Chapter 4: Acts of Penance

The sound of construction had become the soundtrack to Elara's days. For two weeks, the steady rhythm of hammering and drilling had filtered through the shared wall between Salt & Canvas and whatever Damien was building next door. She'd refused to look, determinedly keeping her blinds drawn on the side windows that would have given her a glimpse of the progress.

But the town was small, and news traveled fast.

"He's putting in hardwood floors," Margaret Chen mentioned over their Tuesday coffee, her eyes twinkling with barely contained curiosity. "Cherry wood, imported from Vermont. And the windows—my goodness, Elara, you should see the windows he's having installed."

Elara stirred her latte with more force than necessary. "I'm not interested in his renovations."

"The whole town's talking about it. A billionaire businessman moving to Seabrook? It's like something out of a romance novel." Margaret leaned forward conspiratorially. "Betty Morrison from the hardware store says he's personally overseeing every detail. Hasn't left town once since he arrived."

Since he arrived to torment me, Elara thought grimly, but she kept her expression neutral. The last thing she needed was the town gossip mill churning out theories about her connection to their mysterious new resident.

"I'm sure it's temporary," she said, taking a sip of coffee that tasted like ash. "Men like Damien Blackwood don't stay in places like Seabrook."

But even as she said the words, doubt gnawed at her. The Damien she'd known was driven by acquisition, by the thrill of the chase. Once he'd conquered something—a company, a deal, a woman—he moved on to the next target. The fact that he was still here, still renovating, still... present, suggested something had changed.

The realization of what that something might be hit her the next morning when she arrived to open her gallery.

Seabrook Elementary sat just three blocks from Main Street, and Elara had walked past it countless times on her way to work. The building was charming in the way that small-town schools often were—red brick with white trim, a playground that had seen better days, and a sign out front announcing various fundraisers and events in cheerfully faded letters.

This morning, there was a crowd gathered in front of the school, parents and teachers clustered around a man in an expensive suit who gestured animatedly at architectural plans spread across the hood of his BMW.

Damien.

Elara's steps slowed as she tried to process what she was seeing. He stood at the center of the group like a benevolent emperor holding court, his dark hair catching the morning sun, his smile genuine as he answered questions and pointed to various sections of the blueprints.

"—complete renovation of the arts wing," she caught as she drew closer, unable to resist the pull of curiosity. "New kilns for pottery classes, proper ventilation for painting, a small theater space for drama programs."

"Mr. Blackwood, this is incredibly generous," Principal Matthews was saying, his voice thick with emotion. "Our arts program has been underfunded for years. The children will be—"

"Art education is crucial," Damien interrupted smoothly. "Children need creative outlets, ways to express themselves beyond traditional academics. This town has a rich artistic heritage—it should be celebrated and nurtured."

Elara felt her chest constrict. Artistic heritage. He was talking about her, about the community she'd built here, about the workshops she'd started for local kids who couldn't afford formal art classes.

"And the playground equipment?" asked Sarah Chen, Margaret's daughter-in-law, bouncing a toddler on her hip.

"State-of-the-art safety features, all-weather materials, designed to accommodate children with disabilities." Damien's smile was warm, paternal almost. "Every child deserves a safe place to play and learn."

The group murmured its approval, and Elara saw something she'd never witnessed before: Damien Blackwood being genuinely liked by ordinary people. Not feared or respected or strategically cultivated, but actually liked.

She was so absorbed in watching the scene that she didn't notice when his gaze found hers across the crowd. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the careful mask he wore for the townspeople slipped. She saw something raw and desperate in his expression, a silent plea that made her knees weak.

Look at me, his eyes seemed to say. See what I'm doing. See why I'm doing it.

She turned and walked quickly toward her gallery, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Over the next few days, the improvements materialized with stunning speed. The elementary school buzzed with activity as contractors installed new equipment and fresh paint brightened hallways that had been institutional beige for decades. The playground equipment arrived on massive trucks, pieces of a colorful puzzle that transformed the tired old space into something magical.

But it wasn't just the school.

The gazebo in the town square—which had been listing dangerously to one side for years—was suddenly swarming with workers who reinforced the foundation and painted it a cheerful white. New benches appeared along Main Street, sturdy wooden pieces that looked handcrafted rather than mass-produced. The community center's roof, which had been leaking since Elara arrived in town, sprouted new shingles overnight.

"Anonymous donor," everyone said when pressed for details, but the knowing looks and whispered conversations made it clear that Seabrook's newest resident wasn't as anonymous as he pretended to be.

Elara tried to ignore it all, focusing on her gallery and the commission she was working on—a series of seascapes for a hotel in Bar Harbor. But the improvements were impossible to miss, and harder still to dismiss as coincidence.

He was courting her town the same way he'd once courted her: with attention to detail, with gestures that showed he'd been listening, with gifts that demonstrated he understood what mattered to her.

It was manipulation of the highest order.

It was also working.

"That new fellow certainly has made an impression," old Pete Morrison commented when he stopped by to browse her maritime prints. "Haven't seen the town this excited about anything in years."

