Chapter 5: The Scars You Gave Me

The knock on Elara's cottage door came at sunset, soft and hesitant in a way that was so unlike the Damien she remembered that she almost didn't recognize it. She'd been standing at her easel for the past hour, staring at a half-finished canvas without really seeing it, her mind replaying the scene she'd witnessed between him and his mother.

Then I guess you don't have a son anymore.

The words had been haunting her all afternoon, echoing in her chest with a mixture of vindication and something dangerously close to hope.

She opened the door to find him standing on her weathered porch, still in his dress shirt and slacks but with his tie gone and his sleeves rolled up. His dark hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and there were shadows under his grey eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and internal battles.

He looked vulnerable in a way she'd never seen before—not the controlled, commanding presence she remembered, but a man who had stripped away his armor and was standing naked before the world.

"I know you saw," he said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I saw you at the window."

Elara gripped the doorframe, using it as an anchor against the storm of emotions threatening to pull her under. "What do you want, Damien?"

"To talk. Just... to talk." He glanced at the horizon where the sun was painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. "Please."

Every instinct screamed at her to close the door, to protect the fragile peace she'd built from the chaos he represented. But something in his expression—a raw honesty she'd never seen before—made her step aside and let him in.

Her cottage was small and cozy, filled with the detritus of an artist's life. Canvases leaned against walls, paintbrushes soaked in mason jars, and the air smelled of turpentine and the lavender candles she lit to combat it. It was the antithesis of his sterile penthouse, warm and lived-in and utterly hers.

"It's beautiful," he said, his eyes taking in the space with genuine appreciation. "It's so... you."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "Don't come in here and try to charm me with pretty words. I heard what you said to your mother. I saw you choose your dramatic moment. But grand gestures don't erase the past, Damien."

He nodded slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "You're right. They don't." He looked at her directly, and she saw something in his eyes that made her chest tight. "But maybe they're a start."

"A start to what? Another six months of hiding? Another chance for you to panic when reality intrudes?" She moved to put the kitchen island between them, needing the physical barrier to maintain her composure. "You stood up to your mother today, and that was... significant. But what happens when the board demands explanations? When Victoria's family threatens legal action? When the tabloids start calling me your midlife crisis?"

"Then I'll handle it," he said simply. "All of it."

"Like you handled it before?" The question hung between them like an accusation, and she saw him flinch.

"No," he said quietly. "Not like before. Before, I was a coward who let fear make his choices for him. Before, I cared more about preserving an image than protecting the woman I love."

The woman I love. The words hit her like they had that night at the Met, but this time they felt different—not desperate or manipulative, but weary with honesty.

"You don't get to say that," she whispered, her voice cracking despite her efforts to stay strong. "You don't get to use those words after what you put me through."

"Then let me show you what they mean instead of just saying them."

Elara laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Show me how? By buying buildings next to mine? By renovating the school to impress me? By throwing money at problems until they disappear?" She shook her head, auburn curls catching the light from her kitchen window. "That's not love, Damien. That's... that's wealth as courtship. It's what you've always done—tried to solve problems with your checkbook instead of your heart."

The accusation hit its mark. She watched the color drain from his face, saw the way his shoulders sagged as if she'd physically struck him.

"You're right," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're absolutely right, and I hate that you're right." He moved to her couch and sank down onto it, looking suddenly older than his thirty-two years. "Do you want to know the truth? The real truth?"

Despite every warning bell in her head, Elara found herself nodding.

"I've never had to fight for anything that mattered," he said, staring at his hands. "Not once. Everything in my life was handed to me or arranged for me or purchased for me. When I wanted something, I acquired it. When I had a problem, I threw money at it until it went away." He looked up at her, and the pain in his eyes was so raw it took her breath away. "You were the first thing I ever wanted that I couldn't buy, couldn't inherit, couldn't control. And it terrified me."

"So you chose the easier path," she said, but her voice was gentler now, some of the anger leaking out of it.

"I chose the path that let me keep pretending I was the man my family raised me to be instead of becoming the man you needed me to be." His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "Do you know what the worst part is? I convinced myself it was temporary. That I could have both—you in secret and their approval in public. That I could somehow make everyone happy without actually having to choose."

Elara felt something crack in her chest, a fissure in the careful walls she'd built around her heart. This was what she'd needed to hear three months ago—not his justifications or excuses, but his acknowledgment of exactly how he'd failed her.

"You made me feel like I wasn't enough," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Like I was some shameful secret you had to hide away. Do you have any idea what that does to someone? To love someone completely and know they're ashamed of you?"

"I was never ashamed of you," he said fiercely, rising from the couch. "Never. I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I didn't have the courage to tell the world how extraordinary you are. Ashamed that I let my mother's poison and my father's expectations matter more than your happiness."

