Chapter Text
It’s those damned pens again.
He hated her pens. The slow, deliberate scratching noise they made that were always sharp enough to grate under his skin. The pen she’s using today was scratchy, it was loud, and it was fucking annoying the way it never seemed to stop writing. What was she even writing about? He wasn’t even saying anything, like at all, and it has been what, 30 minutes? 45? Seriously, what was there to write about? How miserable his pathetic life was? How he is sitting there, staring at that dreadfully ugly clock (he hates that clock too) behind her like an idiot?
It was bad enough that he had to go here every single week and endure her torturous stare, now he had to hear that damned pen for two hours straight too? Was she trying to make him uncomfortable enough, he starts spilling his thoughts? It was a tactic he knew she often tried with him. Let's just say he fell for it sometimes, maybe more than sometimes. She goaded her often enough, he knew now not to fall for it. But sometimes she was just so fucking infuriating he fell for it in an embarrassingly enough amount. What a fucking week indeed. Fucking municipal ordinance bullshit.
His therapist breathed quieter than he did—one more thing he hated in this goddamned office of hers. It was always controlled and steady, it only made his own breathing sound louder than it should. Why did that even matter? He didn't know, he was just so uncomfortable everything was so loud. He sat on the same lumpy brown leather couch that he also hated just because, spine locked straight, fingers digging into his knees.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He hadn’t since he walked in 40 minutes ago. For the first 10 minutes, he kept his eyes fixed on the rugged red carpet that had some meaningless pattern in the weave. When he got bored, he stared at the bookshelf at the corner of the room for 10 more minutes. Now he was staring at the clock behind her for what it felt like forever. He looked at anything, anything that wasn’t her therapist's eyes.
Her eyes. His law mandated therapist. That was the only name he allowed her in his mind, or anywhere really. Sometimes it was just Doctor, clipped and distant. Never more.
He refused to think of her by her actual name. He refused to give her that kind of space in his fucked up head. He won’t allow it, not when she looked at him the way she did, with those sharp green eyes that saw straight through him, so familiar he wanted to vomit every time he stared at it longer than a minute. So, when he did have to look at her, he stared through her, or rather, he stared at her pin-straight blonde hair, sometimes the clean line of her jaw, or the way her glasses slipped when she leaned forward. Anything but her sharp assessing eyes, he could just gouge it right out of her sockets.
It was better to hate her than to think of her, and to his relief, her office made that easy. He hated her clock, her ugly carpet, the lumpy couch, that little plant on her desk, and he loathed her pens, especially the one she’s using today. It was fluffy, glittery and almost nauseatingly pink. Last week he stated that he hated the color pink, that out of all the colors, he would gladly cast out that nauseating and corrupt and traitorous color. Maybe he was overreacting and maybe it wasn’t the color pink, not really, he didn’t care, she didn’t know that. Now, he was sure he did this to fucking mock and irritate him, because she is wearing the most obnoxious shade of pink he had ever seen, plus that fucking pen.
Oh, he hated his therapist. Every session with her feels draining his life force, even with him not really doing anything that drastic, something about her was achingly painful to tolerate for two hours. He also hated her eyes, and her dresses, and her throw pillows on the couch. Mostly he hated that he dreams about her once or twice a month, dreams he would wake up angry at himself for. That was enough. She fucking infuriated him to a point he wanted to rip his own hair out.
So no. No names. Just his damn therapist and the occasional "Doctor”. Her pens already reminded him often enough that he was her client, and that maybe, she hated him more for being so difficult. He'd bet his inheritance he's one of her worst clients. He made sure of that.
She sat across from him on her recliner, crossing one leg over the other, hair falling down her shoulder as she wrote calmly in her notebook. Her eyes down, never looking up. She didn’t beg him to speak, she never did, but she had a way of making him talk. Or more like, provoking him to anger until he talked.
Another 5 minutes passed, but nothing. He was being extra insufferable today, but he didn't care, she also didn't care. Fuck that, he could shut his mouth for two hours today, he could do it.
Another minute passed, and he was bored enough looking at her ugly clock to look at another ugly trinket in her office when a single vibration made his carefully crafted composure break slightly. It was his phone. It only vibrated once, but it was enough to slice clean open his rapidly-fraying nerves.
