POV Damon
I hadn't slept in three days.
Not really, anyway. A few hours here and there, stolen between nightmares about contracts and cribs and my father's cold eyes watching me fail.
The rest of the time I spent drinking, which wasn't unusual. And skipping classes, which also wasn't unusual. But now both felt less like rebellion and more like drowning.
I was doing everything I could to avoid thinking about the trap closing around me, but avoidance had always been my specialty, and even that was failing me now.
I never wanted any of this.
Not the business, not the legacy, not the crushing weight of the Ashford name pressing down on every choice I'd ever tried to make.
And I certainly never wanted a wife and kid at twenty-three, shackled to a woman who looked at me like I was something unpleasant she'd stepped in.
Kitty's face kept appearing every time I closed my eyes.
The parking lot. Her cold stare. The contempt dripping from every word she threw at me. And somehow, infuriatingly, inexplicably, that only made her more attractive.
I hated it. Hated that I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Couldn't stop replaying the way she'd looked at the party—that dress clinging to curves I'd been pretending not to notice for months. Her legs. Her waist.
I'd been watching her long before that night. In business school, I'd position myself where I could see her without being obvious about it.
I'd found her social media months ago. Scrolled through her photos late at night like some pathetic stalker, zooming in on beach pictures, on that one shot of her in a tight dress at some friend's birthday.
I'd taken myself in hand more times than I could count, imagining what she looked like underneath, what sounds she'd make if I got my hands on her.
Then I actually did. And reality exceeded every fantasy.
The way she'd tasted. The way she'd wrapped around me. The sounds she made when I was inside her—fuck, those sounds.
I'd barely made it home that night before I was in the shower, fisting myself to the memory of her, coming so hard my knees nearly buckled.
She thought she was better than me. That was the worst part. Not just different—better. Like I was some spoiled idiot who'd never earned anything, while she was the hardworking saint who deserved the world.
Maybe she was right. That only made me angrier. And harder.
Attraction was supposed to be simple. This felt like punishment.
"Mr. Damon." The butler's voice cut through my spiral. "Your father requests your presence in his study."
I considered ignoring it. Considered staying in my room and drinking until the summons became irrelevant. But I knew better. Ignoring Arnold Ashford only delayed the inevitable and made the consequences worse.
The study was exactly as oppressive as I remembered—dark wood, leather furniture, the faint smell of cigars and control. My father sat behind his massive desk like a king on a throne.
Christopher was already there.
My brother stood by the wall, silent and observant as always, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. The sight of him twisted something in my chest.
Chris was everything I wasn't: composed, accomplished, our father's chosen heir in all but official title.
I felt the familiar sting of being the lesser son—the screwup dragged in for judgment while the golden child watched from a safe distance.
"Sit," my father said. It wasn't a request.
I didn't sit. Small rebellions were all I had left.
Father didn't seem to care either way. He launched directly into business, his voice calm and certain. "The Morrow girl hasn't agreed to the terms yet. But she will. I'm making sure of it."
The words landed like stones in my stomach.
Making sure of it.
I didn't want to know what that meant. I didn't want to imagine what levers he was pulling. What pressure he was applying to a girl who'd already been cornered in a clinic room wearing nothing but a hospital gown.
"This is insane." The words tumbled out. "You can't force two people into a marriage neither of them wants. And Kitty isn't built for this family—she's proud and stubborn and completely unprepared for Ashford politics."
Father regarded me with cool disinterest.
"You have never made a single worthwhile decision in your life, Damon. Your opinions on anything of consequence are worthless."
He leaned back. "Whether the girl survives this household is her problem. Your only job is to comply. To finally be useful."
Something in me snapped. Years of resentment poured out—accusations about manipulation, about treating his sons like chess pieces, about caring more about legacy than people.
My father crossed the room in three strides and slapped me.
Hard. Deliberate. The crack echoed like a gunshot.
My cheek burned. For a moment, no one moved.
In my peripheral vision, Christopher went rigid. Jaw tight. Hands clenched. Every muscle tensed like he was about to spring into action.
But he didn't move. He didn't speak.
I caught his eye for a split second. Something was there—discomfort, maybe guilt. Then Chris looked away. The way he always did.
Father straightened his jacket. "The discussion is over. You'll marry the girl. You'll produce an heir. Whether you accept that gracefully is irrelevant."
I left the study with my pride in tatters and a bruise forming on my cheek.
Chris caught up with me in the hallway, footsteps quick on the marble floor.
"Damon, wait."
I didn't slow down.
"What are you planning to do?" His voice was careful, measured. "About this girl—Kitty?"
I stopped. Turned slowly. Something ugly coiled in my chest.
"You already remembered her name." My voice came out colder than I intended. "What, are you getting ready to cast your nets? Like you always do?"
Chris's expression flickered—a frown, quickly suppressed. "That's not what this is. I'm trying to help."
"Help." I laughed, and it sounded bitter even to my own ears. "Right. Because you're so helpful when it comes to my life."
"Damon…"
"The story with Steph is repeating itself, isn't it?" The words landed like knives, and I watched them hit their mark. "You see something I want, and suddenly you're interested. Suddenly you're concerned."
Chris's jaw tightened. "That was different. I already told you—if I had known about your feelings, your serious intentions, I never would have…"
"Then what? Slept with her anyway and pretended you didn't notice I was in love?"
"I didn't know." His voice dropped, something almost like regret flickering across his features. "You never said anything, and I thought…"
"Agh, save it."
I turned and walked away before he could finish. Before he could offer whatever justification he'd rehearsed, whatever excuse would let him sleep at night.
The truth was simple: Chris took what he wanted, and I got the leftovers. That's how it had always been. That's how it would always be.
And now Kitty was walking into this snake pit, thinking she could handle it with sharp words and sharper elbows. She had no idea what she was getting into. She didn't know the rules, didn't see the traps.
When she failed—when, not if—I'd be guilty by association. The son who brought the wrong girl in. The disappointment who made things messy.
We'd both be devoured.
Kitty Morrow was going to ruin my life.
The joke was, she already had.