C22 Twenty Two

~Bianca's POV~

"The one Damien is supposed to marry."

That sentence hadn't stopped echoing since Moira dropped it like it was a harmless afterthought. Since Damien's face went blank and he followed her out without a word. Since the floor gave out under every single one of us.

He was supposed to get married?

To someone?

Why the hell hadn't he mentioned that before handing me a contract and asking me to play his little game for six goddamn months?

Why manipulate Nathan and me into signing a fake partnership agreement, only to blindside me with some secret fiancée waiting in the wings like a third-act plot twist?

And yeah, sure, he'd said he never agreed to it. But that didn't change the fact that the expectation existed. That his family clearly wanted it. That it had been an option he never bothered to mention.

And why was that bothering me so much?

Why did it matter?

It shouldn't. This was business. A con. Justice for father.

That was all.

...Wasn't it?

Still, I couldn't seem to unclench my fists beneath the table.

The silence felt endless. Nobody dared to speak.

Even Elena who was usually quick-tongued, snide, and always ready with a dagger, sat frozen. Her expression was blank, but her fingers twitched against her napkin like she might tear it in half.

And Georgina?

She was still hovering awkwardly beside the table, unsure whether to sit down or vanish into the floor. Her eyes darted from one of us to the next like she was waiting for someone to hand her a script.

It would've been funny… if I didn't feel like I might explode.

"Georgina, darling!" The voice rang out like champagne poured over acid.

All of our heads turned.

Aunt Moira. Beaming. Gliding across the room like she'd just landed a crown and a seat in the Senate. Pearls glinting. Chin high. Smugness dripping from every syllable.

No Damien in sight.

I scanned behind her anyway, hoping… no, checking. But there was nothing. Just her. Alone. Radiating victory.

Reaching Georgina in three long strides, she clasped her hands like they were lifelong friends. "You'll never guess! Damien said yes! He's taking Nina out on a date this Friday. Eight o'clock sharp. Le Ciel d'Or."

The words hit like a slap.

A date?

Elena stiffened across from me, her spine snapping straight, shoulders tight. She said nothing but her jaw said enough.

As for me?

The heat started in my chest. Low and bitter. A curl of something I didn't want to name.

It wasn't jealousy.

It was irritation. Disgust. Disbelief.

...Maybe a little jealousy.

Moira carried on like we weren't even there. "Tell Nina to get all dolled up. He'll pick her up properly, of course. I raised him right."

Properly.

Right. Like when he'd picked me up for that dinner at Daniel's mansion… contract in one hand, smirk in the other?

I clenched my teeth.

Georgina fidgeted. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Moira? What if Damien—"

"Oh, hush." Moira waved her off like she was brushing away lint. "Nina's perfect. Smart, composed, tasteful. He'll come around."

She said it with such certainty I wanted to reach across the table and knock over the water pitcher.

Eventually, she kissed Georgina on the cheek and told her to go get Nina "camera-ready."

And then Georgina was gone, but the air she left behind felt tighter.

Damien still hadn't come back. No message. No sign.

No explanation.

Of course.

Exhaling slowly, I pushed my glass of water away. My thirst had long evaporated.

Elena sat frozen, her stare drilling holes through the tablecloth.

I slid toward the edge of the booth. Enough of this circus. I needed air. Silence. Distance.

But then… silk rustled beside me.

And Moira slipped into Damien's now-empty seat.

Like she hadn't just detonated the equivalent of an emotional landmine across the room and walked away whistling.

She folded her hands neatly. Smiled. Crossed one leg over the other like she'd been invited.

"Well," she said sweetly, voice dipped in sugar and threat. "Where are you two off to so suddenly?"

Neither of us answered.

Leaning in just enough for the light to catch the curve of her diamonds, her amused, sharp, and hungry gaze moved between Elena and me. "I think it's time we had a little chat."

She smiled wider, settling in like this was the most pleasant part of her afternoon.

"And I do so love sorting out other women's... misunderstandings."

*****

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rebellion.

