Bea’s POV
He stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone, looking like every heartbreak I never asked for. Water dripped from his hair, soaked through the collar of his designer coat. His voice cracked when he said it—“Please don’t hate me.”For a second, I forgot how to breathe. The rain behind him, the storm in my chest, the way his eyes searched mine like they still had a right to. My lips trembled. Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to throw myself into his arms and ask him why now, why always too late. I held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, then stepped back—not toward him. Away. And slammed the door in his face. The sound echoed louder than anything either of us had said.
I pressed my back to the door, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. The silence that followed was heavy—like he might still be out there, waiting. But I didn’t check. I didn’t open it again. Instead, I walked to the kitchen, poured the last of the wine into a glass with shaking hands, and stared at the dark skyline out the window. The weight in my chest didn’t lift. It pressed harder. A knock on the door made me jump. I thought, for one wild moment, it was Julian again. But when I checked, it was Damien. Dry, handsome, and holding a bottle of something expensive. Of course. I hesitated, then opened the door. “Can we talk?” he asked. I nodded and stepped aside. Because tonight, I didn’t trust myself to say no to anyone.
We sat on the couch, glasses in hand, the wine thick and rich in my throat. Damien leaned back like he belonged there, like this wasn’t awkward or loaded. “Rough night?” he asked gently. I gave him a sideways glance. “You could say that.” He nodded like he already knew. “You don’t have to talk about it. I just thought… maybe you could use someone who isn’t leaving you out in the rain.” That made me flinch a little. I smiled anyway. “Thanks.” We sipped in silence. Our knees barely touched. The tension between us was different now—coated in something complicated. I wondered if he felt it too, or if I was just trying too hard to replace ache with distraction.
We talked about safe things—French bakeries, the gallery he was helping curate, a weird sushi place he swore was worth the risk. I let myself laugh, even if it felt thin. Damien reached for the bottle to pour more wine and brushed my hand accidentally. “Sorry,” he said, and the smile he gave me made something curl in my stomach. “Bea,” he added, voice a little softer. “Whatever’s happening with Julian, I hope you know it’s not a reflection of you. Some men just don’t know how to hold something real.” I nodded, touched. “Thanks, Damien. That means more than you know.” He glanced at the hallway. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” “Go ahead,” I said, grateful for a break to breathe.
He disappeared down the hallway, the sound of the bathroom door closing following a second later. I leaned my head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. The wine buzzed in my blood, not enough to numb anything, just enough to make my thoughts blur. I was so tired of wanting things that hurt. So tired of choosing men who saw me too late. I ran a hand through my hair and tried to ground myself. That’s when I heard it. A voice. Damien’s. Not loud, but clear enough. Coming from the bathroom. The door wasn’t fully shut. My name wasn’t mentioned, but the tone made my stomach twist. I leaned closer, heart slowing in a way that felt dangerous.
“She’s so easy,” Damien said, laughing softly. “Getting back at Julian with her is child’s play. He never should’ve let her walk.” Silence. Then more laughter. “I mean, she’s smart, sure. But vulnerable? Like handing me keys to a loaded gun. She practically opened the door.” My blood ran cold. My hands clenched around the glass I hadn’t realized I still held. I stared at the hallway like it had grown teeth. My entire body went still, mind blank with betrayal. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them. Like I was a game. A pawn. A way to win a war that was never about me.
I stood up slowly, set the wine glass down with deliberate calm, and walked to the closet near the door. His coat hung on the hook, expensive and smug. I grabbed it, walked back to the door, opened it wide—and tossed the coat onto the wet tile just inside the hallway. Then I shut the door, not all the way, just enough to wait. A minute later, Damien stepped out of the bathroom, looking pleased. His smile froze when he saw the door open. Then he saw me. Standing in the middle of the room, hands on my hips, shaking—but not with sadness.
With rage. “Get Out!”