"But you did let them matter more." The words came out steadier than she felt. "When it came down to choosing, you chose them. Every time."

"Yes," he said simply. "I did. And I've hated myself for it every day since."

The admission hung between them, stark and painful and somehow cleansing. Elara felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wouldn't cry for him again. She'd cried enough tears for Damien Blackwood to fill an ocean.

"Hating yourself doesn't fix anything," she said. "It doesn't erase the damage or heal the wounds or—"

"I know." He took a step toward her, then stopped when she tensed. "I know it doesn't. But maybe... maybe understanding why I did it, understanding how deeply I've regretted it, maybe that's something."

"Understanding isn't forgiveness."

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he said, and the words surprised her. "I'm asking for a chance to prove that I've learned something. That I can be better than the man who hurt you."

Elara studied his face, searching for signs of the manipulation she'd grown so accustomed to, the careful calculation that had always lurked beneath his passion. But all she saw was exhaustion and honesty and something that looked dangerously like hope.

"Thirty days," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Give me thirty days to show you I'm not the same man who broke your heart. Thirty days to prove that I can choose you over everything else, consistently and publicly and without hesitation."

"Damien—"

"I'm not asking you to love me again," he interrupted, though something in his eyes suggested that was exactly what he was hoping for. "I'm not even asking you to like me. I'm asking for the chance to earn something I should have protected the first time—your trust."

The proposal was absurd. Impossible. A recipe for disaster that would only lead to more heartbreak and disappointment. She should say no, should send him away before he could inflict any more damage on her carefully reconstructed life.

But as she looked at him—really looked at him—she saw something she'd never seen before in all their months together: humility. The arrogant, untouchable billionaire had been replaced by a man who knew he was broken and was willing to admit it.

"What exactly are you proposing?" she heard herself ask, the words escaping before her rational mind could stop them.

"I stay in Seabrook. I prove to you and this town that I'm here for the right reasons, not just passing through on some ego trip. I show you that I can live in your world instead of always expecting you to hide in mine." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "And at the end of thirty days, if you still want me to leave, I'll go. No arguments, no grand gestures, no attempts to change your mind. I'll disappear from your life completely."

It was a devil's bargain, and they both knew it. Thirty days of proximity, of forced interaction, of constant reminders of everything they'd shared and lost. Thirty days of watching him try to prove himself while she fought against the part of her that still loved him despite everything.

But it was also, she realized, exactly what she needed to finally put their relationship to rest. Either he would prove that people could change, that love could overcome fear and selfishness, or he would confirm what she'd always suspected—that Damien Blackwood was incapable of loving anyone more than he loved his own comfort.

Either way, she would have closure.

"Thirty days," she said finally, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. "But I have conditions."

Relief flooded his features, followed immediately by wariness. "Name them."

"You don't try to buy my forgiveness. No more mysterious renovations or anonymous donations or grand gestures designed to impress me. If you're going to prove you've changed, you do it with actions, not your credit card."

"Done."

"You stay out of my personal space unless I invite you in. No showing up at my cottage unannounced, no inserting yourself into my daily routine, no trying to force proximity."

"Agreed."

"And if at any point I decide this is too much, if I tell you to stop, you stop. No arguments, no negotiations, no attempts to convince me otherwise."

"Of course."

Elara took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to do. "And Damien? If you hurt me again, if you prove that this is just another game to you, I won't give you another chance. Ever. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Thank you, Elara. Thank you for—"

"Don't thank me yet," she interrupted. "You haven't earned anything. All you've earned is the opportunity to try."

He nodded, understanding the distinction, and for the first time since he'd appeared in Seabrook, Elara saw something in his expression that gave her hope: respect. Not the patronizing appreciation of a man indulging a woman's whims, but the genuine respect of someone who understood they were being given a gift they didn't deserve.

"Thirty days," she repeated, as much to herself as to him.

"Thirty days," he agreed, and walked toward the door with careful, measured steps.

After he left, Elara sank onto her couch and stared at the easel where her half-finished painting waited. She'd been working on a seascape, trying to capture the wild beauty of a storm rolling in from the Atlantic. Now, looking at the turbulent blues and grays, she realized she'd been painting her own emotional state—the chaos and uncertainty that came with allowing hope to take root in ground that had been salted by betrayal.

Thirty days to discover if Damien Blackwood could become the man she'd needed him to be all along.

Thirty days to find out if she still had the capacity to believe in second chances.

Thirty days to determine whether love really could conquer fear, or if some wounds were simply too deep to heal.

As the last light faded from the sky, Elara picked up her brush and began to paint.