Chapter 8 - The First Time Damien Asked Me on a Date Instead of Ordering Me Home
For six months after our divorce, Damien and I spoke almost exclusively about business.
Blackwood Holdings improved.
The Sterling Vale restructuring stabilized debt, eliminated several questionable subsidiaries, and restored investor confidence.
Damien became famous for a completely different reason.
He became boring.
Financial journalists loved it.
No mysterious private clubs.
No sudden executive disappearances.
No whispered rumors about Blackwood retaliation.
Quarterly earnings.
Compliance reports.
New shipping contracts.
Damien complained constantly.
“I spent thirty-eight years becoming feared and apparently the market prefers me dull.”
I looked up from the board packet.
“Investors like predictable.”
“Criminally unromantic.”
“This is a board meeting.”
“I know.”
“Then stop flirting.”
“Was that flirting?”
“Yes.”
“I've become rusty.”
Other directors tried not to laugh.
He behaved professionally.
Mostly.
Outside the boardroom, I rebuilt my own life.
I sold the marital lake house.
The balcony went with it.
I never returned.
Damien did not either.
He bought a smaller home in Lincoln Park.
Smaller, in Damien's vocabulary, meant five bedrooms instead of nineteen.
I purchased a condo overlooking the river.
No balcony.
That was intentional.
Then one evening, my therapist asked:
“Do you plan to avoid balconies forever?”
“I don't like them.”
“That wasn't my question.”
I hated therapy.
Apparently Damien and I finally shared a hobby.
I began working on it.
First, standing near an open terrace door.
Then stepping outside for thirty seconds.
Then two minutes.
Then five.
The first time I stayed alone on a balcony for ten minutes, I cried.
Not from fear.
Victory.
I did not tell Damien.
Some things needed to belong only to me.
Sophie remained incarcerated.
She and Laura began writing letters.
Their relationship was fragile.
Complicated.
Real.
I received one letter from Sophie.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I opened it.
Emily,
I know apology is too small.
I also know explaining Victor does not erase what I chose to do.
On the second night you were outside, I saw you from the garden.
You already know that.
What you don't know is that I almost opened the door.
I stood downstairs for twenty minutes.
Then I remembered every time Damien believed me instead of you.
I told myself if he loved you, he would notice you were missing.
That thought made me feel justified.
I understand now how cruel that was.
I wanted proof that he would choose me.
I was willing to make you suffer to get it.
I am sorry.
You do not need to answer.
Sophie
I never replied.
But I kept the letter.
Not because I forgave her.
Because it contained the truth.
Sophie had wanted Damien to choose.
He failed.
That failure was his.
Her cruelty was hers.
Keeping responsibilities separate helped me heal.
Then came the Sterling Vale winter gala.
I attended alone.
Damien attended as CEO of a portfolio company.
We had not seen each other socially in months.
He looked different.
Still broad-shouldered.
Still intimidating.
Still wearing suits that probably cost more than sensible cars.
But softer somehow.
He laughed more.
Listened longer.
He no longer scanned every room like he owned the exits.
At dinner, we were seated apart.
I caught him looking at me twice.
Both times, he looked away first.
That was new.
After the event, snow covered the sidewalk.
My driver was delayed.
Damien appeared beside me.
“Need a ride?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked at him.
“Good?”
“I wasn't sure whether offering would violate boundaries.”
I laughed.
“You can offer.”
“Then would you like a ride?”
“No.”
“Excellent. Personal growth for both of us.”
I smiled.
He put his hands into his coat pockets.
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Would you have coffee with me?”
“We do that for board meetings.”
“No.”
He looked nervous.
Damien Blackwood nervous remained one of my favorite sights.
“Not business.”
I understood.
“A date?”
“Yes.”
My heart reacted before my mind.
I hated that.
“Why?”
“Because I still love you.”
He said it calmly.
No pressure.
“And because I think I finally know enough to ask instead of assume.”
Snow landed in his dark hair.
“What happens if I say no?”
“I go home.”
“And?”
“Probably complain to my therapist.”
I laughed.
“What happens tomorrow?”
“I remain CEO. You remain chair. Nothing changes.”
I studied him.
“Friday.”
