C21 Twenty one

~Damien's POV~

Fucking Aunt Moira.

Of all the people I didn't want to see today, and of all the moments she could've chosen to play family, she ambushed me mid-lunch with the two women I was finally getting a reaction out of. A glimmer of chaos in their eyes, and I was enjoying it.

Then she showed up.

Heels clacking like a war drum. Voice loud enough to turn heads. Entrance dramatic enough to rival a Broadway finale.

Fucking Aunt Moira.

Herman's sister. The one woman who didn't blink when he brought home a broken, furious boy and said, "He's mine now."

She made space for me where there was none. Took me in without hesitation. Gave me food, a bed, a sharp tongue when I needed it, and affection I didn't know how to receive.

So no… I couldn't hate her.

But right now?

I could absolutely throttle her.

Ever since that goddamn accident took her husband and kid, she'd funneled all that unspent love straight into me. Like I was her second chance. And in some ways, I was.

I didn't mind. Hell, I called her every Sunday when I was abroad. Remembered her birthday. Sent flowers on Mother's Day.

It was fine.

Until about a year ago… when she brought up marriage.

Not just marriage. Arranged marriage.

With photos. Résumés. Lineage charts, like I was picking a damn racehorse.

"Nina this" and "Nina that", as if a PhD and good breeding were all it took to make me give a damn.

I dodged. Shrugged. Ignored.

She persisted.

And now, here she was… crashing my lunch. One of the rare moments I was actually entertained. And leaning into the booth like she owned the place, practically singing in front of Bianca and Elena, who were already seconds from slitting each other's throats:

"The one Damien is supposed to marry."

It was like a grenade rolled onto the table.

Bianca stiffened. Lips parting in disbelief.

Elena looked like someone had just insulted her trust fund.

And me?

I wanted to disappear. Or punch something.Or both.

"I never agreed to that," I said in a frostbite-like voice.

Aunt Moira turned, slowly. Her smile faltered. Her eyes—steel grey and calculating—darkened.

And for one second, just one, I saw it: Wound.

She was actually hurt.

It cracked something in me I didn't realize was still soft.

But then her expression shifted. Hardened. That familiar glint returned.

The one she used to give Herman when she wanted something done.

The look that said: I'm going to get my way, and if I have to nuke the damn city to do it, so be it.

Not here. Not today.

"Excuse me," I said to the table. "Family matter."

Leaning in slightly, I said in a low but firm voice. "Aunt Moira, let's step outside."

Before she could object, I guided her away from the table—grip firm, but composed. Eyes were already following us. Gossip would follow, but damage control started with not letting her cause a scene.

*****

The summer heat slapped us as we stepped out, New York in August: thick, loud, and pissed off.

I let her go the second the door closed behind us.

"What the hell was that?"

She straightened her Chanel skirt, like I'd wrinkled her dignity. "What are you so worked up about?"

"You dropped a bomb in there."

"I introduced you." Her tone was maddeningly breezy. "Or reminded you, really. Of the girl you're supposed to marry."

"I never agreed to that."

"What's the harm in one date?"

I dragged a hand down my face. Breathed.

Stay calm.

"Aunty, we've talked about this."

"Yes. And you keep brushing it off like it'll go away. Newsflash… it won't."

"I'm not marrying someone because she looks good on paper and plays well with the country club crowd."

"She's not just paper. She's smart. Poised. And that—" She gestured back at the restaurant. "—was her mother."

I froze.

"You're telling me that was Nina's mom?"

"Of course it was."

I laughed. Sharp. Dry. No fucking humor in it. "Jesus Christ."

"Don't take the Lord's name—"

"Don't set me up mid-lunch like it's The Bachelor, Aunty."

She bristled. "I thought I was doing you a favor."

"I'm not interested."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

"Then give me a reason."

"I just did."

She narrowed her eyes. Calculating. Doubting.

Of course she didn't believe me.

"You're hung up on that one," she said, chin tilting toward the restaurant. "The one with the storm in her eyes."

I said nothing.

"And the gloss-lipped snake across from her? Please, Damien. You've always liked broken things."

"Don't." My voice was low. A warning.

She didn't stop.

"Just one dinner," she said softly now. Persuasive. Dangerous. "That's all I'm asking. You don't even have to like her. Just… see her."

She wasn't going to drop it.

If I said no, she'd waltz back in there, smile like a goddamn empress, and humiliate me in front of every camera and stockholder on the Eastern Seaboard.

She'd weaponize her love. Make it strategy.

I wasn't in the mood to play defense today.

So I flipped the board.

"One date," I said. Tightly. Clipped. Controlled. "That's it."

She lit up. Like she'd just won the Derby and the goddamn lottery.

"Wonderful," she said, already adjusting her pearls. "Three days from now. Eight p.m. Le Ciel d'Or. You'll pick her up… properly. Don't make her arrive alone. I raised you better than that."

I kept my jaw tight. Said nothing.

"I'll send you her address."

Then, like she hadn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of my afternoon, she patted my cheek. "You'll thank me someday."

Turning, she walked back toward the restaurant, triumphant. While I stayed where I was, breathing. Thinking.

Alright. One date.

One dinner.

Then I'd make Nina hate me enough to call it off herself.

Let Moira think she's playing chess.

She forgot who taught me the game.

Glancing one more time at the restaurant, I crossed the street, phone already in hand.

"Jade. I'm on my way."

I'd survived torture.

Heartbreak.

An attempted suicide.

But Aunt Moira?

She might be the only one who ever plays me.