Page 14

Chapter 14

Damien

I walked into the Sinclaire estate, expecting the familiar silence that hung like a fog in the air. My father rarely summoned me home unless it was for some PR bullshit or family photo ops he believed would help maintain our pristine image.

The dining hall sprawled before me, an expanse of polished mahogany and ornate chandeliers that flickered with an artificial warmth. The long table was set meticulously, every place setting perfect—silver gleaming under the soft glow of candlelight. My mother had likely spent hours preparing something extravagant, as she always did for these dinners. She thought the effort would earn her some semblance of a happy family, but it never did.

I took my seat at the table, eyes scanning the place settings and lingering on the empty chair across from me. Cooper wasn’t expected to be here tonight; he had better things to do than engage in our charade of familial bliss. A tightness coiled in my chest as I fought back resentment. Why did he get to live his life free of this suffocating obligation while I was trapped in this gilded cage?

But today? I didn’t have time for this nonsense.

Dinner started with idle chatter about the latest gossip in town, which felt painfully hollow. My father led the conversation with his usual bravado, but I tuned him out, focusing instead on how many ways I could escape this dinner before my mother cornered me with questions about my future or—God forbid—my love life.

Just as I picked at my food, pretending to be interested, my father casually dropped a bombshell over dinner.

“The planning committee dinner is this Saturday,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly as if gauging my reaction. “You’ll be there.”

The fork paused mid-air. The words settled like lead in my stomach.

I barely heard the rest of my father’s words.

Planning committee.

Holly.

Here.

The fork scraped against my plate; the metal grating like nails on a chalkboard. My muscles locked tight as I processed what he’d just said.

“What?” I forced out, my voice a low growl that surprised even me.

My father sighed, his eyes still glued to his wineglass as if it held the secrets of the universe. “You’ll behave, Damien. This dinner is important.”

My jaw clenched, and I could feel the tension radiating through my body like an electric charge. “Who invited them?” I snapped, not bothering to mask the irritation in my tone.

He chuckled lightly, a sound that dripped with condescension. “I did. Holly’s father was more than happy to accept.”

Rage coiled inside me like a serpent ready to strike. She’s coming here? Into my house? Near my mother? The thought alone set my blood boiling.

“Cancel it,” I commanded, every word thick with authority.

“Damien—” My father began but stopped short when he finally glanced up at me, meeting my fierce gaze.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” I pressed, not willing to back down. The prospect of Holly stepping into this house felt like a violation—one that would send every chaotic memory rushing back, taunting me with reminders of who she was and how easily she slipped away.

He waved a dismissive hand as if brushing off my concerns like an annoying fly. “It’s too late for that,” he said, returning his attention to his wineglass as if the matter were settled.

The table felt constricting now; every breath stung as anger surged within me. I wasn’t just dealing with an ordinary dinner; this was an invitation for her to walk back into my life—into this chaotic mess that defined us both.

“I won’t be here,” I stated flatly, rising from my chair and pushing it back with a sharp scrape against the hardwood floor.

“You will be,” he insisted, his voice hardening.

The tension in the air thickened, a battle of wills unfolding between us in silence. I knew he wouldn’t let this go easily—and neither would I.

I watched as my father set his glass down, finally looking at me with that trademark disinterest he wore like armor.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand.

My chest tightened, each breath feeling heavier than the last. "You don’t want her here ," I growled, fury boiling just beneath the surface. The mere idea of Holly stepping into this house—this twisted realm of my family—made my blood run cold.

“On the contrary,” he continued smoothly, “I think she’ll be a lovely guest. The two of you made such a lovely couple. Before you ruined it, of course.”

I clenched my fists around the back of the chair, staring him down, the tension crackling between us like electricity in the air. “You don’t get it. Holly isn’t?—”

He interrupted me again, his tone casual as if he were discussing the weather. “She’s exactly the kind of girl we want associated with this family.”

Something inside me snapped. The weight of his words pressed against my chest, igniting an anger I hadn’t expected to feel so intensely. I could practically hear the echoes of my past—a chorus of memories where Holly stood by me and where our love thrived before it all fell apart.

“She’s not some trophy for you to flaunt,” I shot back, unable to keep quiet any longer. “She’s a person.”

My father’s expression remained unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin like he was assessing a chess move rather than contemplating someone’s life.

“She’s your ex-girlfriend,” he said dismissively, as if that alone was enough to justify treating her like some strategic asset rather than a human being with her own thoughts and feelings.

“Don’t you see? This isn’t just about appearances for once,” I insisted, leaning closer across the table, frustration surging through me like an uncontrollable tide.

But there was no breaking through that wall he built so meticulously over years. His gaze never wavered from mine, cold and unyielding.

“I’m not interested in your emotions or whatever past you two shared,” he replied flatly. “What matters is how she reflects on us—on this family.”