He didn’t look at it, didn't even show the cracked composure but his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once, twice. He didn't need to look at it, he already knew exactly what it was, he’d been receiving the same notification every thirty minutes for the last twelve fucking hours. A reminder of the message sitting in his inbox like a live bomb, mocking him.
The photos. The fucking photos.
His fingers tightened slightly on his knees, knuckles whitening. Across from him, the scratching of the pen finally stopped. The sudden silence was somehow worse.
“Your breathing is too fast,” his therapist said, tone flat, as if pointing out the weather. “Chest, not diaphragm. You’re going to make yourself lightheaded again.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“Mm.” She didn’t even bother pretending she believed that. “You’ve said that twelve times since you walked in."
He glared at her hard. God, he hated her. His therapist—his goddamned, infuriatingly calm therapist—set her pen down on the arm of her recliner with the kind of deliberate care that only pissed him off more. She didn’t sigh, didn’t shift. She didn’t even grace him with the mercy of clearing her throat. She simply lifted her gaze to him, cool, steady, unbothered. Like he was simply a dirt from the sidewalk that needed cleaning.
Six months of weekly sessions, and she still looked at him like nothing about him surprised her. Which irritated him to no end because what the hell did surprise her? He’d tried. Oh, he had tried. The first month, he’d given her nothing but silence. The second, he’d tried sarcasm. By the third, he’d escalated to polite hostility with the occasional venom-laced remark thrown in for his own sanity.
Nothing. Not a flinch or a twitch. She had the emotional reaction of a brick wall—just a very well-educated one.
For someone who thrives and makes a career on reading every person in the room, he couldn’t read her. And for a Desmond who had structured his entire life around control, it was unbearable, and infuriating, and maddening. She wasn’t intimidated by him in the slightest, she was blunt, methodical, and precise. And rude! Very fucking rude.
He finally tore his gaze away from her and stared at the bookshelf again. He didn’t know why, there was nothing interesting on it. In fact, he despised all of it.
"That tie washes you out. Green does not suit you at all." She said off-handedly.
His eyes snapped back to her. How—How dare she?! Fucking rude, that was his favorite tie! Yes, he was right, she was rude.
“Are you always this—” He gestured vaguely at her, fingers twitching.
She raised a brow. “Direct?”
“I was going to say insufferable.”
“Ah.” She nodded once, as if he’d given her useful data. “Projection.”
He sputtered a quiet curse, glaring at the ceiling so he wouldn’t do something dramatic, like throw himself through her office window.
“And," she added dryly, “your phone has vibrated five times since you sat down. Just answer the damn phone will you? Save us both the headache.”
His chest tightened. His throat went hot, but he didn’t respond, or his hands will start to shake.
“Senator Desmond." She emphasized the Senator a little too hard, he clenched his jaw again. "You’re not here to sit in silence for two hours,” she said. “You’re here because the law requires you to talk to someone who won’t be fooled by your public persona. That is me. Unfortunately for you. And me. So why don't you save us both the time and just tell me why you won't respond to whoever it is you are keen on ignoring on your phone?”
He clenched his teeth. “You think very highly of your time, then.”
“I think very highly of not wasting government funds,” she corrected, tone as sharp as the damned pen she tortured him with. “And right now, Senator, you’re wasting both of our time, as well as the funds they pay me with to deal with your pretentious ass.”
His eye twitched. He despised how she said Senator with that dry, pointed nothingness and disdain. She said it like the title meant jack shit to her, and maybe it did. Her tone, so condescending, even he forgot that he held the entire Senate floor together when he walked into a room. She used it like it was a curse word, a mockery, sometimes it felt like a verbal slap. It sounded like she had ash on her tongue she wanted to spit.
“And you think very highly of assuming I care,” he fired back, crossing an ankle over his knee in what he hoped looked nonchalant and not like he was trying to prevent his leg from shaking. “Believe it or not, Doctor, I don't give a fuck where the government decides to waste their funds, even with quack doctors like you.”
“Clearly.”
That single flat syllable nearly made him leap off the couch. Seriously, does anything shake this woman?
Before he could craft another biting retort, his phone vibrated again—harder this time, a sharp buzz that rattled against the inside pocket of his jacket like it was clawing to get out.
She glanced at his pocket, then smirked to irritate him. “Go on,” she said. “Since you’re so unaffected.”
He wanted to tell her to go to hell. Instead, Damian inhaled sharply through his nose and reached into his pocket with exaggerated calm, performing the movement like he was on camera, like the whole nation was watching. He wasn’t rattled.
