More months later
POV Damon
The conference room still smelled like expensive cologne and barely concealed contempt—my father's signature fragrance.
I stepped onto the terrace of the Ashford Industries building, gulping fresh air like a drowning man who'd finally surfaced.
Three hours. Three hours of being talked at, corrected, and subtly reminded that I was a disappointment wearing an expensive suit.
Father had really sunk his claws in and wasn't letting go.
Ever since Christopher fled to Europe, I'd become the new target for Arnold's "mentorship"—and by mentorship, I meant systematic dismantling of everything that made me myself.
He wanted to mold me into Christopher 2.0. A responsible, serious, corporation-running automaton who said things like "synergy" and "leverage our core competencies" without wanting to die inside.
It was incredibly annoying. Also exhausting. Also making me fantasize about countries with no extradition treaties.
I pulled out my phone, planning to text Kitty something sarcastic about corporate waterboarding, and froze.
Seventeen missed calls. All from Christopher.
My brother never called. He texted like a normal millennial. Calling was for emergencies, death notifications, and people over sixty who didn't trust written words.
My thumb found the voicemail icon before my brain caught up.
Christopher's voice exploded from the speaker, completely unhinged in a way I'd never heard from a man who treated emotional outbursts like fashion faux pas.
"DAMON. Kitty is in LABOR. Your wife is having your baby RIGHT NOW. Get your ass to the hospital IMMEDIATELY or so help me God, I will personally ensure you never father another child because I will REMOVE the equipment—"
In the background, I heard it. Heavy breathing. Ragged, desperate sounds that punched through my chest. And Kitty's voice, screaming something I couldn't quite make out—but the pain in it was unmistakable.
The message cut off. I was already running.
The elevator took approximately seventeen years to arrive.
I jabbed the button like that would help, like the laws of physics could be bullied into cooperation, like I wasn't currently losing my mind in a corporate hallway while my wife gave birth without me.
The second voicemail played through my car's speakers as I blew through a yellow light that was definitely more red than I wanted to admit.
Christopher again, but this time I could hear more. Hospital sounds. Beeping. Controlled chaos.
A nurse's voice, professionally calm: "Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?"
And then Kitty, my Kitty, gasping through what sounded like her organs staging a coup:
"Eleven. A solid eleven. Possibly twelve." A pause. A sound that might have been a contraction or might have been murder. "No, twenty. The scale is broken. I've broken your scale."
I pressed the accelerator harder. A Honda Civic honked. I ignored it with the dedication of a man whose priorities had violently rearranged themselves.
The voicemail continued:
"I didn't think contractions were THIS painful." Her voice was ragged, furious. "The books lied. The internet lied. Everyone LIED."
Christopher, attempting comfort: "You're doing great. I’m trying to contact Damon."
"I'm going to murder your brother. And maybe even you too. Sorry, I can't vouch for myself anymore. I've become feral."
"Completely understandable."
The message ended. I ran three more lights. Possibly four.
I crashed into the hospital reception desk like a man possessed, startling the poor girl behind it badly enough that she nearly dropped her coffee. The cup wobbled. She squeaked. I didn't care.
"Kitty Ashford. She's in labor. Where?"
"Sir, if you could just—"
"WHERE?"
She gave me the room number with the wide-eyed terror of someone who'd just encountered a wild animal in business casual. I sprinted before she finished the sentence.
Christopher was pacing outside the delivery room like a caged predator, and the moment he spotted me, the accusations flew.
"Where the HELL were you?" His voice was ice and fury combined. "Your wife is nine months pregnant, due ANY day, and you're unreachable? What possible excuse—"
"Get off my back."
"She needed you and you weren't…"
A scream from inside the room cut us both short.
Kitty's scream.
I didn't wait for more. Didn't wait for Christopher's permission or the nurse's instructions or anything resembling protocol.
I was changed into a gown and mask so fast the medical staff barely kept up, and then I was beside her, taking her hand, trying to be something I'd never been before.
Dependable.
"I'm here." I squeezed her fingers, watching her face contort with pain and effort and a fury that was definitely directed at me. "I'm here, okay? You've got this."
"I'm going to KILL you." She crushed my hand with strength I didn't know she possessed. "I'm going to kill you and bury you in the garden and tell everyone you moved to Switzerland."
"Fair enough."
"And THEN I'm going to dig you up and kill you AGAIN."
"Also fair."
"And then…" Another contraction hit, and she screamed words I didn't know she knew. When it passed, she panted, "Where were you? I called. Christopher called. The entire…"
"Meeting ran long. Phone was on silent. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I brushed sweat-damp hair from her forehead, something tender stirring in my chest. "I'm here now. That's what matters."
"What matters is that you're going to die."
"After the baby. Kill me after the baby."
Between contractions, she managed to crack a joke about demanding hazard pay for this. I laughed despite myself, actually laughed, genuine and surprised, and said, "I hope our baby inherits your sense of humor."
The words hit me like a truck.
Our baby.
I'd said that. Out loud. Acknowledged it as real, as mine, as ours. Not a complication. Not a contract clause. Our baby.
The labor was mercifully quick after that—or so the doctors said. To me, it felt like an eternity of Kitty crushing my hand and threatening creative murder while I tried to be supportive and mostly failed.
And then…
"It's a girl!"
The obstetrician's voice cut through the chaos, and my world tilted on its axis.
A girl.
They placed her on Kitty's chest, this tiny, screaming, furious creature covered in things I didn't want to think about, and everything else ceased to exist. She was so small. So angry. So absolutely, devastatingly perfect.
"She's beautiful," Kitty whispered, tears streaming down her face. "She's so beautiful."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
A daughter.
My daughter.
Joy crashed through me first—pure, overwhelming, unlike anything I'd ever felt. This was my child. My blood. This tiny human who was already screaming at the world like she had opinions and wasn't afraid to share them.
And then the terror arrived.
A daughter who would never be the heir Arnold Ashford demanded. A daughter instead of the son my father had been expecting, planning for, building his dynasty around.
A daughter who, in my father's cold calculations, was worth less than the paper her birth certificate would be printed on.
I looked at Kitty, exhausted and radiant and holding our daughter like she was the most precious thing in the universe.
I looked at the baby—already quieting, tiny fingers curling and uncurling like she was testing out this whole "existence" thing.
Joy and terror crashed together in my chest, warring for dominance.
I knew with bone-deep certainty that when my father found out, things were about to get very, very bad.
But right now, in this moment, watching my daughter take her first breaths, I couldn't bring myself to care.
"Hey, little one," I whispered, reaching out to touch her impossibly small hand. I swallowed hard.
Kitty's eyes met mine, something unspoken passing between us.
For the first time since this whole disaster began, we were finally on the same side.