Martha had tried, for the fifth time, to shoo me out like I was some royal guest who'd wandered into the servants' quarters by accident.

"This isn't your domain, dear," she muttered sternly, reaching for the chopping knife in my hand.

I raised a brow. "Then consider it a hostile takeover."

Truth was, I was bored. Not the idle kind. The clawing, circling, pacing-the-walls kind.

After yesterday—Moira's smug grenade, Damien's disappearing act, that eerie little chat—I hadn't seen him. Not at breakfast. Not in the halls. Not even through a window.

It was well past noon, and I was officially out of patience.

Was he with Nina? Had Moira sealed the deal behind everyone's backs?

Her voice still echoed in my head, syrupy and poisonous:

"You girls really thought he'd pick one of you? He's just passing time with both of you, sweethearts."

I needed noise. Distraction. A lifeline from the waiting.

So, I turned to the one thing that had always calmed my nerves.

Cooking.

It was stupid, probably. Especially since I'd learned to cook in a different life, back when Nathan's family treated me like I had nothing to offer until I could sauté onions and fold napkins into swans.

But somewhere in those hollow marriage years, food became mine.

My rules. My therapy. My escape.

So here I was… chicken thighs searing in a cast iron pan, garlic and butter perfuming the air, while Martha hovered beside me like a flustered guardian angel at war with modern technology.

"Why does the oven need a screen?" she muttered, squinting at the control panel like it had personally insulted her ancestors. "In my day, you turned a knob. The damn thing heated. End of story."

I snorted. "God forbid we evolve."

She shot me a look, but it was missing the usual sting. Just mild horror as I tapped the digital display with ease.

"Here. You're selecting convection, not broil."

I walked her through it slowly. "See? Tap, hold, press. Not witchcraft."

Martha grumbled something unintelligible. Then, after a beat, she murmured, "Reminds me of the first time Damien showed me how to use that bloody mixer when Herman brought him here. I'd been doing it all by hand. The boy told me he was tired of watching me 'murder cookie dough.' Taught me every shortcut like he was on a mission."

I froze, my grip tightening around the spoon at the sudden memory… just one careless flicker, the first personal thing she'd let slip in days.

So I turned, casually… or tried to. "He sounds… helpful."

She didn't look at me, but her shoulders stiffened: a subtle, instinctive retreat. Like she knew she'd said too much.

Still, I pressed. Softly. "You said he stayed here… so Herman brought him when he was young?"

A beat.

Then another.

Setting the salt down slowly, her voice went cautious. "Bianca…"

Neutral. Measured. A warning.

But too late.

The air behind me shifted before I heard the low, controlled, and very furious voice. "Prying, are we?"

My breath caught as I turned… and there he was, Damien in the doorway like a storm draped in silk, sleeves rolled, collar undone, eyes dark, no jacket, no smile, no mask.

His voice was ice beneath fire. "I leave for a few hours and come back to this?"

"T-to what?"

"You digging through things that don't concern you."

I straightened, spine tightening. "I wasn't—"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't repackage it as innocent curiosity. You don't want memories. You want leverage."

His words came fast now, sharp and precise.

No wasted breath. Just knives.

"You've gotten comfortable. Too comfortable. This—" he motioned to the gas cooker, the food, the fragile illusion of normalcy, "was never part of the arrangement."

I swallowed the heat in my throat. "And what exactly is part of the arrangement, Damien? Enlighten me. Be silent? Be convenient?"

His jaw tensed, but he maintained eye contact.

"No," he said calmly, stepping closer, unhurried, as his voice dropped: "You follow the rules, you don't ask questions, and you don't overstep."

Folding my arms, the spoon still clenched tight in one hand, I felt my pulse thud. "And if I do?"

He said nothing at first, just closed the distance between us until the scent of wind and faint cologne filled my lungs.

Gaze dragging over my face—blank, measured—until, at last, a slow, dangerous smile unfolded.

"Then I remind you," he said in a low and razor-sharp voice, "exactly what six months of your body costs."