Page 30 of The Founder's Power

“You want me back?” I ask. “Then prove it. Show me you can be the man you say you’re trying to be. Not just with words. With actions.”

He’s quiet, but I’m not surprised. This isn’t just a test for him. It’s surrender. For a man like Damian Kincaid who’s lived his whole life holding the reins, controlling the board, and guarding every inch of weakness, love is the one thing he can’t manipulate into submission.

“You want control?” I say, voice softening. “Then control how you show up. Control how you put in the effort. Control how you face the fear of letting someone all the way in.”

His jaw ticks. His hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from running… or breaking.

I step closer. “You said I mattered too much,” I whisper. “Then act like it. Don’t give me grand speeches. Don’t promise to change. Be different.”

I don’t say “or I’ll leave,” but he already knows that.

He’s standing on the edge now, and I can see the war behind his eyes. Part of him wants to keep everything locked down, and the other part aches to let go, to be free.

I watch, and I wait. If he can’t choose me with both hands open, then I won’t let him hold me at all.

CHAPTER16

DAMIAN

We don’t call it a reconciliation.

We don’t label it anything.

It starts with a walk through the sculpture garden on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s quiet, casual, and safe.

We sit on a bench, takeaway coffee warming our hands. The late afternoon light filters through the canopy above us, throwing gold over everything and making the cracks in the stone pathway look intentional.

“That one always reminds me of grief,” she says, nodding to a rusted abstract figure wrapped in twisting iron bands. “The way it curls in on itself.”

I glance over. “I thought it looked like someone being pulled in every direction.”

“Same thing, maybe.”

I offer her a smile. “Your interpretation’s better.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t disagree.

We fall into silence. It’s not quite comfortable, but it’s not tense either. More cautious, I would say.

I take a sip of coffee. “You mentioned you’re prepping a new exhibit?”

She nods, curls brushing her cheek. “Yeah. I’m curating a mixed-medium show. Tactile art. Things meant to be touched. It’s a nightmare for most collectors, but I love the idea of making people interact with art instead of just observing it from a distance.” She pauses before adding almost too quietly, “I think I used to be like that. Easier to admire from a distance.”

My chest tightens. “I never wanted distance.”

She doesn’t respond, but her fingers tighten around her cup.

I let it go. Not because I don’t want to say more but because I’ve learned that silence, when chosen, can be a gift.

“What about the weather?” I ask after a beat, lightening my tone. “Still your favorite thing to paint when you’re blocked?”

She laughs under her breath. “You remember that?”

“Rainstorms and dusk skies. You said clouds were the one thing that never judged you back.”

Warmth shines in her eyes. “Still true,” she says, “though now I like thunderstorms better. There’s something honest about the chaos.”

I nod slowly. “There is.”

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