave, the force of them knocking down walls I didn’t even know I’d built. For so long, I’ve been carrying this secret, this fear, this shame, thinking it would destroy everything my mother left behind. And now, hearing him say it so plainly, I realize how much of that burden was my own creation.

“Her legacy,” he continues, his voice softer now, “is loving you. Loving us. That’s what she’d want. Not for you to hide who you are.”

I swallow hard, emotion tightening my throat as the weight of his words settles over me. For years, I’ve been running from this moment, from the possibility of rejection. And here it is—acceptance. Simple, unconditional, and absolute.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice breaking as I finally let go of the breath I’ve been holding for far too long. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I can give him in this moment. “Thank you for saying that.”

He stands, crossing the room to place a hand on my shoulder. It’s a small gesture, but it anchors me, grounds me in the reality that I’m not alone in this anymore. “Your only job should be learning to be happy. Your legacy isn’t the resort or the town. It is the love you give to your family.”

And I believe him. I really believe him.