Emma's Pov
The sun felt different that morning, it was brighter, softer, like the city had taken a deep breath after holding it for too long. For the first time in weeks, my reflection in the mirror didn't look like a stranger. My eyes were still tired, but there was something steadier behind them.
The email had come at 7:03 a.m. sharp, from the clinic's board.
Subject: Suspension Lifted.
There was no apology, just two short paragraphs confirming what I'd been waiting to hear: that the board had reviewed my case, taken into account the full context, and concluded that I could return to work effectively immediately.
I should've felt triumphant or vindicated, even but all I felt was… relief, quiet, shaky relief.
I sat at my kitchen counter, reading the email again and again until the words finally sank in. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint buzz of traffic below, even the steam curling from my coffee cup.
Then, without thinking twice, I picked up my phone. He deserved to hear it from me.
"Damian?" My voice was soft when he answered.
"Emma," he said, his tone unreadable.
"They lifted it," I said, trying not to sound like I was holding my breath. "The suspension. I can go back to work."
For a moment, all I heard was silence. Then a low exhale. "That's… good. You deserve that."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. It feels good."
But before I could say anything else, he spoke again. "The board contacted me this morning too."
Something in his voice shifted, it was gentle, careful, like he was trying to soften a blow. "They said you will be reassigned to another therapist."
My heart sank, even though I knew it was inevitable. "Oh."
He hesitated, then said quietly, "It's the right call."
It was. Professionally, ethically, it was the only call but knowing that didn't make the ache any easier. "Yeah," I whispered. "It is."
We stayed on the line longer than necessary, neither of us sure what to say. The silence wasn't heavy anymore, though. It was just… full.
When the call ended, I sat there for a long time, staring out at the morning light spilling across the city. Things weren't magically fixed, but something had shifted. The chaos had finally started to settle.
A few hours later, he texted again.
Damian: Are you still planning to stay in that apartment?
Emma: For now. Why?
Damian: It's too close to the press. Let me help you find somewhere quieter.
I almost refused. The last thing I wanted was another headline "Therapist Accepts Apartment from Ex-Client" but before I could type my response, another message followed.
Damian: Consider it an apology for everything.
That made me pause. It wasn't about power or control this time. It was about guilt and maybe, in some way, gratitude.
So, that afternoon, we met at a quiet apartment complex on the edge of the city. He was already there when I arrived, leaning against his car, dressed down in a black sweater and jeans. No entourage, security, just him.
"You didn't have to do this," I said as I walked up.
"I know," he replied. "But I wanted to."
He showed me three apartments, all beautiful, spacious, filled with light, far from the noise of downtown. The last one, though, felt different. It had warmth, something lived-in about it. The walls were a soft cream, the balcony overlooked a small park, and when I stepped into the living room, I could actually breathe.
"This one," I said quietly.
He smiled faintly, his eyes softening. "Yeah. I thought you'd pick this one."
I turned to him, crossing my arms. "You really shouldn't be doing this."
He met my gaze steadily. "Emma, you lost more because of me than you should have. Let me do this one thing."
There was no arrogance in his tone, no billionaire's guilt, no savior complex. Just sincerity and for once, I didn't argue.
"Fine," I murmured, glancing around the space. "But you're not buying it. You're just… helping with the first few months."
He chuckled quietly. "Always negotiating."
"I'm serious, Damian."
"I know." His voice softened again. "And I promise, I'll respect that."
For a moment, we just stood there, the afternoon light pouring in through the windows, painting him in gold. There was distance between us now, the kind that rules and reputations had carved but also something new.
As the real estate agent left us alone to finalize details, Damian lingered by the balcony door. "You really are going back to work?"
I nodded. "Monday."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes were unreadable. "I'm glad. You belong there."
"And you?" I asked. "What happens to you now?"
He gave a small, tired laugh. "Therapy continues, apparently with someone else this time."
It stung a little, hearing him say it so casually but I smiled anyway. "Good, maybe she won't make you curse as much."
He smirked. "Doubtful."
For the first time in a long while, I laughed, it was a real laugh. The sound felt strange in my chest, like a piece of me was coming back to life.
When the lease papers were signed and the agent left, Damian lingered by the door. "I should go," he said quietly.
I nodded, but when he reached for the handle, I found myself blurting out, "Thank you."
He turned, brows raised.
"For believing in me," I said. "Even when it cost you everything."
His jaw tightened slightly. "You didn't need my belief, Emma. You just needed the truth and you gave it to everyone, even me."
Before I could respond, he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
"I will," I said, though my voice trembled.
He hesitated for half a second, then turned and left.
I watched him walk away through the window, the city stretching behind him, until he disappeared into the blur of afternoon traffic and for the first time, I didn't feel hollow. I didn't feel like I'd lost something.
I felt like I'd finally closed a chapter.
That night, I sat on the balcony of my new apartment, watching the lights flicker across the skyline. Somewhere out there, he was rebuilding, and so was I.
Two people, no longer tangled in guilt or scandal but just learning how to live again.
And maybe, someday, our paths would cross in a way that wasn't defined by what we'd lost but for now, this peace was enough.