Evelyn nods. “Those three were tight even after Richter’s death. Ultimately, Damien’s star rose, and that pulled him away even as Sofia’s issues came to the surface. She ended up getting help at the first of many residential facilities. As for Alaine, his parents decided to enroll him in boarding school before college. But until then, those three were thick as thieves.”
“But why was Sofia even there? Her father was dead. There was a new coach. Why was she still entwined in the tennis life at all?”
“Ah,” Evelyn says, her tone making clear she understands my confusion. “Sofia had no other family, so Alaine’s parents petitioned to be her guardian.”
“Oh,” I say. “Could one of them be behind—”
“I’m sorry to say they’re both dead. Killed in a car wreck many years ago. But I was quite close with both of them. If they were aware of the abuse, I think they would have started counseling for Sofia much earlier.”
I sigh, hating that there are no easy answers or obvious suspects. Hell, hating the whole thing. And most of all, hating the fact that Evelyn has been drawn into it as well, and on this of all days.
“I hate it, too,” she says when I say as much. “But tonight, I’ll be married to the man I love, just like you. So you go on now, Texas. We both know that yours needs you.”
She’s right, of course. And though Damien said he was going to go see to Frank, I’m confident that wasn’t his actual destination. So I kiss Evelyn on the cheek, then hurry downstairs, certain that I know exactly where he’ll be.
3
Pow! Blam, pow! Damien’s fists landed hard on the bag, one jab, then another and another. His shoulders and upper arms burned from the force of his punches, his knuckles raw and battered. He should have worn gloves or taped his hands. Damien knew that.
But he’d wear his Brioni suit like armor when he walked Evelyn down the aisle, so maybe no one would notice. He’d be Damien Stark, a man who exuded power. Who faced adversity head-on. And who was about to formally welcome a woman he’d known since childhood into his family.
Yeah. He could hide the pain, the frustration, the goddamn demons. Not a soul in those crisp white chairs would see through his disguise.
Except for Nikki.
She saw him clearer than anyone. She’d see. She’d know.
He hit the bag harder. A quick one-two punch. Was that why he was doing it? So she would see his pain? So that she’d pull him close and insist on holding him even though he’d pushed her away. Because, dammit, he needed her.
He always needed her.
But not like this, he thought as he brutalized the bag, his breath coming hard as his heart rate increased. Not tumbled sideways into memories he’d believed were finally—finally—buried. Memories that used to fill him with hate and regret. The same damn memories that once made him tighten his grip on his world, molding it to his own making in business, but leaving him cold and alone, even when he was surrounded by people who admired him. Who professed to love him, to want him.
Memories that had made him doubt if he’d ever truly love or be loved. Ever have a real family or a life punctuated by joy rather than pain and fear and self-recrimination and the constant struggle to hold tighter and do more just to prove that he could. Because if he couldn’t—if that control slipped through his fingers—then he was nothing more than that scared, broken, manipulated boy he’d tried so hard to leave behind.
He’d put on a good show, that was for damn sure. But he’d never truly believed he could be anything else. Not really. Not until Nikki.
She was his heart, his soul, his love. And together they’d managed to build the life he’d always craved but never quite imagined. They’d fought for this life, this home, their children. And yet over and over, the horrors of the past had encroached. And despite all his control, all his billions, he couldn’t keep the goddamn gates closed.
Blam, pow!
Another jab, followed by a left hook as he danced around the bag, his bare chest now beaded with sweat. His suit was hanging neatly over the pommel horse. The benefit of having a full gym on the far north side of the house. He was stripped down to boxer briefs and sweating as much as he ever had after a match at Wimbledon. He wanted the ache. Wanted to push himself.
Himself? Hell, he wanted to push the images out of his head. The ones in that goddamn text, and the ones that lived in his memory.
With a gasp, he landed two more punches, then danced back, breathing hard.
“Sofia,” he whispered. “God knows I loved you, but will you ever stop haunting me?”
The words were choked out with a sob, and he hunched over, his hands going to his knees as he sucked in oxygen.
He was a fool. A goddamn idiot. Because he’d truly thought he was past all this. That his decision so many years ago to release the original photos himself and suffer whatever the press threw at him would be the end of it. And for a while, it was. For years, the vultures had backed off the subject. They’d respected his privacy, more or less. They’d celebrated the adoption and birth of his children. They’d sympathized when Anne was kidnapped, and rejoiced when Nikki’s pregnancy with Bradley was announced. The gossip hounds, it seemed, had been tamed.
Except how can you truly tame a wild beast? They fed on scandal and gossip, and while the text Charles had sent Damien as he’d reached the gym confirmed that his attorneys were already on the ball, he also knew that Charles and his team weren’t infallible.
Not that it mattered. It wasn’t the possibility that the video would go public that was eating at him. Not really. Just as it wasn’t the fact that he hadn’t known the video still existed. It hadn’t surfaced, and so he’d foolishly let himself believe it was gone. That Richter had erased it or destroyed it. And that, finally, Damien could close that chapter of his life and start a new one with Nikki.
Now, somebody had yanked that door wide open again.
He landed another five punches in quick succession, then stood up straight, realizing he wasn’t alone. He closed his eyes, his body already burning with awareness of her. “I didn’t want you to follow me here,” he whispered, not sure if he was speaking the truth or a lie.
“The hell you didn’t.” Her voice was soft but strong, and her tone was level, without the slightest hint of recrimination. “You need me, Damien. And you’re a fool if you think I don’t need you, too.”
He drew in a breath, trying to quell the fury that had been fueling him. “I always need you.” The words couldn’t be more true if he tried. He turned to face her, then wished he hadn’t when he saw both the love and the worry in her eyes. “But not like this, Nikki,” he said. “Not right now. Not in the middle of a goddamn celebration.”
“Bullshit. Seriously, Damien, for a man who is so smart, how can you not get it through your head that I understand you. I know you. And you know me. Do you think this is easy on me? No—,” she said, holding up a hand as he started to speak. “I don’t mean that it was hard to see the video. Of course it was, but not because it changes what you are to me. It was hard because the people in that video were children. Because you were one of those kids. And because Richter was a vile and disgusting human and you were at his mercy. That gets inside me, Damien. It makes me feel angry and helpless, and—”