Stillness Before His Next Episode

Damien's POV

I woke up before the morning properly began.

The mansion felt…too quiet. Too still.

The faint echo of my footsteps against marble, the whisper of wind brushing against the windows. It all felt louder than it should have. Like the house itself was haunting me.

I stood at the foot of the stairs, my body tense, something unsettled crawling beneath my skin. The remnants of last night clung to me—sharp, suffocating.

Her face. The fear in her eyes. The way she flinched.

My jaw tightened.

I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling harshly. “Damn it…”

Guilt pressed in, heavy and unrelenting. I felt sick—disgusted with myself. I hadn’t meant to go that far.

I never meant to. But that didn’t change the fact that I had.

“I didn’t…” My voice came out low, strained. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

The words sounded weak, because I had hurt her. And worse—I didn’t know how to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

“I can’t control it,” I muttered. “I can’t—”

“Clearly.”

The voice cut through my thoughts.

Margaux.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she approached, her expression cold with disappointment.

“I’m ashamed of you, Damien.”

My fingers curled slightly at my sides.

“You’ve failed again.”

Again. Always again.

“But I won’t let you ruin this,” she continued. “You will keep her. You will not let her leave. And you will do better.”

Something twisted in my chest.

“I’m trying,” I said quietly. “I never wanted to hurt her.”

Silence.

It pressed on me.

“I can’t control it,” I admitted. “Every time I try, it gets worse.” I inhaled sharply. “I think—I think I need help.”

“Shut up.”

My head snapped up.

“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” she said sharply. “You do not need help.”

My chest tightened.

“You have a wife,” she continued. “And it is her responsibility to put you in check.”

Something in me recoiled—but not enough.

“The only thing you should focus on,” she added, voice lowering, “is making sure she stays by your side. Forever.”

Her gaze locked onto mine. “Because if she leaves… you will get worse.”

The words sank deep. Too deep.

“Do you understand?”

My thoughts collided—loud, restless.

Help. Control. Elena. Leaving.

I gripped my hair, exhaling shakily. “Haaah… I hate myself.”

“It’s alright, Damien,” she said, her tone softening just slightly. “With time, things can be fine.”

A pause.

“But only if you follow my instructions.”

There it was. Always.

“Now,” she said, “take a deep breath.”

I did—In. Out. Again.

——

Even after she left, her voice didn’t leave me. It stayed sharp, coiled, and threaded through every thought.

Keep her. Don’t let her leave.

“I'll fix this,“ I told myself.

The house was still quiet when I stepped into the kitchen.

The staff froze the moment they saw me.

“Leave,” I said.

They didn’t hesitate.

The room emptied instantly.

Silence settled again.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the counter.

Then—

“Coffee,” I muttered. “Something light.”

My voice was steady.

My gaze shifted slightly. “Flowers.”

An apology. The word lingered.

I reached for a sheet of paper, pulling it toward me. The pen rested between my fingers, unmoving.

Words were inefficient. But necessary.

I’m sorry.

I stopped.

The sentence sat there—small. Useless.

My expression hardened.

I continued writing anyway.

----

I had left for work before Elena woke, slipping out quietly so the house would remain undisturbed.

________________________________

The office fell silent the moment I stepped out of the elevator. Not the ordinary kind of quiet—this was sharper. Taut. That crept through spines and tightened throats.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Keyboards slowed, then resumed with careful precision.

“Good morning, sir."

“Good morning, sir."

Greetings followed as I walked past rows of glass offices and polished desks; I didn’t respond. My footsteps were measured and unhurried. Heads lowered instinctively, eyes darting away. Tension hung thick in the air—fear and unease etched into every face.

Inside my office, the floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city below—steel, glass, and order. The world bent when enough money and power pressed down on it. I dropped my suit jacket onto the chair and loosened my cufflinks slowly, deliberately.

Minutes later, my assistant knocked once—once was all she dared.

“Yes?” My voice was flat.

She entered, shoulders stiff. “The finance team is ready, sir.”

“They should have been ready twenty minutes ago.”

Her throat bobbed. “Y-yes, sir.”

The meeting was brutal. Numbers blurred as excuses piled up, and patience thinned to nothing. One mistake. One stutter. One poorly chosen word—and the temperature in the room dropped dangerously low.