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it in one smooth motion, and looked at the screen with mock enthusiasm.
he froze. A full second. Then two. Then a third, because his brain refused to process it the first two times. The first thing that hit him wasn’t the nudity. He’d already seen that more times he could count—God knew he remembered every detail of that night with humiliating clarity.
No. nononono. NO.
It was the faces. His face. Her face. This time, it was clear as day. Undeniable.
Anya Forger's face was flushed and dazed, her lips parted around a breath he remembered hearing. Him with his eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched, mouth against her throat sucking on the soft skin there. Their bare figures captured perfectly on the soft mattress of the suite of his hotel room two months prior when he attended that conference in Paris. In a different world he could have framed the photo in his bedroom and stare at it as he—
No. Fuck.
He came back to earth with a ragged breathing. There was no denying it was them now. None. His stomach clenched, a violent, twisting punch of nausea and heat.
Then the message below the picture popped up.
Are you done with your session, Senator? Ready to take me seriously?
He read them once. Then a second time. A third.
His heart was pounding in his throat, loud enough he was sure she could hear it even over the silence. The phone slipped slightly in his grip. His fingers tightened by instinct, but before he could completely lose it, he pocketed the phone again—shoved it in, really—trying to pretend his fingers weren’t stiff, that his pulse wasn’t punching at the inside of his throat.
But before he could withdraw his hand, the phone started ringing. His blood turned to ice. It had never called before. Not once in the last 12 hours when it started. Not until now. He snatched it out of his pocket so fast it was nearly clumsy, saw the unknown number lit across the screen, and ended the call immediately. The screen went dark, but his pulse didn’t. He sat there, stiff as stone, refusing to look at his therapist.
Slowly, far too slowly, he lifted his eyes. She already had one brow raised. He nearly scoffed, of course she did.
“A call now,” she said. No accusation, no surprise, just clinical interest. “That’s new.”
He said nothing.
“Senator, just answer it,” she added, almost lazily. “Clearly, it is something important enough to call during a Sunday.”
He gave her a flinty glare.
“If this is some political matter regarding your work—”
“It’s not.” Too quick and too sharp he almost flinched himself.
Her brow arched higher. “Well,” she said, tapping her pen once against the notebook, “if it isn’t government business, then who could possibly be calling so urgently on a Sunday morning? A staffer? A donor? Or—”
“Don’t,” he warned.
She didn’t even pause.
“—Miss Forger?”
His entire body seized halfway between a breath and a wince. It was small, barely visible, but she saw it. Of course fucking she saw it. Her gaze sharpened, but her expression stayed infuriatingly neutral.
“Ah, so it was—”
“No.” He snapped it out so fast the word came out like it had teeth. “It wasn’t. Don’t—” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “Stop bringing her into this.”
“It’s difficult not to,” she said calmly, “when your reaction is that strong.”
“Mind your own fucking business. They don't pay you to meddle with my life.”
“I am,” she said, “literally doing my job. What happens in your life is literally my business.”
He hated that his breath stuttered. He hated that his hands were sticky with sweat. He hated that Anya Forger's fucking name still had the power to scramble every working part of his brain. He also hated that he had no one to blame but himself.
Because he was an idiot. He’d let it slip once—two months ago—during a moment of rare frustration, too-fast talking, too much whiskey, and the aftermath of an irate Melinda Desmond scolding. A simple mention of that damned night in Paris and her therapist knew she got him on a chokehold. Then he’d slipped again, three weeks later, with her name.
Forger.
Just that. One word. One stupid name he should have forgotten. And his damned green-eyed therapist he reminded of her eyes so much begun dismantling his walls so hard he started to curse her—no, both of them. Her and Anya Forger—every night in his sleep. Since that dreadful week, the brick-wall sharp green-eyed menace of a woman had latched onto it with all the gentle subtlety of a hunting dog. Fucking life, he was tired of it.
“Senator,” she said, tone irritatingly level, “if you truly don’t want me to bring her up, then stop reacting every time I do.”
“I’m not reacting.”
She looked pointedly at his fist, the one clenched so tightly the veins stood out. Almost immediately, he forced his hand open. Well that was fucking stupid, so much for not reacting, Damian.