His face changed.
“Friday?”
“Coffee.”
“Yes.”
“Coffee only.”
“Understood.”
“No private room.”
“Public.”
“No security at my table.”
“They'll hate that.”
“Damien.”
“Public coffee. No table security.”
“Seven.”
“I'll be early.”
“Don't.”
“I'll be exactly on time.”
He was nine minutes early.
I saw him through the window pacing outside because apparently he was obeying literally.
At seven exactly, he entered.
“You waited outside?”
“No.”
“You're covered in snow.”
“Coincidence.”
I laughed.
That first date lasted forty-three minutes.
We talked about nothing important.
A documentary.
A terrible restaurant review.
Michael's new baby.
My upcoming trip to Boston.
It felt strangely intimate because no crisis demanded attention.
When we left, Damien asked:
“Can I see you again?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
That was how our second relationship began.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Carefully.
We dated for eight months before I entered his house.
He never invited me earlier.
Not because he did not want me there.
Because he understood homes had become complicated.
His new house felt nothing like the estate.
Warm wood.
Books.
An absurd kitchen.
Family photographs.
No staff hovering.
He cooked pasta.
Badly.
“You own restaurants.”
“I am aware.”
“You have access to chefs.”
“They refused to help because Michael told them this was character building.”
“I like Michael.”
“Everyone likes Michael.”
Dinner was terrible.
I ate everything.
Afterward, I found something in Damien's study.
My old complaints about Sophie.
Printed.
Annotated.
I froze.
He found me holding them.
“What is this?”
His expression changed.
“I reviewed them.”
“Why?”
“To understand what I ignored.”
Each complaint contained notes.
What I said.
How Damien responded.
What he should have investigated.
Patterns he missed.
I stared at him.
“This is depressing.”
“Very.”
“Why keep it?”
“Because memory protects ego.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“My therapist said people rewrite history to make themselves less guilty.”
He nodded toward the pages.
“I don't want to forget the exact version.”
That affected me more than flowers ever could.
“Damien.”
“Yes?”
“I'm scared.”
His face softened.
“Of me?”
“Of us.”
He did not move closer.
“Okay.”
“What if we become the same people?”
“We stop.”
“What if you start controlling everything again?”
“You leave.”
The answer came immediately.
“What?”
“You leave.”
He swallowed.
“And I don't threaten you, punish you, follow you, or use money to stop you.”
My eyes filled.
“What if I shut down instead of telling you what hurts?”
“Then I ask instead of deciding you're dramatic.”
I laughed through tears.
“You rehearsed this.”
“Extensively.”
“Of course.”
He smiled.
“I am also scared.”
That surprised me.
“Of what?”
“That someday you will look at me and realize loving me isn't worth remembering everything I did.”
I stepped closer.
“You don't get to decide whether it's worth it.”
He closed his eyes.
“Right.”
I touched his face.
For the first time since our divorce, I kissed him.
Not because I was lonely.
Not because I forgot.
Because I wanted to.
Damien froze.
Then kissed me back gently.
No grabbing.
No ownership.
When we separated, he looked almost dazed.
“Was that—”
“A kiss.”
“I gathered.”
“Don't ruin it.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You were about to ask what it means.”
“Yes.”
“It means I kissed you.”
“Right.”
“Very advanced concept.”
He laughed.
That night I went home.
The relationship continued.
No moving in.
No ring.
No secret expectation that dating automatically meant remarriage.
One year after the divorce, Damien attended a Sterling Vale event with me.
A reporter asked whether we had reconciled.
Damien looked at me before answering.
“We're dating.”
“Planning another wedding?”
He smiled.
“That question belongs equally to Emily.”
The reporter turned toward me.
I laughed.
“No.”
Damien nodded.
“There you go.”
No embarrassment.
No anger.
No attempt to control the narrative.
Later, I asked, “Did that bother you?”
“What?”
“My no.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you answered honestly.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I am trying to build a life where your honesty is never something I fear.”
That was when I realized something dangerous.
I no longer loved Damien despite who he was becoming.
I loved the person he was becoming.
May you like
And for the first time, returning to him no longer felt like returning to the cage.
It felt like choosing a door I knew I could always open.