“Do you enjoy wasting my time?” I asked,

My finger tapped once against the table. Then again. Then stilled.

I leaned back in my chair. “Because if you do, I can replace all of you before lunch.”

Fear thickened the air. Sweat gleamed at temples. Pens shook in clenched hands.

I dismissed them with a flick of my wrist. When the door closed, the silence returned—but this time, it pressed inward.

My gaze drifted to my watch. Too early.

An image forced its way into my mind—Elena’s face last night. Her tears. My jaw tightened. I hadn’t meant to go that far. I always went too far.

I stood abruptly. “I’m leaving early,” I told my assistant as I grabbed my jacket. Her eyes widened—shock quickly masked with obedience. “Yes, sir.”

I drove myself. The city blurred past as I navigated familiar streets. Resolve hardened in my chest. I would fix this.

I pulled into a private boutique—glass walls, soft lighting, security at the door. Inside, everything gleamed: diamonds suspended like captured stars, velvet-lined displays, and prices whispered instead of shown.

“The necklace,” I said simply. They knew which one. Platinum. Rare-cut diamonds. Imported. Excessive. Perfect.

From there, the florist is exclusive, understated, and impossibly elegant. White roses. Imported. Fresh enough to bruise at a touch.

By the time I got back into the car, the bouquet rested beside me, the velvet bag secure on the passenger seat. I gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road as the city slid past in streaks of glass and light.

I shouldn't have touched you like that. I lost control.

The thought came fast.

No. My jaw clenched. I scoffed quietly.

I didn’t lose control. She—

Silence filled the car.

…did she?

“You pushed me,” I muttered.

Better. Truth, but sharpened—cleaned up enough to pass as explanation, not blame.

At the red light, my gaze flicked to the bouquet beside me. White roses. Pristine. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Elena. That one lingered.

I pictured her sitting across from me, eyes lowered, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Silent. Waiting. “I bought you something,” I rehearsed silently. “No—” “I wanted to make it up to you.” Better.

The necklace would speak before I did. Diamonds always did. They dazzled. Reminded women what silence could be rewarded with. I provide. I protect. That was the real apology. Not words. Proof.

I exhaled slowly, rehearsing the tone now—low, controlled. “I shouldn’t have raised my hand.”

Pause.

“Never again.” A promise I wasn’t sure of.

By the time I pulled into the driveway, my expression was calm. The gate attendant, with a courteous nod, opened the iron gates. Tires whispered against the cobblestones as I glided through.

I stepped out of the car with flowers in one hand and the gift bag in the other.

The mansion doors opened before I reached them. I walked in without a glance at anyone, my focus already fixed on one thing.

“Elena?” I called, my voice quieter than usual… controlled.

Silence answered me. A frown tugged at my lips. I moved deeper into the house—through the sitting room, the dining hall, and the study. My steps grew quicker and sharper. Each empty space tightened something in my chest.

“Elena?” Nothing.

I turned abruptly, my gaze locking onto the first staff member I saw.

“Where is Elena?” My voice was steady.

The man froze. “I… I don’t know, sir.”

Don’t know. The words echoed in my head, wrong… unacceptable.

My grip tightened around the gift bag. “Don’t know?” I repeated softly. Something cold slid into my chest. Then it snapped.

Rage tore through me, sudden and violent. I hurled the gift bag and bouquet across the floor. The velvet box burst open on impact—jewels scattering across the marble, their sharp clinks echoing through the hall like breaking glass. The flowers followed—petals torn apart, crushed beneath my shoes as I moved.

I didn’t stop. I took the stairs two at a time, pulse thundering in my ears. Doors flew open under my hands—one after the other. Empty. Every single one.

“Elena?” My voice sharpened, the control slipping. Nothing.

The silence wasn’t quiet anymore. It was mocking me. My chest tightened.

I turned and stormed back downstairs, fury boiling over, consuming every rational thought.

“GREGORY!” I roared. My voice crashed through the mansion like thunder.

He appeared at the foot of the staircase, pale, shaking. “Where is Elena?!” I demanded.

“I—I have no idea, sir—” My hand moved before he could finish. The crack of the slap echoed loudly. “YOU FOOL!” I snarled.

More staff gathered, drawn by the noise, faces filled with fear. Good. They should be afraid.

My gaze swept over them, cold and merciless.