He took a deep breath, held his remaining bearing tightly controlled and locked his spine straighter. He lifted his chin as he emulate his father's look of cold disdain. When she didn't look even slightly convinced, because of course she wasn't goddamn that woman, he tried for the carefully polished political composure he wore like armor.
“You’re reading too much into nothing, Doctor” he said tightly.
Her eyes flicked once, bored, and unimpressed. “I don’t read into nothing. I read into patterns. And yours are very, very loud, Senator Desmond.”
He grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
His phone vibrated again, he almost threw it out the window. He made a point of looking anywhere other than her. He didn't see but he knew she watched him with unnerving calm, with her brow raised.
“Let’s try this again,” she said. “Who was calling you, Damian?”
She changed tactics and it worked. Damn it all.
Damian did not remember leaving the therapist’s office. He remembered talking fast, unfiltered, and unhinged, he remembered standing, grabbing his coat, tightening his jaw so hard it felt wired shut, and walking out before she could say anything infuriating like “You have sweat on your upper lip, Senator” or, something more irritating like “See you next week, Senator.” Fuck, he couldn’t take more of these sessions he was gonna lose his mind.
He also didn't remember the actual walk to the car, or the drive through the city, or the fifteen-minute blur where he ignored three more calls and six more vibrating reminders. He did remember the raw, buzzing hum of panic under his skin. That was something he couldn't ignore, it was like electricity scraping his nerves. He needed a fucking drink. By the time he stopped the car, he was outside Ewen Egeburg’s townhouse.
He stared up at the intricate façade of a building, scoffed, then marched right through it until he found his door.
It was 10:17 in the morning. He didn’t care, if he's still asleep, like the slob he is, he'll gladly wake him up. He rang the bell once, and without ceremony, he pounded on the door until the hinge rattled.
The door opened. And standing there, bare-legged, wearing nothing but one of Ewen’s button-down shirts and absolutely zero shame was a woman Damian had never seen before. She blinked at him, letting her eyes travel up and down him in slow appraisal, her lips already forming a sultry greeting.
He pushed past her, not caring if she stumbled or something. It was not at all a gentlemanly greeting like he was taught. He could give zero fucks, he didn't have time to entertain one of Ewen's whore this early in the morning, nor did he have patience for it.
“Hey!” she protested, stumbling in her... whatever the hell she was wearing. “Do you mind—”
“Where is he?” Damian snapped.
Before she could decide whether to flirt or yell, Ewen appeared at the top of his stairs, shirtless, hair a disaster, wearing haphazardly worn pajama pants and the hazy aura of a man who absolutely did not expect guests before noon. Especially this particularly unhinged looking guest.
“Oh fucking shit,” Ewen muttered, rubbing his face and straightening. “It’s ten in the fucking morning. Damian, what the hell—”
“Out,” Damian said.
Ewen blinked. “What?”
Damian jabbed a finger toward the girl. “Get her the fuck out.”
The girl scoffed, putting a hand on her hip. “Excuse you—”
“Sweetheart,” Ewen called down dryly, “he's right, time to go.”
“What? Are you serious? I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Ewen cut in, waving dismissively. “Shoo.”
The girl stomped toward the foyer, heels clicking on the marble. She paused in front of Damian long enough to give him a once-over. “You’re cute, you know—if you weren’t such an asshole.”
He ignored her completely. Ewen did not.
“Don’t hit on him,” Ewen sighed. “Trust me, he's almost a virgin and therefore chemically incapable of casual sex.”
Damian shot him a murderous glare, trying hard not to strangle the shirtless beast. Oh he is quite capable of committing murder today, he was sure of it. Thankfully the girl left, albeit in a huff, still. The door shut behind her, then there was nothing but silence.
Ewen descended the stairs completely, scratching his stomach and on his way to the kitchens to probably grab a glass of water. “Okay, you better start talking. What apocalyptic hell storm has you showing up at my house at ten on a Sunday, therefore ruining your perfectly scheduled morning routine? Aren't you supposed to be at a firing range right now, picturing your therapist as the target?”
Damian didn’t answer. Instead, he prowled straight past him like a man possessed, into the parlor where he receives guests, and went straight to the wall of liquor Ewen displayed like art. He grabbed the nearest bottle of whiskey—something expensive, something aged, something that absolutely should not be drunk straight at 10:18 a.m.—and unscrewed the cap.
