Damien, now wearing shorts and a singlet, strolled around the house, touching and turning things as if he were a house inspector checking for defects.
Sloane, looking down from upstairs near her master's bedroom, couldn't help but stare in awe at his physique—his bulging muscles flexing as he raised a heavy flower vase. When he brushed his hair back with his hand, his singlet lifted slightly, just enough to reveal the hard ridges of his abs.
Sloane was mesmerized. She had found men attractive before, but she never cared much about them. Her focus had always been her job—killing. Men rarely approached her; not because she wasn't beautiful—she was stunning, with curves that could hypnotize—but because she intimidated them. No one had ever been bold enough. She didn't mind.
But right now? She wouldn't have minded being slammed against the wall and thoroughly fucked by this dark, handsome prince.
"Sloane? Sloane? Sloane!"
Sloane, lost in her wild thoughts, jerked back to reality as Damien shouted her name.
"Yes, Mr. Damien?" she responded quickly.
"I'm not sure you're fit for this job. You haven't done anything right since I arrived," Damien said coldly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Damien," she mumbled.
"Is my dad in?"
"Yes, Mr. Damien, but I think he's sleeping," Sloane replied.
"I'll be going in now. Please—no interruptions, no matter what."
"Yes, Mr. Damien."
"And stop with the 'Mr. Damien' thing. Call me Damien," he added as he walked into the room.
Sloane quietly closed the door behind him.
---
"Dad? Dad? Are you awake?"
"Yes. How are you?" Lord Alastair asked.
"Doing better than you," Damien said with a small grin.
His father laughed, then broke into a cough. Damien quickly stretched his hand and gave him the glass of water from the table. After a few sips, the coughing stopped.
"Always with the jokes," Lord Alastair chuckled. "I'm happy you came to see me before I go."
"Dad, stop talking like that. You're not going anywhere. Who's going to rule London when you're gone?"
"An old man can feel death breathing on his neck, son. There's no use denying it."
Damien didn't respond. Silence lingered between them.
"I'm sorry, Damien. For what happened—for everything," his father said quietly.
"Dad, I don't want to talk about it. This isn't the right time," Damien said, trying to brush off the conversation.
"Damien, this is the best time to talk about it. We might not get another. And I know you feel it's my fault what happened to your mum."
"Of course, it's your fault! What do you mean, 'I think' it's your fault?" Damien snapped, anger rising fast.
"Mum begged you to quit! She pleaded with you to leave this drug dealing life behind—but you wouldn't. You loved money more than you loved us. You cared for money more than your family. We were never your priority. Money was. And then you used the excuse that you were doing it 'for us' just to soothe your own guilt!"
He was breathing hard now, tears streaming down his face as painful memories clawed their way back—the memory of his mother's murder burned into his soul.
"Are you done?" his father asked calmly.
"No. I have so many things to say to you, but we'd be here until tomorrow—and you probably won't live long enough to hear all of it," Damien spat.
Lord Alastair's face dropped. The words cut deeper than any blade.
"I'm happy you got that off your chest. It's been so long since we talked like family. The mistakes I made can't be corrected. It's all in the past now. But if I could turn back time, I would. I regret every moment I didn't spend with you and your mum."
"At least you still have a heart to feel guilty about it," Damien muttered.
Lord Alastair continued, "When your mum asked me to leave the drug business, we argued for days. I know you remember those nights."
Damien nodded slightly.
"I informed all my business partners, all my friends, that I was quitting. Word spread faster than I expected. My rivals heard the news—they knew without my alliances, I'd be vulnerable. So they decided to strike.
That day, when they attacked our home, your mother was caught in the crossfire."
He paused, his voice shaking.
"I tried everything to hunt down the bloody bastard who did it. But he's slipped through every trap I set. I've never been able to catch him. My last wish, Damien, is for you to find him—and make him pay for what he did to our family."
Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Damien understood now—his father was asking him to step into the business.
To avenge the blood spilled.
"You promised Mum you would stop... but even after her death, you still kept selling drugs," Damien said, his voice low, no longer angry—just hollow with years of misunderstood hatred.
"I don't sell drugs anymore. I stopped. Now I run tech. Import and export," Lord Alastair said.
Suddenly, the door flung open.
"Sir, there's been an attack on one of our client's shipments!" Sloane announced urgently.
"Did I not tell you not to interrupt us under any circumstance?!" Damien snapped, furious.
"Damien, it's okay," his father said, raising a hand. "Please, go with her. Handle it."