Chapter 352: The CEO, His Almost-Wife, and His Long-Suffering Boyfriend

He was still wearing his charcoal suit, although his tie had been loosened slightly, and he looked as composed as a man who had spent the day managing a corporate empire had any right to look.

His expression changed when he noticed me sitting alone.

"Sunshine."

"Hello to you, too."

He approached, leaning down to kiss my forehead before straightening and glancing towards the hallway.

"Something happened."

It wasn’t a question.

I studied him, wondering how he could possibly have guessed that his afternoon was about to become significantly more unpleasant.

"Isabella is here."

Damien’s expression barely changed, although something in his eyes grew colder.

"I expected her to come eventually."

"Of course you did. Why wouldn’t an actress whose family has been planning her marriage to you simply appear at your home without warning? That’s perfectly normal behaviour, asshole."

His mouth twitched faintly, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes.

"How long has she been here?"

"Long enough to drink some wine, inspect your house, and discover that I’m apparently a disappointing plot twist in her romantic life."

Damien’s jaw tightened.

"Did she say anything hurtful to you?"

"Several things, although I suspect she was already having a bad day before she met me. She was angry, and she had every reason to feel humiliated, even if I didn’t particularly enjoy being treated like an unwanted delivery."

He looked at me carefully, as though checking for signs that I had been more affected than I wanted to admit.

"Oliver—"

"I’m fine, Damien. Really." I reached for his hand and squeezed it briefly. "She cried a little, and I feel really bad for her. I don’t think she’s a terrible person. I think she’s a woman who was promised something you never intended to give her."

His fingers closed around mine, and his expression softened in a way that made the tension in my chest ease despite everything.

"Thank you for being kind to her."

"Don’t thank me yet. I also considered charging her for the wine."

This time, he actually smiled, although it disappeared when footsteps sounded from the hallway.

Isabella emerged a moment later, her makeup repaired as best she could manage, though her eyes remained red around the edges.

She had regained most of her composure, but the moment she saw Damien standing beside me, something in her face faltered.

His attention had been on me, and even when he turned towards her, his hand remained loosely wrapped around mine.

I watched Isabella notice the gesture, then the way Damien’s expression softened again when I shifted closer to him.

The sight hurt her. She didn’t need to say anything for me to recognize it.

"Damien," she said, lifting her chin. "We need to talk."

"We do."

I glanced between them, suddenly aware that I was standing in the middle of a conversation that had been waiting to happen long before Isabella rang my doorbell.

"I’ll...uh, I’ll give you two some privacy," I offered, gently slipping my hand from Damien’s.

His fingers caught mine before I could take a step. "No, stay."

I looked up at him. "Damien, I don’t think—"

"You deserve to hear this conversation for yourself," he said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument.

His hand moved briefly to the small of my back, warm and reassuring, before he turned towards Isabella. "I’m not going to discuss my relationship with Oliver as though he’s someone who has no place in it."

Isabella’s gaze dropped to his hand against my back, and I watched a complicated mixture of hurt, resentment, and reluctant understanding move across her face.

For a moment, I thought she might argue. Instead, she looked away, drew a steadying breath, and walked towards the sofa with the rigid dignity of someone determined not to cry in front of either of us again.

I followed Damien to the living room, and we settled opposite her, leaving the coffee table between us like an absurdly expensive peace treaty.

The room had been warm and comfortable only an hour earlier, filled with the ordinary clutter of my afternoon and the quiet familiarity of a home I was still getting used to calling ours.

Now every little sound seemed magnified, from the faint ticking of the clock to the soft clink of Isabella’s wineglass as she set it down.

Damien sat beside me, composed and unreadable, with his hand resting close enough to mine that our fingers occasionally brushed against each other.

I kept my shoulders relaxed, although I could feel the tension gathering beneath my ribs, while Isabella sat across from us with her back straight and her eyes fixed on the man she had spent a year trying to win.

Nobody spoke.

The conversation was finally going to happen, and for once, I had no sarcastic comment prepared to save us all from the discomfort.

I suspected I was going to need one before the evening was over.

Then Damien spoke, "would you like to join us for dinner, Isabella?"

If someone had told me that I would spend my evening having dinner with Damien Lockwood and the woman his parents had intended to marry him off to, I would have laughed, asked what they had been smoking, and returned to my plans of swimming in the infinity pool before finding a terrible movie to criticize for the next two hours.

Instead, I was sitting at our dining table, watching Gabriel’s beautifully prepared dinner grow cold while the three of us tried to navigate what might have been the most uncomfortable social gathering of my entire life.

How awkward...

I had survived university group projects, awkward parent-teacher meetings, and one particularly memorable Christmas dinner where Dad had attempted to explain cryptocurrency to a man who still struggled to operate his television remote, but none of those experiences had prepared me for sharing roasted chicken with Damien’s almost-fiancée while we collectively dismantled an arranged marriage.

Life truly had a remarkable sense of humour, and unfortunately, I appeared to be its favourite victim.

"Would you like some more wine, Isabella?" Damien asked, reaching for the bottle beside his plate.

She hesitated before holding out her glass, and he poured a little more without making a production of it.

His manner was courteous, almost formal, and although he had always been perfectly capable of behaving like a gentleman when he wasn’t pissing me off or fucking me until I could barely speak, I could tell that he was making a conscious effort to keep the evening civil rather than allowing his impatience to dictate the conversation.

I passed Isabella the serving dish when she glanced towards it, then refilled her water when I noticed her glass was nearly empty.

She thanked me quietly, and for a moment, our eyes met across the table, revealing the strange situation we had found ourselves in.

She had arrived at my home expecting to confront a man who had been promised to her, only to discover that he already been living with someone else, loved him, and had absolutely no intention of changing his mind.

"Thank you," Isabella murmured as I passed her the vegetables.

"You’re welcome."

She looked at Damien, who was calmly cutting his chicken, before returning her attention to me.

"Does he always eat like this?"

I glanced at Damien. "Like what?"

"As though he’s attending a business meeting."

"Unfortunately, yes. I’ve been trying to convince him that dinner isn’t a board meeting for months, but the man is committed to his brand."

Damien lifted his eyes towards me, and I caught the faintest suggestion of amusement in his expression.

"I believe you’re the one who spent ten minutes explaining why a particular television character deserved to be arrested for being an idiot."

"He did deserve to be arrested, and I will not be silenced on the subject."

For the first time that evening, Isabella smiled without looking as though she regretted it immediately.

The expression disappeared quickly, but the brief moment of normality made the room feel a little less suffocating.

Damien set down his cutlery and looked at her.

"I think we should begin with the truth, rather than allowing our families to continue deciding what happens next."

Isabella’s smile faded, and she placed her glass on the table.

"All right," she said, drawing a breath.

Damien’s gaze shifted to me before returning to her, and I felt his hand settle against the back of my chair, a quiet, reassuring touch that reminded me I wasn’t being asked to defend my place in his life.

"Oliver and I met at Hawthorne University," he began. "We were roommates, although I doubt either of us would have described the arrangement as pleasant during the first few weeks."

"That’s because you were an insufferable, stupid jerk," I added, reaching for my water. "You printed out dumb rules on paper, complained about my alarm, my music, my books, and the fact that I occasionally left a mug on the desk, told me not to touch your stuff or talk to you."