Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
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Sophie buried her small face into the crook of my neck, whimpered softly, and rubbed her bruised knee against my apron. That tiny sound snapped Damon out of his rigid trance faster than any shouted warning ever could. A muscle feathered violently in his jaw as his eyes dropped to the red scrape on our daughter’s skin.
When he finally turned his head toward Camille, the temperature in the parlor plunged below freezing.
"You put your hands on her," Damon stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a death sentence delivered in a quiet baritone.
"She was touching the Steinway!" Camille cried, backing up a step until her heels hit the edge of the Persian rug. "Damon, be reasonable! I didn't know who she was! Even if you had some disgusting college fling with this girl four years ago, you and I are engaged. Our families have a three-hundred-million-dollar shipping merger on the table!"
"Call your father and tell him to find another partner if he values his sanity," Damon said coldly. He pressed a button on the wall intercom without taking his eyes off his trembling fiancée. "Harrison, bring the medical kit to the parlor immediately, and have the staff prepare the master suite in the West Wing."
"The West Wing?" Camille’s voice rose to an ugly shriek. "That’s the family wing! You’re putting a maid and her bastard child next to our bedroom?"
"Correction," Damon said, taking one menacing step toward her. "I am moving my daughter and her mother out of the basement quarters. As for our bedroom, Camille, you have twenty minutes to pack whatever jewelry you brought into this house before security escorts you to the curb."
"You can't do this to me!" she spat, tears of rage spilling over her lashes. "My father is a United States Senator! He will ruin your harbor contracts by Monday morning!"
"Let him try," Damon replied evenly. "And if I find out my daughter’s knee is even slightly swollen when the doctor arrives, I’ll bankrupt your family trust before the sun sets."
Camille let out a choked sound of pure fury, spun on her heel, and stormed out of the parlor, her designer heels clicking like gunshots down the corridor.
Once we were alone, the terrifying tycoon vanished, leaving behind a man who looked like he was barely holding himself together. Damon knelt in front of me again, reaching out with a surprisingly unsteady hand. His warm fingers brushed against Sophie’s soft curls, pausing just an inch from my cheek when I flinched back.
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"Don't pull away from me, Elena," he rasped, raw pain bleeding through his stoic mask. "Four years. Fourteen hundred days I tore this city apart looking for you before I convinced myself you left because you hated what I became. Why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I couldn't," I choked out, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "If I had stayed, both of you would be dead right now."
