𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

9

"...need to lay low for a while, beef up security...I don't care, just handle it."

I hear Damien's muffled voice drifting up from downstairs, pulled out of my sleepy haze by the agitated tone. He's been on the phone all morning, and it sounds like whatever he's dealing with has him on edge. The slamming of the backyard door jolts me fully awake. I drag myself out of bed, curiosity getting the better of me as I head downstairs to the living room.

The TV is on, some 24-hour news channel droning in the background. I'm about to switch it off when a photo flashes on the screen that stops me cold.

"...wealthy entrepreneur Jackson Addison was found dead at his mansion nearly four months ago," the anchor is saying, "Initial reports suggested suicide, but new evidence has come to light that has investigators questioning the circumstances surrounding Addison's death."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. The man from the party, the one Damien had me...

I thought this was all behind me, that I was in the clear. It's been months since that night, months of trying to shove down the memories. I can't go to prison. I just can't. I still haven't been able to even think about how I'm going to get Penny back, I've had to lay low all this time. And If I get locked up now, I'll lose everything.

"...Investigators are now treating Addison's death as suspicious, and have not ruled out the possibility of foul play..."

I fumble for the remote, jabbing at the power button until the screen goes black. They can't find out. They can't trace this back to me. To us. I thought I was safe. Damien promised he would handle it, that no one would ever know.

I walk into the kitchen, wrenching open the cabinet where I keep my medication; Xanax, sleeping pills, the good stuff Damien's doctor writes for me. I shake out two, three, four of the little white pills into my palm. I toss them back dry and lean against the kitchen counter, my knuckles white as I grip the edge for support.

Damien comes rushing in. He's got his phone still pressed to his ear, his brow furrowed in that way that tells me he's deep in conversation with one of his associates. He barely spares me a glance as he grabs his keys from the counter, muttering an abrupt "Morning, babe" before pressing a quick, distracted kiss to my cheek.

I stare at him, caught off guard. "Where are you going?" I ask.

Damien sighs, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Just got some stuff to take care of, Catherine. Don't worry about it."

I feel a flare of annoyance at his tone. After everything we've been through, everything I've done for him, he shuts me out?

"Damien, wait-" I start, but he's already heading for the door, his attention back on his phone call.

"I'll be back later. Stay out of trouble, yeah?" he throws the words over his shoulder, not even bothering to look at me as he strides out of the kitchen.

I open my mouth to argue, but the slamming of the front door cuts me off. Just like that, he's gone, leaving me alone. I want to throw something, to chase after him and make him talk to me. But I know it's useless. When Damien gets like this, all cold and closed-off and focused on his damn "business", there's no reaching him. So I just stand there, my fingers digging into the counter hard enough to hurt, fighting back the tears behind my eyes.

I swipe at my tears with the back of my sleeve, doing what I always do, swallowing my anger, my fear. I'll plaster on a smile and play the perfect girlfriend, just waiting patiently for Damien to throw me a scrap of attention whenever he feels like it.

︻デ═一

I've been wearing a path in the carpet, pacing back and forth for hours. Every few minutes, I find myself drawn to the windows, peeking through the curtains like some nosy neighbor, desperate to catch a glimpse of Damien's car pulling into the driveway. But there's nothing. Just the same empty stretch of pavement.