Damian's Pov
I tried to stay calm, but her voice over the phone had already flipped a switch in me.
The carnival? At ten at night?
I tossed my pen onto my desk, leaning back in my chair as I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Emma Lawson. That woman had a way of testing my restraint like no one else.
She'd been distant all week, barely present during sessions, eyes tired, voice detached. I told myself to give her space, to let her process whatever she was fighting but space had turned into her avoiding me.
And now she was out at a carnival with someone else.
I grabbed my keys, not even bothering with my jacket. The drive was a blur of red lights and growing frustration. Every scenario spun in my head, she was with some random guy, laughing, drinking, maybe even letting herself be vulnerable around someone who wasn't me.
By the time I parked near the carnival, my jaw was tight enough to crack. The air smelled like sugar and smoke, laughter spilling from every direction. My eyes scanned the crowd until I spotted her near the Ferris wheel exit, her hair loose, cheeks flushed, holding a small stuffed panda.
And standing next to her, far too close, was the guy. He was tall, looked confident, and had a casual smirk, the kind of man who didn't need to try to look charming. He was saying something that made her laugh, really laugh, and something inside me twisted.
I walked toward them before I could think better of it.
"Emma."
She turned, startled, her eyes widening when she saw me. "Damian, what are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I said evenly, though my tone came out sharper than intended. My gaze flicked to the man beside her. "And who's this?"
He smiled easily, unfazed. "James, I'm her friend." He extended a hand. "You must be Damian."
I ignored his hand. "That's right."
Emma sighed, crossing her arms. "Can we not do this here?"
"Do what?" I asked, eyes still fixed on James. "Have a conversation about why you missed our session? Or why are you out here drinking with strangers at midnight?"
James scoffed under his breath. "She's not a child, man."
My head snapped toward him. "This doesn't concern you."
"Actually, it kind of does," he said, stepping closer. "She called me. She needed a distraction, not a lecture."
"James," Emma warned, but neither of us was listening.
I took a step forward. "A distraction?" My voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Is that what this is?"
Emma glared at me. "Yes, Damian. That's exactly what this is. I needed to get out of my head, and guess what? It worked."
Her words cut deeper than they should have.
I shouldn't care, I shouldn't. She was just my therapist and one who lived under my roof for safety reasons, nothing more. But the sight of her smiling with someone else made something raw flare in my chest.
I clenched my fists. "You could've told me."
"I didn't know I needed permission," she snapped. "You're not my father or my boyfriend."
James's gaze flicked between us, clearly realizing this was deeper than he'd thought. "I'm just gonna...."
"Don't," I said, eyes narrowing at him. "Stay right there."
Emma stepped between us, placing a hand on my chest. "Damian, stop. Please."
Her touch was light, trembling. And suddenly, I wasn't angry anymore—just… exhausted.
I exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. "Get in the car, Emma. I'll take you home."
She hesitated. "I came with James."
"I'll drive you," James said quickly.
I turned to him, expression cold. "She's coming with me."
They exchanged a look, hers looked uncertain, but he was defiant, finally she sighed. "It's fine, James. I'll go."
"Text me when you get home," he said, shooting me a warning glare.
I waited until he walked off before turning to her. "Let's go."
The drive back was silent, except for the hum of the engine. She stared out the window, clutching the little panda to her chest.
Halfway home, I finally spoke. "You don't get to scare me like that."
Her head snapped toward me. "Scare you? Damian, I went to a carnival, not a crime scene."
"You didn't tell me where you were going. You missed your session, and I had no idea if something happened to you."
She rolled her eyes. "I didn't think I needed to report every move I make."
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. "You don't but when you live under my roof, yes, I'd like to know you're safe."
"Safe?" she repeated, voice rising. "Or under control?"
That one hit harder than I expected. I looked at her then. Her mascara was smudged, her hair wind-tousled, her lips trembling but beneath all that she looked fine.
"I'm not trying to control you," I said quietly. "I just….."
"Care?" she interrupted. "You care, but you can't even admit why."
The silence that followed was heavy because she was right. We pulled into the driveway. The mansion lights glowed softly against the night, and for a long moment, neither of us moved.
Finally, she opened the door. "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Cross." The title stung. She walked inside before I could respond, the door closing softly behind her.
I sat there for a while, staring at the spot where she'd stood, replaying the night in my head. I had seen the way she had laughed with him, how she looked alive again, how easily someone else had gotten through to her.
Maybe James was right, she didn't need a lecture, she needed someone who didn't analyze her pain or dissect her emotions, someone who just let her be.
But the selfish part of me, the part I'd spent years suppressing didn't want that someone to be anyone else.
I ran a hand through my hair, muttering a curse under my breath before stepping out of the car.
As I entered the house, I could still hear faint music from her room upstairs and for the first time, I wondered if I was the one who'd been standing in her way but then again, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise….she needed me, even though she was the therapist, I was her saviour.