The Angel And The Bastard

Chapter 17 -Damien

Damien

I'd barely made it through the morning's coffee with Iris before being forced into yet another "urgent" meeting, this time with one of my father's oldest associates,

Alexander Heathcote. He's the type who says "charmed" and "splendid" as if he's stepped straight out of a Victorian novel.

I haven't seen him in years, but apparently, my father's leash extends even across the Atlantic.

I settle back in the corner booth of the upscale, dimly-lit restaurant they'd picked.

There's a faint hum of polished conversation, clinking glasses, and laughter around me, but I'm laser-focused on the sight of Alexander approaching, as dignified as a damn aristocrat in his impeccably tailored suit.

He catches sight of me, and his eyes gleam with that unbearable glint of familiarity.

"Damien," he greets me, his accent as crisp as ever, and with that ridiculous smile that says he's known me since I was in nappies. "Or should I call you Mr. Ashford now? Goodness, look at you—if I didn't know better, I'd say you're actually taking after your father."

Ah, yes, the "compliments."

I plaster on the most civil smile I can muster. "Please, Alexander, you're making me blush."

He chuckles as if I'm charming rather than mildly insufferable. "Oh, you've certainly grown into quite the... character."

"Character" is polite British code for "pain in the ass," I'm sure of it.

Alexander slides into the seat across from me, watching me with that ever-present gleam of disapproval mixed with nostalgia.

He's the type to remember things like how many sugars I used to put in my tea as a kid or how I couldn't manage to sit still for five minutes without climbing the drapes.

I can already sense his need to lecture bubbling under that perfectly composed exterior.

"I must say, your father was rather... insistent that I catch up with you while I'm stateside," Alexander starts, as if it's news to either of us.

"Right, of course," I reply, leaning back with the kind of smugness I know gets under his skin. "And it had nothing to do with ensuring I'm staying in line, naturally."

His eyebrow twitches—a minor victory. "Let's just say your father values tradition, Damien. And this arrangement with Miss Laurent... Well, it certainly doesn't hurt that she's got such an impeccable reputation. Clever move on your part, if I may say so."

"Do you really think I'm that calculated?" I ask, feigning innocence. I can practically see the wheels turning in his head, cataloging all the reasons he doesn't trust me.

Alexander smirks, a dry, barely-there expression. "Knowing you, Damien, I'd say yes. And your father may be... skeptical, but he appreciates ambition. In fact..." He pauses, then leans in, voice dropping to that tone reserved for clandestine family secrets. "Your father and I thought it might be time for you to revisit England. Bring Miss Laurent along, of course. Get a proper feel for your heritage."

"Ah, a trip to the family manor," I say, hiding a groan. Nothing says "romantic getaway" like a decaying pile of bricks in the English countryside filled with portraits of long-dead relatives who are all somehow disappointed in me.

"Yes, a tradition we've upheld for centuries," he intones, clearly reveling in my discomfort. "It's a place of great history, Damien. A place that could serve to ground you."

Ah, yes, the ancestral trap—I mean, home. I can already imagine it: old wood, draughty hallways, the faint stench of too many generations crammed into one house. And now they want me to drag Iris into this mess? Perfect.

I give him my most polished smile, the kind that's mostly teeth. "You know, I'd hate to subject her to the manor's... quirks."

"Quirks?" Alexander's eyebrows lift. "If I recall, Damien, you spent half your childhood romping through those halls like it was a grand adventure."

"Right. Romping. Through the hallways. Sounds delightful."

He rolls his eyes, his patience thinning. "I'd expect you to take this a bit more seriously, Damien. After all, you're in a unique position to uphold the family name."

I resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I play along, nodding solemnly. "You know, Alexander, I wake up every morning with exactly that thought on my mind. Nothing drives me more than the desire to uphold... whatever ancient name my father's clinging to this week."

He snorts, not buying it for a second. "Still the same, aren't you?"

"Better dressed, perhaps," I offer, glancing at my reflection in the polished glass of the window. At least I can manage a decent suit these days.

Alexander leans forward, suddenly all business. "You can wear all the suits you like, Damien, but remember this: appearances matter. Especially in our world. And you'd do well to remember that Miss Laurent is playing a significant role in this... image you're presenting."

Ah, there it is—the reminder of Iris. The reason they're all so eager to rope me back into the family fold. If only they knew I wasn't even remotely interested in playing the "reformed son" for their amusement.

"Yes, well, Iris and I are both well-versed in... appearances." I glance away, as if the view out the window is vastly more interesting than Alexander's disappointed gaze.

He seems to read right through me, though. "So you'll bring her, then? The invitation extends to both of you, of course."

"Oh, she'll be thrilled," I deadpan. "She loves old, cold estates filled with centuries of family baggage."

Alexander shakes his head, managing to look both amused and exasperated. "You might want to work on your enthusiasm. This will be important, Damien."

"Of course. Because there's nothing quite so important as a dusty old house with portraits of disapproving ancestors. I'll be sure to tell Iris to pack her best medieval armor."

His expression flattens. "Very amusing. But you know as well as I do, this isn't a request."

There it is: the full force of the family expectation, coming down like a hammer. I hate that they can still get to me like this, but I hate even more that Alexander's absolutely correct.

"Right," I say finally, letting the sarcasm drain out, if only a little. "Fine. We'll come. But you owe me, Alexander."

He chuckles, clearly taking it as a victory. "Fine. And Damien," he pauses, meeting my gaze directly. "Do try to behave. It might just surprise everyone."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of disappointing you all," I say, flashing one last charming, insincere smile as I stand.

He watches me with a mix of pity and exasperation, then rises to shake my hand. "One day, you'll see, Damien. Family is all we have."

I nearly laugh. If he knew what he was saying, he'd have second thoughts. But instead, I shake his hand, play the part, and pretend not to feel the noose tighten around my neck.

As I walk away, his parting words linger in my mind. Family is all we have. If that's true, I'm already in deeper trouble than I care to admit.