Damian's POV
Clara was already waiting in my office when I walked in.
Her legs crossed, red heels propped neatly under my desk, my coffee cup in hand that wasn't hers to take.
She had always had a way of making herself at home, like she owned the space.
"Morning," I muttered, dropping my keys and jacket onto the table.
"Morning?" she repeated, tilting her head. "It's past noon, Damian. Do you even sleep anymore, or just brood until the sun comes up?"
"Depends on the night," I said dryly, opening my laptop. "What do you want?"
She smiled in that PR-trained way, it was charming, calculated, and sharp. "I wanted to check in. The company asked for a report on your progress. You know, therapy updates, behavioral check-ins, all that jazz."
"Of course they did."
Her tone softened, a little too practiced. "So… how's therapy going? Is Dr. Lawson helping our angry little billionaire calm his storms?"
I shot her a look. "Don't call me that."
She laughed, unbothered. "You're deflecting, Damian. That means it's working."
I sank into the chair, running a hand through my hair. "She's… good."
"Good?" Clara's eyes gleamed with interest. "That's it? Good?"
"She doesn't run," I said finally. "Not when I lose my temper or when I challenge her. Most people in this building walk on eggshells around me. She doesn't."
Clara leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. "So, what, you're impressed by her?"
"Something like that," I murmured.
Her smile faltered just slightly. "Impressed enough to forget you already have someone handling your stress relief?"
I met her gaze evenly. "Clara."
She stood, circling the desk. "No, I mean it. You barely returned my calls yesterday. You canceled dinner last night, and now you're acting like this therapist is the second coming of Jesus."
"Because she's doing her job."
"And what am I doing?" she challenged, her voice low. "Or do I not fit into your little self-improvement plan anymore?"
I didn't answer. The silence stretched until she sighed, frustrated, and sat on the edge of the desk, crossing her arms.
"You know," she said quietly, "when I convinced the board to sign off on therapy instead of a public apology tour, I thought we were on the same side."
"We are," I said. "I'm not here to make you the enemy."
"Then what are you doing?"
I leaned back, studying her. Clara was beautiful, her sharp cheekbones, sleek long blonde hair, and sexy body were curated for the image she sold but lately, even her presence felt like noise.
"I've decided I want Emma to move in," I said finally.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"Excuse me?" she said slowly.
"I want Dr. Lawson to move into the estate for the remainder of the six months. It'll make sessions easier. Traveling back and forth is a waste of time."
Her laugh was incredulous. "You can't be serious."
"I am."
"Damian, she's your therapist. You can't just..." She stopped herself, eyes narrowing. "Is this about her?"
"It's about efficiency," I said calmly.
"Efficiency?" Her voice sharpened. "Do you even hear yourself? Having her live under your roof isn't therapy, it's insanity. The press will tear you apart if they find out and she might lose her fucking job."
"They won't."
"And what about me?" she demanded. "What am I supposed to think when the man I've been..."
"Clara," I said, cutting her off.
She stared at me, chest rising and falling. "Don't 'Clara' me. You think I'm going to just smile and nod while you play house with your therapist?"
"She's not….." I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This isn't about you and me."
Her laugh was sharp and humorless. "Of course it's not. It never is, right?" She stood, pacing. "You want her here because she makes you feel something. You've got that look in your eyes again."
I didn't respond.
Clara turned toward me, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "Damian, I know what this is. You like the chase. You think she's different because she doesn't fall for your charm but give it a few weeks, and you'll ruin this too."
"Maybe," I said quietly. "But I need her here. I can't keep doing this back-and-forth routine."
She folded her arms, her tone dripping with disbelief. "You need her? Since when do you need anyone?"
That struck deeper than she knew.
I stood, moving toward the window. The city stretched out below. "She doesn't see me the way you do. She doesn't… expect anything from me."
Clara's voice hardened. "You mean she doesn't know you yet."
I looked over my shoulder at her. "You think this is jealousy talking?"
She smirked faintly. "Oh, sweetheart, this is jealousy talking and maybe a little concern, because if this blows up, it's not just you who goes down, it's me. I'm the one who'll have to fix it."
"I'll handle it."
She scoffed. "You always say that and I'm always the one cleaning up the ashes."
I turned back to her, voice even. "This isn't up for discussion. I'll talk to her today."
Clara shook her head slowly, like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You're crossing a line, Damian and when you do that, you don't just fall alone, you drag everyone else with you."
I didn't respond.
She picked up her purse, her face perfectly composed again. "Fine. Do whatever you want but when the headlines come out, don't call me to fix them."
She started toward the door but paused halfway. "One more thing."
"What?"
"If you think she's not going to see right through you, you're wrong. You can charm the world, but you can't manipulate someone who already sees your damage."
I didn't answer.
She gave me a long, final look. "Careful, Damian. Not every woman you touch survives it."
The door clicked shut behind her.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. I stared out the window again, jaw tight. Her words shouldn't have hit the way they did, but they did.
Emma didn't belong in my world. I knew that. But after this morning, seeing her trembling behind that desk, trying to hold herself together, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
She was breaking, even if she didn't admit it.
And maybe, in some twisted way, I wanted to be the one who held her together.
I sank into my chair, pulling open my phone. My thumb hovered over her contact.
For once, it wasn't anger or impulse driving me. It was something worse.
I hit call.
When her voice came through, soft and cautious, I felt something shift in my chest.
"Emma," I said. "We need to talk."