Damain
The morning drags. Meetings. Reports. Faces that talk too much.
I listen, but my mind drifts. The numbers mean nothing. The boardroom smells like money and stress. The only sound that really bothers me is the clock. Every tick is a reminder.
"Mr. Blackwell," one of the directors says, voice too eager. "The Westhaven acquisition, our analysts recommend final approval. It's a clean buy, sir. No outstanding debt, no pending lawsuits."
I glance at the file. Columns of figures blur into lines. I've seen a hundred of these, and they all end the same way, with someone else making money and calling it progress.
"Who drafted the final clause on asset retention?" I ask.
A nervous shuffle. The director clears his throat. "That would be from legal. Mr. Haynes, sir."
"Haynes?" I say without looking up. "The same man who missed a breach clause last quarter?"
Silence stretches. I can hear someone's pen drop.
"I fixed it," Haynes stammers from the far end of the table. "Revised and triple-checked this time."
I let him sweat for a moment, then turn another page. My right hand trembles slightly. I shift it under the table, pressing my thumb into my palm until it stops.
Steady. Not here.
Finally, I say, "Approved. Send it to legal for final signing."
A collective exhale fills the room. They think it's over.
"Sir, that's a major greenlight," the director says, smiling too wide. "Westhaven's board will be thrilled. They've been waiting for your word."
"Then don't keep them waiting," I reply, cold and even.
I close the folder and glance at my watch. Ten minutes past twelve.
The tremor returns, faint but present, crawling up my wrist.
Someone at the far end clears their throat. "Should we prepare a press statement, Mr. Blackwell?"
"Do it," I say. "Keep it clean. No talk of expansion until the ink dries."
"Yes, sir."
Their voices blur again. The meeting moves to quarterly growth, projections, strategy. I don't hear most of it. I check my phone beneath the table, pretending to read a memo. A new message glows on the screen.
Uncle Harrison: Lunch at The Sovereign Club. Don't argue. Bring charm. I want you to meet someone.
My jaw tightens.
Of course you do, Uncle.
I lock the phone, slide it face-down on the table, and say, "Wrap it up. I've got somewhere to be."
They all nod.
*****
I slowed at a red light.
Across the street, a young father lifts his daughter onto his shoulders. She laughs, sunlight catching in her hair.
The sound doesn't reach through the glass, but something about it stings.
I look away just when the light turns green.
The Sovereign Club sits twelve floors up, overlooking the city's financial district. A place where power tastes like wine.
The doorman greets me with the usual, "Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell."
I nod. No smile. Just that quiet authority that makes people lower their eyes without knowing why.
Inside, the restaurant hums with money and whispers. Every table holds someone pretending they own the city.
Uncle Harrison is already here, sitting at a corner table. He's smiling that politician's smile. Warm, practiced, empty.
I join him, sliding into the seat opposite.
"Always punctual," Harrison says. "I taught you well."
I take the menu but don't look at it. "You said this was about someone I needed to meet."
He gestures to the chair beside him. "She's on her way. Be patient."
"I don't do blind lunches," I say, eyes narrowing.
But his smile widens. "You'll make an exception for this one. She's important; for you and for the company."
"Meaning?"
"She comes from a family with reach." Harrison leans in. "Political reach. The sort that can pull strings even money can't. Her father controls the largest oil ventures in the East sector. You know the Montroses, she's the one. A partnership would make us untouchable."
I keep staring at him. "You want me to marry a... merger."
"Call it what you like. You need stability and the company needs good press."
"I'm not interested. I'm already engaged and Elle is whom I'm getting married to. Get used to it."
"Think about it, boy." Harrison's tone hardens, ignoring the part I mentioned about my fiancée.
He just folds the napkin, precise and slow.
Then the waiter approaches, murmuring, "Miss Claire Montrose is here, sir."
She walks in almost immediately. Tall, blonde hair in a sleek bun, perfect smile. Expensive perfume. Already studying me.
"Claire!" Harrison says, standing to shake her. "You remember my Nephew? Damian."
Of course. Senator Montrose's daughter.
Old money. New ambitions.
The kind of woman Harrison worships. Strategic, sterile, untouchable.
"Welcome," I say, extending a hand. Claire's grip is firm, cool, and detached. She doesn't blink.
We all sit. Waiters move around, pouring wine. The silverware gleams like it's watching.
"The Montroses are considering expanding their oil ventures internationally," Harrison starts. "I strongly believe we would benefit from that partnership. A merger, perhaps personal and professional."
He doesn't even look subtle. I set my glass down gently.
"You're talking about marriage."
He smiles. "You're thirty, Son. It's time you start thinking long term. This family needs stability. Respectability. We can't afford emotional distractions."
My jaw tightens. He doesn't say Elle's name. He doesn't have to. Harrison already has her pinned to the wall in his mind as unworthy, ordinary, beneath the Blackwells.
"Love," Harrison continues, "is a luxury. Legacy isn't."
I lean back. "You're mistaking me for someone who needs either."
Harrison laughs. "Think about it. I'll leave you two to talk."
He stands, adjusts his cufflinks, and walks out.
For a while no one speaks, then Claire sighs.
"You can relax. I don't want this either."
"Good. Then we have an understanding."
She smirks. "Don't celebrate yet. My father thinks I should marry you. That it'll make me useful. But I'm not his pawn. I have my own plans."
"And what are those?"
"To take over his company."
I chuckle. "You think marrying me will help you do that?"
"It's not about marriage. It's about control. My father listens to power, and you have that. Together, we can shift things."
I lean forward a bit, sipping my wine. "I'm not your project, Claire."
"Then be my weapon."
I immediately stand, ready to leave. "Find someone else."
Her voice follows me. Calm. Effortless, like she was ordering another drink.
"You wouldn't want your uncle knowing about your little condition, would you?"
The world stops. Air leaves my lungs. For a second, I think she's reading my mind.
I turn, very slowly, every muscle in my body tightening.
"What did you just say?"
She smiles, slow and cruel. "Frontal Degenerative Syndrome, isn't it? The tremors. The memory lapses. The fatigue. You hide it well, though."
My blood goes cold. "How do you know that?"
"You're not the only one who pays for silence," she says. "Your records... weren't as secure as you thought."
I stare at her, pulse hammering behind my eyes. "You're bluffing."
"Try me," she says simply. "Or better yet, ask your uncle what he'd think if he knew the man running the company can't even hold a pen steady when he's tired."
A beat passes. Too long. Too dangerous.
"Sit down, Damian."
Her voice softens, but it's the softness of a blade. "I'm giving you a choice. Play along, and we both get what we want. Refuse, and you lose everything. We're going to plan our engagement announcement."
Play along.
For a moment, her words blur into something else. Elle's voice, softer, laughing, teasing me as usual the night of the family dinner for taking life too seriously. "You can't control everything, Damian."
The memory cuts too deep. I blink it away before Claire can see it.
I stare at her, searching for a crack, but find only calm precision. The kind that scares me more than rage ever could.
I lower myself back into the chair, every movement deliberate. "You're playing with fire."
"Good," she smiles. "Maybe it'll remind you you're alive."
*****
Thirty minutes later, I step out of the club into the cold daylight. My reflection in the glass door looks foreign. My vision flickers for half a second. I grip the railing until the tremor passes.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
I almost ignore it. I want to.
The city hums around me; engines, voices, life moving on.
But the sound keeps cutting through, relentless.
I check it.
Not from Harrison this time.
Dr. Alcott: Your next check-up is long overdue. Things will go bad if you keep skipping treatment.
I stare at the words until they blur.
The tremor starts again. Faint, familiar, merciless.