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Chapter 23 — Fractures in the Silence
The faint, synthetic voice of Athena's phone faded into silence, leaving behind an echo that clung to the walls of the penthouse like guilt. Damon stood motionless for a moment, his back to her, eyes fixed on the dark skyline outside. The city lights stretched endlessly, bright and cold and far away.
He could feel her presence behind him, the faint rustle of fabric as she gathered the blanket, the soft tremor of her breathing. It would've been easier if she had shouted, if she had thrown something, demanded an explanation, anything to fill the silence between them. Instead, there was only quiet—and that quiet was unbearable.
He picked up her phone, silencing the screen with one swipe. "You didn't take it," he said, his voice low, steady, too calm for the chaos inside him.
Athena stood barefoot, the soft throw wrapped around her shoulders. The dim glow of the city filtered across her face, catching the sharp line of her cheekbone, the slight redness at the corner of her lips. She looked fragile and furious all at once.
"I forgot," she murmured, brushing a hand across her forehead. "It's not exactly the first thing on my mind tonight."
He turned then, meeting her eyes. "It should be," he said quietly. "You were unconscious when I found you. God knows what they gave you. You could've—"
"Died?" she interrupted sharply. "I know. You don't have to remind me."
Something inside him recoiled at her tone, but he didn't step back. "Then start taking it seriously."
Her head snapped up. "You don't get to talk to me like that anymore, Damon."
He flinched slightly, as though the words hit a nerve he hadn't known was exposed. "I'm not talking to you like anything. I'm trying to—"
"Control me," she cut in. Her voice trembled, but her chin lifted defiantly. "You always do that. You can't help yourself."
Damon's jaw tightened. The accusation wasn't entirely wrong, and she knew it. "I'm trying to protect you," he said at last, quieter now, the edge fading from his tone. "Whoever did this—whoever slipped something into your drink—they didn't do it randomly."
Athena's heart gave a sharp, uneasy kick. "What are you saying?"
He exhaled slowly, walking toward her until he stopped a few feet away. The space between them felt charged again, like static before lightning. "You were targeted. You left the gala alone, but you didn't get far. Security cameras showed nothing clear—just a black sedan stopping briefly near the valet line. By the time anyone noticed you'd gone missing, I'd already found you outside the hotel's side entrance."
Athena stared at him, stunned. "You checked security footage?"
He didn't answer immediately. "Of course I did," he said finally, his tone low, controlled. "You think I could just take you home and forget how I found you? You were barely breathing, Athena."
Her throat tightened. The memories from the night before were foggy—faces, light, the strange metallic taste in her mouth before everything went black. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Why didn't you take me to a hospital?"
Damon's expression shifted, guilt flickering across it like a shadow. "Because you woke up while I was on the phone with emergency dispatch. You panicked. You didn't want to go. You said, 'Don't make this public.'"
She frowned, confused. "I don't remember saying that."
"I know," he said softly. "But you did. You were half-conscious, shaking. You said you didn't want a scene."
A silence fell again. Athena turned toward the wide glass window, watching the rain begin to streak down the surface in thin, glistening lines. The city below shimmered through it like a dream.
"I don't know who would want to hurt me," she whispered.
"Think," Damon pressed gently. "Someone at the event. Someone who knew you'd be there. Who did you talk to before you blacked out?"
Her mind scrambled to recall. Faces, laughter, the warmth of champagne. Then—blinding lights. "I… I remember someone handing me a glass. I thought it was one of the servers."
Damon's brows furrowed. "Did you see his face?"
She shook her head. "No. Just a sleeve. Black suit. White cufflinks, I think."
His gaze darkened, the old calculating sharpness of him returning. "White cufflinks," he repeated under his breath, like a clue in a puzzle. "That narrows it down."
She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "Narrow it down to half the men in that ballroom."
Damon's lips twitched, but not in amusement. "Not if I get the guest list."
"Of course," she muttered, turning away. "You'd start an investigation."
"Would you rather I did nothing?" he said quietly. "Pretend it didn't happen? Pretend I didn't carry you into my home while you were gasping for air?"
Athena froze. The raw honesty in his tone pulled at something she didn't want to name.
"Why do you care so much now?" she asked, her voice breaking. "You had months, Damon. Months to care."
He didn't hesitate. "I did care. I just didn't think I was allowed to."
She stared at him, words caught somewhere in her throat.
Damon took a slow breath, moving closer, but stopping just short of touching her. "You were right earlier," he said softly. "I do try to control things. People. You. But that's only because when I can't… I don't know what to do with myself."
Athena looked down, the edge of her blanket brushing the floor. "You think that makes it better?"
"No," he admitted, voice low. "It just makes it true."
For a long while, they stood like that—close, but separated by everything that had broken between them. The tension that had burned so hot minutes ago had cooled into something else now: a fragile, aching quiet.
Finally, Athena spoke. "I need to go home."
He shook his head immediately. "Not tonight. Whoever did this could still be watching. I'm not letting you leave alone."
"You don't get to decide that anymore."
"Then stay because it's safer," he said, stepping back, running a hand through his hair. "Not because I'm asking you to."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue. She was too tired, too dizzy, and deep down, she knew he was right.
"Fine," she said quietly. "Just for tonight."
Damon nodded once, relief flashing briefly across his face. "The guest room is ready," he murmured, moving toward the hallway. "I'll get you something warm to drink. You should rest."
She didn't move until he was gone. Only then did she sit down on the edge of the couch, pressing her face into her hands. Her pulse was still racing. She didn't know whether from fear, exhaustion, or something more dangerous.
When Damon returned, he carried a cup of tea in one hand, his phone in the other. He set the cup down beside her and glanced at his screen briefly before sliding it into his pocket.
"Security's checking footage from the parking area," he said. "If they find anything, I'll know by morning."
"Still trying to save me," she murmured.
He met her gaze, unflinching. "Still failing at pretending I don't want to."
She looked away, staring into the dark surface of the tea. Steam curled between them like smoke, like all the words neither of them could say.
When she finally rose to leave for the guest room, he didn't follow. He just watched her go, jaw tight, the faintest tremor of something like fear flickering in his eyes.
And long after she'd closed the door behind her, Damon remained where he was, pulling out his phone again.
He dialed a number. "It's me," he said quietly when the line picked up. "I need everything you can find on the guest list from the Sterling Gala. Fast. Especially anyone connected to the Whitmore account."
A pause. A reply.
"No," Damon said after a moment, voice darkening. "Don't tell her. Not yet."
He ended the call and set the phone down on the counter. The rain outside had deepened, a steady rhythm against the glass.
He turned toward the dark hallway, where Athena's light glowed faintly beneath the door. His chest tightened.
"I won't let it happen again," he said softly to the empty room. "Not to her."