"Mmm," Elara replied noncommittally, adjusting a frame that didn't need adjusting.

"Course, some folks are wondering why a big city businessman would want to settle down here permanent-like." Pete's weathered face creased into a knowing grin. "Man doesn't invest that kind of money in a place unless he's got good reason to stay."

The implication hung in the air like smoke, and Elara felt heat creep up her neck. "I'm sure I wouldn't know his motivations."

"Sure you wouldn't," Pete chuckled, tipping his cap as he headed for the door. "Sure you wouldn't."

That afternoon, as she was closing the gallery, Elara heard raised voices from the street. Through her front window, she could see a sleek black sedan parked outside the coffee shop, its New York plates gleaming like a declaration of war.

Beatrice Blackwood emerged from the vehicle with the fluid grace of a predator, her silver hair immaculate despite the coastal breeze, her designer suit a stark contrast to Seabrook's casual atmosphere. She moved with purpose toward the building next door, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like a countdown timer.

Elara's breath caught. Damien's mother was here.

The woman who had dismissed her as a "temporary diversion" was standing thirty feet away, about to confront the son who had apparently ignored her wishes and followed his former mistress to a tiny Maine fishing village.

This was going to be ugly.

Elara told herself to go home, to avoid whatever scene was about to unfold. Instead, she found herself moving toward her side window, the one she'd kept curtained for two weeks, and carefully lifting the edge of the fabric.

Damien's renovation was nearly complete. Through the window, she could see exposed brick walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and modern fixtures that somehow managed to complement the building's historic character. It looked like an office, but warmer—more like a study or library than a sterile corporate space.

He was standing near the window, his jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. Until his mother walked through the door.

The transformation was instantaneous. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and the easy confidence he'd been wearing like a comfortable sweater disappeared, replaced by the rigid control she remembered from their time together in New York.

Elara couldn't hear their conversation, but she didn't need to. Beatrice's body language spoke volumes—the way she gestured dismissively at the space Damien had created, the sharp angles of her posture, the imperious tilt of her chin that suggested she was delivering ultimatums.

Damien's response started quietly, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression carefully controlled. But as his mother continued speaking, something changed. His spine straightened, his chin lifted, and when he spoke again, even through the glass, Elara could see the force of his words.

The argument escalated quickly. Beatrice pointed toward the street, toward the town, toward everything Damien had been building. Her face was flushed with anger, her perfect composure finally cracking to reveal the steel underneath.

And then Damien exploded.

Elara had never seen him lose control—not truly, not like this. In their relationship, his anger had always been ice-cold, precise, surgically delivered. This was different. This was fire and fury and months of suppressed emotion finally finding an outlet.

He gestured wildly as he spoke, his voice rising enough that she could almost make out words through the glass. His mother took a step back, clearly startled by this version of her son—the version who was choosing defiance over duty.

The climax came when Beatrice pulled out her phone, presumably threatening to call someone—Victoria, perhaps, or Damien's father. Whatever she said made Damien go very still, his face pale but determined.

He walked to the window—the same window Elara was watching through—and threw it open. His voice carried clearly across the space between buildings, strong and uncompromising.

"I don't care what you tell Victoria," he said, his words meant for his mother but somehow feeling like a declaration to the entire town. "I don't care what you tell Father or the board or anyone else. I'm not coming back to New York. I'm not marrying Victoria. I'm done being the son you tried to create."

Beatrice's response was sharp and cutting, but Damien didn't flinch.

"You want to know why I'm here?" he continued, his grey eyes blazing with something that might have been liberation. "I'm here because this is where she is. The woman I should have chosen three months ago. The woman I should have defended instead of hiding like a coward. I'm here because I love her, and I'm not leaving without her."

The words hit Elara like a physical blow, stealing her breath and making her grip the window frame for support. He was talking about her. To his mother. In public.

He was choosing her.

Finally.

Beatrice said something else—something that made Damien's expression harden into granite. He walked to the door and held it open, his meaning clear.

"Get out," he said, his voice carrying easily across the street. "Get out of my space, get out of my town, and get out of my life. I'm done being your puppet."

Beatrice Blackwood gathered her dignity around herself like armor and walked toward the door with as much grace as she could muster. But before she left, she turned back to her son and delivered what was clearly a final ultimatum.

Damien's response was simple, clear, and utterly final: "Then I guess you don't have a son anymore."

The silence that followed his mother's departure seemed to stretch for hours. Damien stood alone in his renovated space, shoulders shaking slightly with the aftermath of adrenaline, looking like a man who had just burned down his entire life.

And found himself free for the first time.

Elara let the curtain fall back into place, her heart racing, her mind spinning with the implications of what she'd just witnessed. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. After months of choosing his family's expectations over everything else, he'd finally chosen her.

But was it enough? Was one moment of defiance sufficient to erase months of betrayal and heartbreak?

As she stood in her gallery, surrounded by the art and the life she'd built without him, Elara realized she didn't know the answer.

But for the first time in three months, she was willing to find out.