Ewen blinked. “Damian. Damian. No—no, stop—hey!”
Damian took a long pull right from the bottle.
Ewen stared. “Desmond. You. Don’t. Drink. In the morning.”
Damian didn’t even lower the bottle. “Apparently, I do now.”
“Well fuck,” Ewen muttered, stepping closer and really looking at him. “You’re pale as shit, dude. What happened? Did your father die? Did your mother lecture you again with how single you are? Did you kill someone? Are you here for help to bury the body? Shit! Don't tell me its your therapist!”
Damian lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and exhaled shakily. It was the first sound he’d made since entering.
Ewen’s amusement evaporated. “No! You did kill her! Fuck!”
"No, I didn't kill her. Not yet at least." Damian swallowed hard, rolling his eyes at his friend's dramatics. The alcohol scorched down his throat, but it still wasn’t enough to burn out the nauseating panic twisting in his gut. He set the bottle on the counter slowly, fingers trembling despite his iron grip.
Ewen exhaled rather in relief. "Okay that's good. I don't know how to actually hide a body."
Damian shot him a withering glare. “But I do need your help,” he said, voice hoarse.
Ewen stared at him like he’d spoken in tongues. “Sorry, come again?”
Damian closed his eyes. His breath came sharp, shallow.
“I said…” He forced the words out through gritted teeth. “I need your help.”
Ewen’s eyes widened. Damian Desmond did not ask for help. He didn't when his father berated him for coming second in the elections, when his colleagues sabotaged him, not even when he shattered after Anya rejected him during graduation then left eight years ago. The only time he’d asked Ewen for anything was when they were sixteen and found out Donovan Desmond was having an affair with one of his schoolmate's mother.
So this was serious and Ewen knew that. Damian asking for help meant that he was slowly spiraling into insanity.
Ewen stepped closer, expression softening into something frighteningly perceptive. “Damian… what happened?”
Damian sat there for a moment, still, silent, the liquor bottle sweating in his palm while his mind roared. His jaw clenched, his throat bobbed when he took another swig, but still didn't speak. He shouldn’t show it. He knew he shouldn’t. Every instinct in him curled in tight, snarling, territorial, possessive.
This was his mess. His mistake. His shame. His—
…her. It was her, it was Anya.
Showing anyone, even Ewen, felt like peeling back skin. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to break something, he wanted to kill whoever captured this and threatened him with it. Ewen wandered back into the parlor, finally tugging on a shirt, still half asleep and fully judgmental. “So are you going to tell me why you broke into my house at ten in the morning, or are you planning to drink that entire bottle in menacing silence.”
Damian grit his teeth. His thumb slipped once on the cold glass of his phone in his other hand. He shouldn’t show it. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But he also couldn’t keep this shit to himself, not when he was twenty seconds away from driving into a telephone pole just to shut his brain up. So he growled, “I’m only showing you this once. And if you—” He jabbed a finger dangerously in Ewen’s direction. “If you say anything I don’t like, Ewen, I swear to God I’m throwing punches.”
Ewen blinked. “The fuck kind of setup is—”
“Shut up.” Damian unlocked his phone with a sharp swipe that shook more than he wanted it to. “And I mean it, Egeburg. One word I don’t like, and the bottle is not the only thing breaking today.”
Ewen lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, Jesus. Show me the damned thing.”
Damian turned the screen toward him, he looked at it casually, still half-expecting something stupid like hate mail or political blackmail. For a heartbeat, Ewen said nothing as he figure out what the fuck it was. Or who the fuck it was. His entire expression dropped finally when Damian turned to the one where it was a clear sight of them.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit.”
Damian stared at the floor, Ewen looked back and forth between Damian and the photo like he was trying to determine if this was real life or if he was still asleep and dreaming.
“Is that—Is that you and—holy fuck—is that Anya Forger? The Anya Forger? Damian. Damian. Holy shit—my god—are you—IS THIS REAL?”
Damian clenched his fists until the nails bit his palms. “Of course it's fucking real. Why do you think I'm drowning myself with alcohol?”
“And someone’s blackmailing you with—this?” Ewen’s voice cracked.
"Obviously."
Ewen looked once again before he turned the screen back. “Jesus Christ. She looks—”
“If you finish that sentence,” Damian growled, “I will strangle you.”
Ewen did not wisely shut his mouth.
" —fucking hot.”
