Immediately after Brian Gomez left the room, Damian sank deeper into the silence that now enveloped him. The door clicked shut behind Brian, and it was as though the room itself exhaled a heavy breath—one Damian had been holding for far too long. Alone once again, his thoughts returned, uninvited but inevitable. They settled on memories he wished he could forget but knew he never would.
He stared out the window, not really seeing anything. The pale morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the polished floor. But his mind wasn't in the present—it was stuck in the past, replaying moments that refused to die.
He thought about the countless humiliations he had endured at the hands of the Trafford family, each one more painful than the last. Every insult, every dismissive glance, every word that cut deeper than a knife—they were all embedded in his memory. And he had borne it all for her—for Melissa. The woman he once loved with all his heart. The woman he had believed was worth everything.
He had done so much for her. Too much. He had fought for her, defended her, sacrificed his own dignity just so she could rise above the limitations of her circumstances and become the new heiress of the powerful Trafford family. He had been her shadow, her support, her quiet champion behind closed doors. And how had she repaid him?
By tossing him aside like a discarded tool—no longer needed, no longer wanted.
She had thrown him out of the Trafford Manor like he was trash, like he had never meant anything to her. That moment haunted him the most: the look of indifference in her eyes as he walked out of the grand halls he once helped protect, reduced to nothing more than a memory she would erase.
Now, the difference between them could not be more painfully clear. He was just a lowly orphan—a nobody. And she? She was the shining heir to the Trafford legacy, draped in power and prestige.
Maybe she would be better off with Richard, Damian thought bitterly. Richard had the status, the charm, the family name—everything Damian lacked. Maybe he had been foolish to think love was enough. In the cold world of high society, love was currency only if it came wrapped in wealth and lineage.
Just then, a knock on the door pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts.
It was gentle but precise, followed by the sound of the door creaking open slightly. A young maid stepped in, her uniform crisp and clean, her expression neutral yet courteous. She was the one Brian Gomez had mentioned earlier.
"Excuse me, sir," she said politely, holding out a small white paper bag. "Mister Gomez sent me to give you this."
Damian blinked, still shaking the remnants of his memories from his mind. "What is it?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Your medication," she replied, placing the bag gently on the table beside him. "And I also made you breakfast."
There was a brief silence. Damian glanced at the tray she'd brought in—eggs, toast, some fruit, and a cup of tea. It was simple, but warm, and oddly comforting.
"Thank you," he said quietly, meeting her eyes for the first time.
"I was only doing my job," she responded, bowing slightly before retreating from the room with quick, measured steps.
As the door closed behind her, Damian's gaze lingered on the space she had just occupied. She had a soft presence—polite, almost graceful. For a fleeting second, he had noticed how pretty she was, with gentle eyes and a kind demeanor. But he quickly shook the thought away. He wasn't in the place—mentally or emotionally—for such distractions.
He turned to the breakfast, picked at it without much interest, then opened the small packet the maid had handed him. Inside were two strange white pills. He stared at them for a moment before tossing them into his mouth and washing them down with a sip of tea.
That's when it happened.
A strange, almost electric sensation coursed through his veins, starting from his chest and radiating outward to his limbs. His vision blurred for a moment, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. His heart began to race—not with panic, but with something else. Something unfamiliar. Something unnatural.
His breathing slowed. The room felt colder. Or was it hotter? He couldn't tell. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift slightly, like they were alive, whispering secrets only he could hear.
"What the hell…" he muttered, gripping his chest. A strange warmth bloomed there, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. It was like something had awakened inside him—something that had been dormant for years, or maybe something entirely new.
He stood up quickly, knocking over a chair. Then he felt a strange feeling.....