Page 10 of Damon
The room falls silent with this idiot’s use of his boss’s first name. Hunter strolls toward him, pulls his knife from his belt, and walks around him in a circle with his blade gliding over Mason’s clothes.
“Boss,” Hunter says sharply. “You call me ‘Boss.’ You are a pawn in my game, and your idiocy and disrespect have landed you here.”
“And here is…” Mason’s eyes roam around the boardroom, taking each of us in on sight. The three lawyers are still dressed in insanely expensive suits matched with perfectly pressed shirts. My jeans and dark wool sweater leave me looking like the most normal man in the room.
Mason has the look of an aged biker, all leather and tattoos. His bald head shines beneath the light, and his gray beard hangs in a point at his chin. Hunter stops in front of him and grips the tip of his facial hair. He tugs gently. Mason looks perplexed by the mannerism. It’s only when the knife cuts the hair from his face that the whole of hell lets loose.
Hunter waves the grey strands at his nose. “This is the first fucking part of you I’ll be removing,” he roars. Mason grabs him around the throat, and I take this as my cue to get involved. As I stride over, Hunter thrusts his knife and lodges it in his assailant’s upper arm. Mason releases him as I step forward and throw a sharp punch to his cheek. He staggers backward into the grasp of Russell and Connor, who take an arm each. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harrison laying out the plastic sheet. I chuckle internally.
“Bring him over here,” Harrison shouts. The brothers manhandle Mason to the desired spot as Hunter turns to me.
“Go and let off some steam,” he says. “Just don’t kill him. I still have a use for him. This is a warning.”
Chapter five
Damon's Home, London
August 2021
Emma
I lower the image onto the glass dining table. It’s a simple square photo, predominantly black with a white blob at its center. The date and time stamp tells us it was taken yesterday at exactly 4:23 p.m.
“Do you want to know the sex?” I ask, my tone laced with disappointment. Damon didn’t come to the twenty-week baby scan, even though I told him when and where. He never even replied to the message I sent him in the morning to remind him.
“No,” he mutters in reply. “And don’t start buying fucking baby clothes in pink or blue.”
Without a word, I place the second envelope in my hand on the table beside him. Written across the front are the names Damon and Connie, and beneath them, Your Baby’s Sex—open if you wish. I had asked the nurse to write the sex on a slip of paper and put it in the envelope.
His eyes move to the item and pause. He glances at me, and I scowl back then turn to walk away. My tears threaten to fall, but I will them not to. As I leave the kitchen, I hear him whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
***
“So, how are things at home?” Harrison asks casually. I’m sitting opposite him in his office taking notes for an upcoming meeting. We’re going over points he wishes to discuss with his client, who is accused of embezzling thousands of pounds from his family business. On paper, his guilt is obvious, but the more time I spend in the firm, the more apparent it is that Harrison Waite can make anyone believe anything. Part of me is convinced we’ll win, even though the evidence is stacked against us.
“Difficult,” I answer bluntly. My fitted navy dress cuts in around my middle as my stomach swells. It feels like the last two weeks have brought with them a much larger baby bump.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Got a time machine?” I snap back, irritated by his questioning. The situation makes me uncomfortable enough without having to talk about it. “Maybe transport yourself back to June and stop someone murdering his wife, that could help.”
“Emma,” he says with a sigh. “I understand it must be a sensitive situation. I’ve seen massive changes in Damon myself these past weeks. But I am also aware you are with child, working, and studying, never mind living with a recently bereaved man who you haven’t known long.”
I blink at him, slightly stunned by his direct summary of my situation.
“My question is because my concern lies with you. Damon is one of my closest friends, but he’s not himself. If supporting you in some way at this difficult time will help him, then I’d like to do that. Anything you need, just ask. I loved Connie like a sister, and the baby you are carrying was her dream. Damon will come around. The pain is still fresh and sadly you remind him every day of what Connie wanted so badly.”
“He’s so cold,” I mumble, then reprimand myself for being honest.
“He’s grieving. Give him space but keep him informed. In the meantime, if you need anything, come to me.”
That evening, Damon and I sit down to the simple dinner I’ve made. Each day we barely talk beyond what is necessary; life is anything but comfortable. The awkward silence constantly rings in my ears when we are together. The reality of having so much to say, with no words to say it.
But, since Connie’s death, we’ve managed to maintain this small routine she imposed upon us. As soon as Damon came home from work, the three of us would sit down and eat a meal together. Now, two of us do and tonight, it is spaghetti bolognese.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” Damon says. His words come completely out of nowhere as I ladle a spoonful of pasta into my mouth. “My behavior these past weeks has been embarrassing and uncalled for. It’s not your fault this is the situation we find ourselves in.”