Damian didn’t even think. His fist connected with Ewen’s jaw in a clean, practiced arc.
Ewen stumbled back, hand flying to his face. “OW—WHAT THE FU—?!”
“I told you,” Damian snarled. “One word.”
“FOR SAYING SHE’S HOT?”
“Yes.”
“You're crazy!” Ewen barked, incredulous. “It was a fucking compliment!”
“You deserved the punch.”
Ewen stared at him like he was clinically unwell. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the liquor bottle Damian had abandoned on the coffee table. He uncorked it and took a long, obscene swig.
Another.
Another.
“Wow,” Ewen wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know where she is, then.”
"No." Damian made a strangled noise. “She vanished again the morning after.”
“Oh my God,” Ewen whispered with an unhinged grin. “Is that why you're here, then? Because she left and not the damn obvious threats?”
Damian dragged a hand down his face. “Shut the fuck up.”
Ewen held his hand to his mouth. "Oh my God you are. You don't even care about the blackmails."
Damian genuinely considered punching him again.
It was half a bottle later—half a goddamn bottle—and Damian had gone from simmering fury to full-blown, spiraling, doom-prophecy drunk when the front door clicked open.
He nearly fell off his chair and glanced at Ewen, who also drunk, was pulling open a cabinet to do god knows what.
"That's probably Emile, I called him 30 minutes ago when you where shit talking your therapist."
Before he could hide and strangle Ewen, Emile stepped into the parlor, his footsteps steady, business-like, and he clearly wore expensive shoes. He outgrew his usual stout form from Eden, now he was lean and tall (not taller than him or Ewen but still), his hair was immaculate, his suit so sharp the wrinkles in reality ironed themselves around him. He looked like he had walked straight out of a board meeting and directly into disappointment.
His eyes landed on them, Damian slouched on Ewen’s couch clutching the remainder of the bottle like a lifeline, Ewen now rubbing his jaw with an icepack from the earlier punch. He took one look of Damian's unruly curls and Ewen's night clothes and Emile’s whole face curdled. A slow, deep, soul-aged sneer formed, the kind only a man who expected competence could produce when faced with two absolute idiots.
“Wonderful,” Emile said dryly, setting his briefcase down with pointed care. “I see the children found the liquor cabinet. Again.”
Damian raised the bottle in half-hearted greeting. “Elman,” he slurred, “of course, you’re here. We’re having—hic—a crisis and Egeburg's incompetent so...”
“You,” Emile said, “are having a crisis. Ewen is clearly having brain damage.”
“I was attacked,” Ewen protested, jabbing a thumb at Damian. “He hit me. It hurt”
“Good,” Emile replied, checking his watch. “Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”
Ewen blinked. Damian snorted. Emile crossed the room, picking up Ewen’s discarded jacket from the floor like it offended him personally. He hung it properly on the back of a chair with the disappointed grace of a father who has given up on both of his troublesome sons.
Then he turned to Damian. A pause. A very long pause. Damian didn’t like that pause.
“You’re drunk. At noon. ” Emile’s tone was flat. “Why are you drunk.”
“He’s spiraling,” Ewen supplied helpfully. “It’s pathetic.”
Damian made a noise of deep, ancient hatred.
Emile didn’t sigh, but only because sighing was beneath him. “Of course he’s spiraling. Because why wouldn’t he be spiraling. It’s Sunday and I was hoping—foolishly—that the two of you would behave like functioning adults for at least twelve hours.”
Damian felt personally attacked. Emile finally stepped closer, took the bottle from Damian's hand (Damian did not fight), and inspected the label. Then he turned back to Ewen.
“You let him drink again? What would the press say if they found out?” he asked.
“He grabbed it,” Ewen shrugged. “And threatened to commit homicide if I tried to stop him. Besides, his drinking habits is the least the press is going to care about when they—”
"Shut the fuck up, Ewen!"
Emile stared at them both with the expression of a man reevaluating every life decision that led him here. “Alright,” he said, resetting his tone to its usual clinical precision. “Which one of you is going to tell me what utter idiocy dragged Senator Desmond into a morning bender?”
Ewen opened his mouth.
“No,” Damian snapped. “Shut up.”
Emile raised a brow, unimpressed. “Then you, Desmond. Explain.”
Damian slumped back on the couch. His throat worked. For a moment, his eyes darted toward his phone on the table. Emile followed the glance.
