Page 58 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“Why is she wearing that?” Isabel demands, her words cutting through the silence.

I freeze in place, heart suddenly thumping in my chest. I stay hidden around the corner, hoping they don’t see me, but I can’t help but strain my ears to listen.

“Your name,” Isabel sneers. “The thong. Why is she wearing that, Damien? You’re not even together, and you’ve made your feelings clear.”

Damien sighs, his voice tight with frustration. “I already told you. She’s?—”

“You’re a liar.” Isabel interrupts, her voice rising in anger. “Don’t lie to me, Damien! I know you’re not with me, not really. But why does she have to wear that—why does she have to be the one you show off like this?”

I take a slow, shaky breath, not knowing what to make of their argument, but before I can pull away, I hear the unmistakable sound of Damien’s voice, sharper and full of frustration.

“Because I don’t care what anyone thinks about her, Isabel!” His voice cracks, raw and full of emotion. “I’m done pretending. I’m not going to keep lying about how I feel.”

Isabel’s gasp is audible, and I can almost picture her wide-eyed expression. There’s a long, painful silence before she speaks again, her voice a mere whisper. “You’re really breaking up with me?”

“Yeah,” Damien says, his words curt and final. “I am.”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and I press myself closer to the wall, not wanting to be seen, not sure if I should move or stay hidden. My heart pounds in my chest as I feel the weight of the tension building between them. I don’t want to eavesdrop on something this personal, but I can’t tear myself away.

Isabel’s voice cracks as she pleads, “Damien, please... don’t do this.”

But Damien doesn’t respond. Instead, there’s a moment of heavy silence before the door to the locker rooms swings open and slams shut with a harsh clang.

I turn around, panic rising in my chest as I realize I’ve been caught. Damien steps out of the locker room, his face a mask of frustration and barely contained anger. His eyes land on me, and for a moment, there’s an uneasy pause between us. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze locks onto mine like a magnet, pulling me in.

“Damien,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice tight, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’ve been playing a game, Willow. Wearing that outfit... letting everyone see you like that. What do you think it means?” His words are sharp, pointed.

“I didn’t—” I begin again, but my voice falters, uncertainty clawing at my insides.

“No.” His voice cracks slightly, the tension in his posture growing. “You don’t get it, Willow. It’s not just the outfit—it’s you. I don’t want to feel like this. But I’m angry. At myself. At you. At everything. I don’t want to be the guy who’s so caught up in this mess that I don’t even know what I feel anymore.”

I open my mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but the words die in my throat when Damien steps toward me, his lips crashing against mine in a kiss that’s fierce and unrelenting.

His hands grip my face, pulling me closer to him, and for a brief moment, all the noise, the confusion, the tension between us disappears. It’s just us—our lips, our breath, the heat between us that I can’t explain. His kiss is full of anger, but there’s something else there too—desperation.

As quickly as it began, the kiss ends. Damien pulls back, his chest heaving with frustration. His eyes are dark with emotion, his face tense. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice barely audible. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

I stand there, breathless, my heart racing, unable to speak for a moment. I’ve never felt something so intense. The kiss, the chaos—it’s all too much to process.

“I need to go,” Damien says abruptly, his voice cold now. “Just... stay away from me, Willow.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway, breathless and lost. My fingers brush against my lips, still tingling from the kiss, and my mind reels.

17

CAST

Sitting in the back of the town car, Willow stares intently at her phone. Her thumb hovers over the redial button as we make our way towards my house several days after the game. Her brows knit together, and she lets out a frustrated sigh as the voicemail recorder picks up for the fifth time.

“Damien’s not answering my calls.” Her voice is small, tinged with worry, as she drops her hand into her lap.

“That’s because he’s pissed, Princess.” Vincent’s tone is casual, though there’s an edge of amusement as he leans back, legs spread wide, his posture a study in careless confidence. His arm stretches out along the back of the seat, fingers brushing against Willow’s shoulder.

She turns her gaze to him, her lips forming a perfect little pout. Before I can say a word, Vincent tugs her wrist, pulling her into his lap. She crawls into his arms with a huff, the picture of reluctant compliance, her bottom lip jutting out in protest.

“Stop pouting, Cariña,” I growl, my voice low, the reprimand laced with affection. Her big, doe-like eyes meet mine, full ofsomething I can’t quite name—innocence, maybe, or trust. Too much trust. My chest tightens at the thought.

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