The bitterness bubbled up inside me again; it felt almost suffocating. How could he be so blind? How could he reduce Holly to some superficial metric? She deserved more than being part of our twisted games—a pawn in our charade.

“I won’t let you do this,” I declared firmly, knowing that standing up against him would come with consequences but unwilling to back down now.

I glared at my father.

He simply smirked, raising his glass to his lips as if savoring some fine vintage. “And you don’t know how to let go,” he replied, his tone mocking, dripping with condescension.

That hit harder than I wanted to admit. It felt like a physical blow, each syllable striking at the core of my defenses. I stood there for a moment, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, fighting the urge to scream or throw something. He was right; I didn’t want to let her go. Not now, not ever.

Without another word, I stormed out of the dining hall, fists clenched by my sides as I marched through the opulent corridors of the Sinclaire estate. The walls closed in around me; every polished surface seemed to reflect the twisted reality of my life—the one where my father pulled the strings while I danced on command.

But it didn’t matter how fast I walked; I couldn’t escape the weight of his words or the gnawing ache in my chest. The taste of her lips burned in my memory like an ember that refused to die out.

As I reached the grand entrance, ready to burst into the cool night air and leave this suffocating place behind, a voice called after me—my mother’s voice, shrill and demanding.

“Damien!” she yelled from behind me.

I hesitated for a split second before pushing through the heavy door and stepping outside into the dimly lit yard. The cool breeze washed over me like a balm against the fire raging inside.

But just as I thought I had escaped her reach, a hand grasped my shoulder firmly.

My arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring at the pile of dishes that seemed to multiply every time I turned my back.

“Come help me clean the kitchen,” she said, her voice steady but laced with that unmistakable warmth that made my insides twist.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I moved closer, compelled by some unseen force. The tension hung between us like an electric current, a dance of familiarity and resentment. I hated this—hated her and everything about her. But I’d been conditioned to obey, to slip into this role of compliant son even when it felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

Even after she?—

The silence swallowed us as we worked side by side, my hands mechanically scrubbing plates while my mind drifted elsewhere. My gaze darted around the room, anywhere but at her. She hummed softly under her breath—a tune I didn’t recognize but found irritating.

“Damien,” she called gently after a moment. I could feel her eyes on me, and it took every ounce of willpower not to turn and meet her gaze.

Just focus on what you’re doing , I thought, voice in my head flat as if it had been carved from stone.

But then, without warning, her hand brushed against my cheek—light, feather-soft. The contact lingered longer than necessary. My stomach twisted violently as every instinct screamed at me to pull away. Instead, I forced myself to remain still.

She was so close; I could smell the faint hint of lavender from her shampoo. It stirred something deep within me—something raw and vulnerable that clashed with the anger roiling beneath my surface. I kept my eyes locked on anything but her, refusing to acknowledge the putrid effect she had on me.

“Damien…” she whispered softly.

I gritted my teeth against the rush of feelings threatening to spill over. Her touch burned into my skin like a brand.

But I wouldn’t give in—not now—not ever.

She smiled, slow and knowing, that infuriating look plastered across her face.

“Such a good boy,” she cooed, her voice dripping with condescension.

Before I could even process what was happening, she leaned in and kissed my cheek. The warmth of her lips lingered far too long, far too close, igniting a war within me I desperately tried to quell.

I stiffened, bile rising in my throat. This wasn’t right. Every instinct screamed at me to recoil, to break free from this moment that felt like an unwanted reminder of my childhood—a time when I was supposed to be perfect in her eyes. I stepped back, jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone.

Her laughter rang out, sharp and unyielding. It echoed through the kitchen like a taunt. She relished in my discomfort as if she enjoyed watching me squirm under the weight of her expectations.

“You know how much your father hates it when you sulk,” she said, casually wiping her hands on a dishtowel as if we were discussing the weather rather than my suffocating existence in this house.

The familiarity of it all twisted something deep inside me—a mix of resentment and frustration that clawed at my insides like a hungry beast. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone?

“I don’t care what he thinks,” I shot back, each word thick with defiance. The thought of spending another moment in this house felt unbearable—especially now that Holly loomed in the background of my mind.

“Oh? But you should.” Her tone turned sweet again, syrupy enough to make anyone sick. “After all, it’s our name on the line.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer; every second spent here chipped away at whatever semblance of control I had left. I wanted to escape—to find solace somewhere far away from this place that felt like quicksand dragging me under.

Without another word, I pivoted on my heel and headed for the door. The heavy wooden frame loomed before me like an exit sign from hell.

“Damien!” she called after me, but I didn’t stop.

She faded behind me as I pushed through the threshold into the cool evening air. I can’t be in this house.

Not with her. Not with my father. Not with Holly showing up like some perfect, innocent little lamb, oblivious to the chaos swirling around her.