Ah.
“Hate mail? Show me,” Emile said simply.
Damian bristled. “I’m not showing you anything. Or anyone else.”
“You showed him,” Emile gestured at Ewen like he was a house plant. “Surely the bar isn’t that high.”
“That was different.”
“How,” Emile deadpanned.
Damian swallowed.
Ewen hummed. “He’s being possessive.”
Damian threw a pillow at him.
Emile pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, with the patience of a saint who had long since sold his soul for legal fees, Emile sat down across from them, leaned forward, and folded his hands. “Damian,” he said, voice steady. “Give me the phone. I will look once. I will assess the threat. And no—” he held up a finger when Damian opened his mouth— “I will not comment anything unprofessional.”
Ewen coughed. “Good luck with that.”
Damian nearly lunged for round two.
Emile held out his hand, gaze firm, steady, impossible to dodge.
Damian’s pulse kicked. He hesitated a full minute and it dragged like wet cement. Then finally with a stiff, reluctant movement, he handed Emile the phone.
The room went silent as Emile looked at the messages and the photo. Photos. His jaw tightened, just slightly.
Then he spoke. “…Oh.”
Ewen leaned in. “See?! Hot—”
Damian punched him again.
Emile ignored them both. He was already switching into solicitor mode, eyes sharpening like steel.
“Alright,” he said, pocketing the phone and getting to work. “So, we’re dealing with a blackmail threat.”
Damian’s stomach dropped.
Ewen raised the bottle like a toast, snorting. “Oh, he doesn't give a shit about that.”
Damian glared at him
Emile sneered again. "Do I wanna know what he meant by that?"
"No."
After a few more shots of whiskey and what felt like hours of Damian pacing like a madman, he finally finished recounting—again, to Emile this time—how the hell that photo even happened. Ewen was already draped over the back of the couch, muttering unhelpful commentary under his breath. Damian was circling the room, hair a mess, tie long since discarded, hands shaking with the leftover rage of punching his own solicitors slash friends.
Emile, in a very rare instance, loosened his tie, sat down, and poured himself a drink. Drinking on the job, that alone said enough.
He listened, frowned, re-listened to the parts Damian kept circling back to, then drank deeper. By the time Damian was halfway through another rant about “who the fuck even had the audacity” and “I should’ve never went to that restaurant that night,” Emile had already made up his mind.
He set his glass down with a quiet, decisive click.
“We’re calling The Garden.”
Damian’s reaction was instantaneous and explosive.
“No.” He said it so sharply Ewen flinched.
Emile didn’t blink. “Damian—”
“No!” Damian barked, stepping forward like he was ready to physically stop him. “Absolutely the hell not. You’re not calling them. You’re not.”
Ewen muttered, “Here we go,” but even he sobered a little, sensing the edge in Damian’s voice.
“We all know what the Garden truly is. They aren't some cleanup crew,” Damian snapped. “They’re not investigators. They’re not security. They’re assassins. Killers. They don’t find problems—they erase them.”
“Exactly,” Emile said calmly, reaching for his phone.
Damian slapped the table so hard the bottle rattled. “You don’t get it. You call them, and people die. My family funds them. We know exactly what they do, we’ve used them before. And this—this is not a situation I’m unleashing them on.”
Emile’s jaw tightened. “Damian, this is serious. Someone targeted you. Someone mailed explicit blackmail to a politician with your profile. This is not the time to—”
“—and what?” Damian cut in, breathing hard. “They’ll come sniffing around everyone connected to me. Everyone. Don’t pretend they won’t think she’s involved.”
“Oh, boy” Ewen muttered silently.
"Shut the fuck up, Ewen." Damian snapped, his throat tight.
That quieted the room. Emile raised a brow at his tantrum, clearly not pleased he's reacting this way.
Damian dragged a hand through his hair. “I know what you're thinking, Emile. You're wrong. They’ll suspect her. They always suspect the closest link. And those Garden agents don’t question—they eliminate. I’m not letting those psychopaths anywhere near her. Not eight years ago. Not now. Not ever.”
Emile exhaled slowly, studying him. “Damian… you’re compromised. This is no longer a you-problem. It’s a security problem.”
“I don’t care,” he shot back. “I’m not risking her life because somebody wants to screw with mine.”
“And I,” Emile replied, already typing a contact on his phone, “don’t care what you just said.”