Damian's POV
The second Emma walked out of my office, I felt the weight of every unsaid word crash down on me.
Her anger still hung in the air. I could still hear her voice, trembling somewhere between fury and heartbreak.
You can't comfort me and keep secrets from me at the same time.
She wasn't wrong but she also didn't understand. She couldn't.
For a long time, I just stood there behind my desk, staring at the closed door. My fingers flexed against the smooth edge of the table, a thousand thoughts clawing for space in my head.
I wanted to go after her and explain, or at least try to but that would've made everything worse.
The less she knew, the safer she'd be.
And right now, safety was the only thing I could promise her.
I took a slow breath and sat back down, forcing myself to focus on the spreadsheet open on my screen. The numbers blurred together. My mind wasn't here; it was upstairs, with her.
Damn it.
When Jim's name came up earlier, I'd felt the shift in her, the way suspicion replaced trust in her eyes. She had heard too much.
If you touch her, I'll kill you.
Of all the things she could've overheard, it had to be that.
If she knew who Jim was really talking about that night… she'd never sleep again.
I shut the laptop with a snap and pinched the bridge of my nose. I needed to end this before she started digging deeper.
The last thing I needed was her curiosity turning into a threat, not just to me, but to herself.
By the time I left my office and made it to the guest wing, I'd already rehearsed what I was going to say. I knocked once, then twice.
"Emma." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Open the door."
There was silence. Then, after a long pause, the sound of the lock turning.
She stood in the doorway, still in the same clothes she'd worn earlier. Her eyes were red, but her chin was high.
"What do you want?" she asked flatly.
I met her gaze. "We need to finish our conversation."
"Why? So you can tell me I'm overreacting again?"
I forced a breath through my teeth. "No, so I can make something clear."
She crossed her arms but didn't stop me when I stepped inside. The air between us was thick with silence. I closed the door quietly behind me.
"You're angry," I began.
"Don't start by telling me how I feel," she cut in.
That earned a brief, humorless smile from me. "Fine. Then I'll tell you how I feel. You've crossed a line, Emma."
Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"You listened to a private conversation between me and my head of security," I said evenly. "You're making assumptions about things that don't concern you, and now you're demanding answers you don't have the clearance to get."
Her voice shook. "Clearance? I'm not one of your employees, Damian."
"No," I said quietly, "you're my therapist and that's all you're supposed to be."
The words hit her like a slap. Her shoulders stiffened. "So that's what this is about. You want me to remember my place."
"I want you to do your job," I said, keeping my tone level. "You're here to help me manage certain… psychological patterns. Not to investigate my private life or the people who work for me."
Her mouth parted in disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"
"Completely."
She let out a low, disbelieving laugh. "Unbelievable. You drag me into your mansion, tell me I'm 'safe' here, make me believe you actually..." She stopped herself, biting back the rest. "And now I'm just your employee again?"
I felt the jab, but I didn't let it show. "That's not what I said."
"That's exactly what you said."
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "Emma, listen. You've been under a lot of stress lately. The call, the tension, everything you overheard, it's messing with your perception. You're seeing danger where there isn't any."
Her eyes flashed. "Don't you dare try to psychoanalyze me."
"I'm not," I said softly. "I'm reminding you why you're here."
She shook her head. "You know what's funny? You keep saying you're protecting me, but you won't even admit there's something to be protected from."
"Because there isn't," I said sharply. "There's nothing going on, Emma. Nothing that involves you."
"You keep saying that," she whispered, "but I don't believe you."
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air between us pulsed with everything unspoken — the arguments, the tension, the things we both refused to name.
Finally, I took a step closer. "Then believe this, whatever you think you heard, whatever you think is happening, drop it and forget it ever existed."
Her lips parted. "You really expect me to just forget?"
"Yes." I met her gaze, steady and unyielding. "Because poking around in things you don't understand could get you hurt."
Something flickered across her face, maybe it was fear, confusion, maybe both. "Are you threatening me?"
The question hit harder than I expected. "No," I said immediately. "I'm warning you. There's a difference."
She stared at me for a long time, searching for something in my face. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "You're not the man I thought you were."
That one landed square in the chest.
"Then maybe," I said quietly, "you should stop thinking about me as anything other than a client."
She flinched. Just slightly, but I saw it. The fire in her eyes dimmed to something brittle.
"I see," she said finally, her voice steady but thin. "You're done with me."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that the idea of her walking out of this house felt like losing something I hadn't realized I needed. But instead, I forced the words out: "Take the rest of the day off. You can resume sessions tomorrow, professionally."
She nodded once, her expression unreadable. "Don't worry. I'll be professional."
When she moved past me, I almost reached out but I didn't.
The door closed behind her with a quiet click, and the silence that followed was worse than any argument.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space she'd left behind. Every instinct screamed at me to go after her, to tell her the truth, that Jim's threat wasn't about her, but about the man who I had seen two weeks ago.
But the moment she knew that, she'd never stay.
And if she left, I couldn't protect her.
I sank into the nearest chair, pressing my palms together. I'd meant every word I said, she needed to stop digging but that didn't make the guilt any lighter.
I'd crossed a line the moment I let myself care about her. Therapists were supposed to heal you, not become your weakness.
But somehow, Emma had become both.
The phone on my desk buzzed. Jim.
I answered, my voice low. "What is it?"
"She knows more than she should," he said without preamble.
"I handled it."
"For now," he replied. "But if she keeps pushing..."
"She won't," I said, cutting him off.
A pause. "You sure about that?"
No. Not at all.
But I said it anyway. "Yes."
When the call ended, I stared at the dark screen, the reflection of my own face staring back at me.
If Emma kept digging, the truth would destroy her.
And if she stopped, it might destroy me.