Damien didn't wait for the sun. He threw on a dark, impeccable suit, his movements violent and fueled by fury, the oppressive silence of his room an intolerable pressure. Sarah was gone, the echoing slam of the door a deep internal wound. He left the house not in control, but in a burning, channelled rage, driving recklessly toward the towering Sterling Headquarters.
He didn't acknowledge the security detail; he simply took the express elevator straight to his private floor, the glass enclosure a sterile cage. The metropolitan world was just stirring, but Damien was caught in a consuming, private turmoil.
He stood looking out over the panoramic view, gripping the cool glass. Why? The question burned through his exhaustion. Why did every moment of intimacy instantly trigger such fierce defiance?
"I became your mistress, aren't I pathetic?" Her words, raw with self-contempt, played on a loop. The implication—that he was degrading her, that she regretted their connection—fueled a hard, unforgiving coldness in his gut.
But the worst part was her immediate, furious defence of James Holland. Was this loyalty? Was this a genuine emotional tether? Damien recalled the ease with which Holland moved around her, the possessive envy he felt when he saw them together.
Am I not the man she loves?
He needed to eliminate the threat, to dismantle Holland piece by piece. That was the Sterling way, the power solution. But as his fury reached its peak, he was stopped by the agonizing memory of her accusations: controlling, ruining my life, making trouble.
If he crushed Holland now, he wouldn't win Sarah back; he would only validate every terrible thing she had just called him. He would prove that his love was just another form of brutal control.
He ran a weary hand over his face. He wouldn't be the person she claimed he was. He wouldn't let Holland be the barrier anymore.
Hours later, around noon, after futile attempts to focus on market reports, he made the cold, risky decision. He was turning the key in the lock he had placed on Holland's company—a move that was less about surrender and more about conducting a silent, high-stakes test.
He picked up his desk phone and called his assistant, Jones.
"Jones, get me Gavin Richie," he ordered, his voice flat and absolute.
"Sir, Mr. Richie is currently finalizing projections regarding the scarcity of Holland's primary material supply—"
"Cancel it," Damien interrupted. "Reverse the course. Tell Richie to restore the supply lines immediately. Holland's order for the raw fabric must be processed, paid for, and shipped by tomorrow morning. I want all punitive actions against Holland's company lifted. Is that clear?"
There was a stunned pause on the other end. "Perfectly clear, sir. The fabric order will be processed."
Damien hung up and sank back into his leather chair, the immense office silent around him. He had removed the most immediate obstacle, the one that made him look like a monster. Sarah wants to defend James Holland? Fine. He was giving her the freedom to choose, giving her no excuse to hide behind his tyranny.
He had bought himself time and, perhaps, a sliver of redemption. But as he sat there, waiting, the silence was agonizing. He had opened the cage door, and now he had to wait to see if his frightened bird would fly away forever.
A short time later, James Holland sat hunched over his mahogany desk, still reeling from the financial pressure that had nearly crippled his company. His phone, the direct line, rang—it was Gavin Richie.
"James, I apologize for causing trouble," Richie said stiffly. "Everything is back on schedule. Hopefully, we can continue working together, Mr. Holland."
James narrowed his eyes, running a finger along the wood grain of his desk. This smelled entirely of Damien Sterling. Only the man at the very top could reverse a punitive business move this quickly.
"Gavin, be straight with me," James pushed, his voice dropping. "We both know you don't make this kind of decision. Who made the call, and why the sudden change of heart?"
Richie sighed, the sound crackling slightly over the line. "James, you know my loyalty is to Damien Sterling. All I can confirm is that the order to continue collaborating and restoring your supply came directly from Mr. Sterling this afternoon. It's an absolute directive. Our collaboration is moving forward as planned, with your company as a vital partner."
"Moving forward as planned..." James repeated, a grim smile forming. "Right. So Damien Sterling decided, mid-day, that he was done playing games?"
Richie was silent for a beat. "I am not privy to Mr. Sterling's strategic thinking, James. I just execute his directives. But the fact remains: your lifeline has been restored. You're stable."
"Understood," James said, relief warring with deep unease. He was saved, but the move felt less like a truce and more like Damien moving the chess pieces, waiting for the next attack. "Thank you, Gavin. Send me the tracking information."
James hung up and stared out the window at the cityscape. He survived, but he had just been jerked around by an invisible hand. The timing, the extreme nature of the reversal... it had to be Sarah. Damien had been confronted, and this was his reaction. He hadn't stopped the war; he had simply changed the battlefield.
James finally allowed himself a breath of relief, but the weight of the invisible struggle remained. He knew now that his fate wasn't just tied to his collaboration—it was entangled with the tumultuous relationship between Damien Sterling and Sarah Walker.
He took his phone and dialled a number. "I suppose you've heard?"
On the other line, there was a low chuckle. "I told you to look after her, I didn't tell you to mess with Damien Sterling."
James replied with a sarcastic edge. "You know, I can't remember ever getting anything good out of our friendship. Oh, by the way, Sarah is kind of my type, talented, beautiful..." He trailed off, knowing he was pushing a dangerous limit.
The voice on the other line cut him off, the amusement instantly gone, replaced by a cold, deadly seriousness. "Touch her and I will break your hands."
James chuckled, the sound forced. "Alright, alright, I won't touch your Bella."