“I didn’t say you should.”
That surprised you.
People always wanted women to forgive quickly. Quietly. Beautifully.
Damian did not.
He sat in the chair near the door, still keeping space between you.
“Your father called me two nights ago,” he said. “He said Leonardo had hurt you. He said the wedding couldn’t happen. Then he begged me not to make a scene.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“Of course he did.”
“I told him I don’t do quiet when women are being sacrificed.”
You looked at him.
Something about that sentence entered your chest and stayed there.
“Why help me?” you asked.
“Because someone should have.”
You turned your face away before he could see the tears.
But he saw them anyway.
He didn’t mention them.
Instead, he stood.
“There’s one more thing. Leonardo will try to control the story by morning.”
You looked back at him.
“He already has.”
Damian nodded.
“He’ll say you’re unstable. That you fainted from stress. That I created a scene because I have a vendetta against his family. That your bruises came from anxiety, clumsiness, anything except his hands.”
Your stomach twisted.
“He’ll ruin me.”
“No,” Damian said. “He’ll try.”
The next morning, Leonardo did exactly what Damian predicted.
The Harrington family released a statement by 8:00 a.m.
They expressed “deep concern” for your “emotional well-being.”
They said the wedding had been “temporarily postponed” due to a “medical episode.”
They said Leonardo remained “devoted” to you and hoped you would get the “privacy and care you needed.”
By 9:00 a.m., the gossip blogs were calling you a runaway bride.
By 10:00 a.m., anonymous sources claimed you had a history of panic attacks.
By noon, someone leaked a photo of Damian carrying you out of the venue, framing it like a scandal.
The headline made your stomach turn.
Runaway Bride Leaves Billionaire Groom in Arms of Notorious Rival
You threw the phone across the hospital bed.
Damian picked it up from the blanket and set it on the table.
“They’re fast,” you whispered.
“They’re desperate.”
Your laugh came out bitter.
“Does desperation always look like a public relations team?”
“In their world, yes.”
Your mother sat silent by the window, looking ten years older.
Your father had not come back.
Part of you was relieved.
Part of you hated yourself for being relieved.
At 1:00 p.m., Leonardo came to the hospital.
Not alone.
He brought his mother, two lawyers, a private doctor, and a bouquet of white roses.
Security stopped him outside the hallway.
You heard his voice before you saw him.
“Valeria is my fiancée. I have a right to see her.”
Damian stepped out of your room.
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
Leonardo’s voice dropped.
“You think this is over because she got dramatic?”
Damian said nothing.