I slammed the door behind me; the sound echoing through the empty halls of the Sinclaire estate. Each step down the marble staircase felt heavier, a weight pressing down on my chest. I didn’t care if my father shouted after me or if he felt insulted by my departure. I grabbed my keys from the small dish near the front entrance and stormed out into the night.

The air outside was cooler, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of that house. I climbed into my car, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as anger boiled inside me. My father could keep his expectations and his bullshit; I wasn’t going to play his game any longer.

The fight club awaited me. The stench of sweat and blood filled my nostrils as I drove through winding streets leading towards Crestwood’s pristine neighborhoods where a secret a place that thrived on brutality was.

The moment I pulled up outside Pandora's Box, adrenaline surged through me. This was where rules meant nothing, where pain was not just welcomed but sought after. It stood so different from everything else in my life—the polished floors and controlled smiles of family dinners—and that’s exactly what I needed.

Inside, bodies collided against one another with fierce intensity—grunts mingling with shouts filled the air as men fought for dominance in a space designed for chaos. The dim light flickered overhead like a heartbeat, pulsing in time with the violence unfolding before me.

I stepped inside and felt the energy shift—a mix of respect and fear directed at me. They knew who I was, but more importantly, they understood what I brought: a storm wrapped in flesh and bone ready to unleash itself upon anyone daring enough to step into my path.

Tonight wouldn’t be about distractions or pretenses; it would be about release—an outlet for all this pent-up rage simmering beneath my skin. No one cared about appearances here; only strength mattered.

I pushed through the crowd toward the ring at its center, each step amplifying my resolve as anticipation bubbled within me like molten lava ready to erupt.

The scent of sweat, blood, and smoke wrapped around me as I stepped into the dimly lit arena. The cacophony of shouts and grunts filled the air, a violent symphony that pulsed in time with my racing heart. Here, I wasn’t a Sinclaire; I was just another body looking for a fight, another soul lost in chaos.

A guy at the bar caught sight of me and smirked, leaning back against the wooden surface like he owned the place. “You looking to hit something, Sinclaire?” His voice dripped with mockery.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked past him, each step fueled by a primal urge to unleash the storm brewing inside me. I slipped between the ropes of the ring, feeling the coarse texture beneath my fingertips as I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up, exposing my forearms—ready for action.

The crowd swelled around me, faces blurred by dim light and anticipation. They sensed it—the energy crackling in the air as they waited for someone to make a move. I could feel their eyes on me, some filled with respect and others tinged with fear. But it didn’t matter; I craved something more than recognition.

I stood in the center of the ring, legs planted firmly apart, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The silence stretched thin before me; it was only a matter of time before someone dared to throw the first punch. My heart thrummed in response—an intoxicating rhythm that drowned out all other thoughts.

I wanted to bleed. Wanted to feel something real again—something raw that reminded me I was alive amidst this tangled mess called life.

In this place?

Pain made sense.

It was straightforward—unlike my mother’s touch that had once seared through my skin or my father’s suffocating control that felt like shackles.

And Holly?

She had no business being in this world—her innocence would only be tainted by what lurked beneath my surface. My need to protect her battled against an equally strong urge to draw her closer; both felt like losing propositions.

But tonight wasn’t about her or any of those entanglements. Tonight was mine.

The first hit cracked across my jaw, sharp and electrifying.

Good.

I welcomed it.

I didn’t even flinch; instead, I grinned, baring my teeth like a predator ready to pounce. The guy hesitated, caught off guard by my reaction. Mistake.

I lunged, body moving instinctively as my fist collided with his ribs. The satisfying thud echoed in my ears, the impact reverberating through me like a surge of adrenaline. He gasped for air, but I didn’t give him a moment to recover. An elbow slammed into his jaw next, the crunch resonating through the crowd surrounding us.

Blood smeared across my knuckles as I pulled back for another swing, feeling alive in this chaotic dance of violence. But it wasn’t enough—never enough. The rage that bubbled within me demanded more than just petty scuffles.

I fought harder, fists swinging with reckless abandon. My body moved like it was made for this—every muscle taut and ready to strike again and again. Each blow felt cathartic, a release from the pressure building inside me.

I couldn’t think about Holly coming to that fucking party.

And I sure as hell couldn’t think about my mother’s touch or how it had felt when her fingers curled around my wrist—like chains binding me to something dark and suffocating.

No, tonight was mine.

With every hit, every jab and uppercut thrown into the fray, I pushed those memories away. I focused on the feel of flesh meeting flesh, the thrill of asserting dominance in this primal arena where only strength counted.

The guy tried to regain his footing, but he underestimated me again. I was fueled by something raw and untamed—a hunger to prove myself beyond any name or expectation placed upon me.

As sweat dripped down my brow and blood painted my knuckles crimson, I embraced the chaos fully. Because buried beneath all of this madness was another truth: how badly I wanted to ruin every inch of Holly—the girl who’d once been mine—and pull her deeper into this chaos with me.