Chapter 237 Damian had replied to her message!
Author’s POV
The night everything changed, Vanessa hadn’t even been there.
She’d heard about it secondhand, in fragments that grew more horrifying with each retelling. A business reception. Some minor executive who’d had too much to drink and leaned in too close, whispering something in Damian’s ear.
And then Damian—composed, controlled, untouchable Damian—had simply snapped.
By the time three grown wolves managed to drag him off, the man was on the floor in a spreading pool of red, his throat torn open.
Vanessa had gone to the hospital to see the victim herself. She’d stood at the foot of his bed and stared at the bandages wrapping his ruined neck, at the tube he now breathed through. The doctors had removed what was left of his vocal cords. He would never speak again. Never breathe on his own again.
She remembered standing there, cold all the way through.
Because the Damian she knew was the most emotionally stable person in any room. Decisive, yes. Cold, certainly. But never impulsive. Never out of control. This wasn’t him.
Except—it was. She’d just spent years choosing to forget.
The trauma from his childhood. She could still hear the old doctor’s warning, delivered in a hushed voice outside a hospital room years ago: wounds like this don’t simply heal. Without proper care, they fester. They can grow into something darker.
So she’d lied to him—gently, lovingly—and walked him into a psychiatric evaluation dressed up as routine engagement paperwork.
The results had been worse than she feared. Severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
Under emotional collapse, a brief but total loss of control. High risk of catastrophic violence. Prognosis: unlikely to ever fully heal.
Marrying Damian meant accepting that risk. Living beside it. Sleeping beside it. Forever.
Vanessa had read that report three times, then packed her bags. Two weeks before the engagement, she sent him a single message—I’m sorry, Damian. I can’t marry you—and boarded a plane.
She’d told herself it was self-preservation. Anyone would have done the same.
But she’d never stopped having him watched.
All these years abroad, she’d kept people quietly reporting on him.
And every report said the same thing: no women. Not one. Damian Blackwood remained alone, exactly as she’d left him.
He’s waiting, she’d let herself believe. He’s still waiting for me.
Until she couldn’t wait any longer.
She’d barely landed back in the country when the charity gala invitation arrived—and Damian appeared.
Her heart had soared at the sight of him across that glittering ballroom. He’d come. He’d come for her.
Then the crowd shifted, and she saw the woman on his arm.
Aria. Walking beside him like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there.
Something ugly had risen in Vanessa’s chest that night—ugly enough that she’d arranged that little "accident" to humiliate the woman in front of everyone. A petty, useless gesture. It hadn’t even worked.
And from that day on, all she’d been allowed of Damian was his back. Always turning away, always walking beside someone else. The man she’d once known better than anyone had become a stranger with a familiar face.
A soft vibration broke through the memory.
Vanessa’s grip on her phone loosened, then tightened again. The despair in her eyes flickered—then lit up like a struck match.
...Damian had replied to her message!
---
Aria’s POV
That evening, I arrived early at the private dining room Uncle Victor had reserved.
Before leaving the house, I’d made sure to tell Damian about tonight’s dinner. He hadn’t said much—just given me one of those long, unreadable looks that made my stomach flip. I could see it clearly in those gray eyes: he wasn’t happy about me going out when we could have been having dinner together.
I’d sent Damian a message on the way over, keeping him updated on where I was. But he still hadn’t replied. While waiting for Uncle Victor to arrive, I tried calling him.
It took several rings before he finally picked up.
"What were you doing? You didn’t even answer my text," I said softly, unable to keep the slight pout out of my voice.
Damian’s low chuckle came through the phone, warm and intimate. "Just changing the bandages."
My breath caught. "How are you feeling today? Does anything still hurt?"
I found myself unconsciously lowering my voice, as if speaking too loudly might somehow cause him pain even through the phone.
"It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m fine," Damian assured me, though his voice was still slightly rough. Then he paused. "What time will you be done? Can I come pick you up?"
"Absolutely not," I said immediately. "You stay right where you are and rest, do you hear me? I’ll finish up quickly and come straight back."
I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again—like he’d only suggested it to hear me worry about him.
"Alright," he agreed easily. "I’ll wait for you."
Just then, I heard footsteps in the background on his end. I was about to ask if he was at home when Uncle Victor pushed open the door to the private room.
Seeing he’d arrived, I had no choice but to end the call quickly.
It was probably just Rick or the doctor still there, I reasoned. Damian had promised to stay put, and he wouldn’t break his word.
---
This dinner was Uncle Victor’s way of laying everything out in the open between us.
"Uncle Victor," I said once he’d finished explaining. "I understand your position. Everyone faces impossible choices sometimes.
When I first came back to the Smith family, you were the first person to reach out and help me. No matter where our interests align in the future, I still want you to be my uncle. I hope you can still think of me as family."
I meant every word.
I genuinely wanted to maintain a good relationship with Victor, but I wasn’t going to force him to always take my side against his sister-in-law and nephew.
By not making this a binary choice—either ally or enemy—I’d effectively removed any grounds for future conflict between us.
Whether I trusted him completely or not had become irrelevant. Our relationship had already surpassed what Sylvia could achieve.
Uncle Victor looked visibly satisfied with my response. He poured himself three glasses of wine in succession as a gesture of apology, and I could see genuine relief settle over his features.