58 Chapter 60
Chapter 60- Guardian’s Worry, An Accuser’s Fury
My phone buzzed with an incoming call as I continued dabbing at the small cut on my arm. Secing Damien’s name, I took a deep breath to steady myself before answering.
“Hi again,” I said, trying to sound casual despite the chaos of the last hour.
“You didn’t answer my question, Hazel. His voice was calm but firm. “Are you injured?”
I glanced down at my arm, where a thin red line showed where the tailoring shears had grazed my skin. It was barely a scratch, but I couldn’t lie to him.
“It’s just a small cut on my forearm,” I admitted. “Honestly, it’s nothing serious
“Send me a picture.” The command in his voice surprised me.
“What? Damien, it’s really just a tiny scratch-”
“Please, Hazel. His tone softened, and something in it made my resolve crumble. “I
need to see it.”
Sighing, I switched to video call and angled my phone to show my arm. The cut was about two inches long but shallow–it had already stopped bleeding.
Damien’s face appeared on my screen, his expression tight with concern. He studied my injury intently, his jawline visibly clenching.
“That bastard,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder: “You should go home and
rest.
“I have work to finish,” I protested. “Really, I’m fine.”
“The work can wait,” he countered. “You’ve had a shock. Go home, Hazel.”
It was strange how his words didn’t feel controlling, only concerned. After years with Julian’s manipulations, I’d grown wary of men telling me what to do, but there was something different in
men’s tone–genuine worry rather than dominance.
“I’ve got a deadline for a client tomorrow,” I explained. “I just need a couple more hours.”
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He seemed to consider this. “Two hours, then you leave. I’ll have Mr. Zhang pick your up at five.”
“Your driver? That’s really not neces-”
“Hazel. Just my name, spoken gently but with undeniable authority. “Please. Let me do
this.”
Those words hung between us. Let me do this. Not as an order but almost like a request as though making sure I got home safely was something he needed for his own peace of mind. It left me wondering what exactly was happening between us. Was this the repayment of a childhood debt? Friendly concern? Or something else entirely?
“Okay,” I agreed quietly. “Thank you.”
His expression softened, relief evident in his features. “I need to handle something urgently, but I’ll check on you later.”
After we hung up, I sat at my workbench, my fingers tracing the blue fabric I’d chosen. for his suit. It was the exact shade of a summer sky, and I’d selected it thinking of how it would complement his eyes. Now I smoothed it with trembling hands, trying to process the intensity of his concern.
At precisely five o’clock, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
“Ms. Ashworth, this is Zhang. I’m waiting outside your building per Mr. Sterling’s
instructions.”
I gathered my things, locked up the studio, and headed downstairs. Outside, a sleek black Bentley idled at the curb. A distinguished older man in a crisp uniform stepped out and opened the rear door for me.
“Thank you, Mr. Zhang,” I said as I slid into the plush leather seat.
“My pleasure, Ms. Ashworth. Mr. Sterling was most insistent about your comfort.”
As we pulled into traffic, I messaged Damien:
“Your driver just picked me up. This really wasn’t necessary, but thank you. The blue fabric for your suit is coming along nicely.”
His reply came almost instantly:
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“It was necessary. Rest well tonight. Looking forward to seeing your work.”
Those simple words shouldn’t have made my heart flutter, but they did. I spent the ride home lost in thoughts of what it meant that Damien Sterling, one of the most powerful men in the country, was concerned about a small cut on my arm.
After dinner, I sent one last message before bed:
“Home safe. Good night, Damien.”
When I woke the next morning and checked my phone, I noticed he had replied:
“Good. Sleep well, Hazel.”
The timestamp caught my eye–3:05 AM. Why was he awake at that hour? The thought of him working through the night made me frown with worry. For someone who took care of everyone else, who took care of Damien?
On my way to the studio, my phone rang. Unknown number. Normally I’d ignore such calls, but after Julian’s surprise visit yesterday, I decided to answer.
“Hello?”
“You manipulative bitch!” A woman’s shrill voice pierced my ear. “How dare you!”
I pulled the phone away slightly, wincing. “Who is this?”
“It’s Giselle Grayson. Julian’s sister. You know damn well who I am.”
Ah. Julian’s older sister. We’d never been close, even during my relationship with
Julian. She’d always treated me with thinly veiled disdain.
“Giselle. What can I help you with?” I kept my voice professionally neutral.
“Don’t play innocent! You stabbed my brother!”
I took a deep breath, watching the streets pass by through the taxi window. “I did not stab your brother. He grabbed me while I was holding tailoring shears, and in the struggle, he got a minor cut. An accident that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t shown up drunk at my workplace.”
“He needed six stitches!” she shrieked.
Six s
stitches? That seemed excessive for the small cut I’d seen, but Julian had always
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been dramatic about injuries.
Im sorry to hear that,” I said calmly. “But again, it was an accident caused by his own behavior
“You’re just furious he chose Ivy over you, aren’t you? First you terrorize their wedding. with those firecrackers, then you seduce some rich man to make Julian jealous, and now you’ve physically attacked him! What kind of monster are you?”
The pure delusion in her accusations would have been laughable if it weren’t so infuriating.
“Giselle, your version of events is so distorted that I won’t dignify it with a detailed response. Your brother made his choices, and I’ve moved on. If he continues to harass me at my workplace, I will file for a restraining order. Is that clear?”
“You think you’re so above it all now that you’re sleeping with Damien Sterling,” she hissed. “But we all know what you really are–a gold–digging nobody from Willow
Creek who-
I ended the call, my hand slightly trembling. The Graysons‘ ability to twist reality was truly remarkable. In their world, I was somehow the villain for being left at the altar.
By the time I reached my studio, three angry voicemails from Giselle had piled up. I deleted them without listening and threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction. The morning passed in a blur of fabric, patterns, and fittings with clients.
Around noon, my phone rang again. My heart skipped when I saw Damien’s name on the screen. Despite the stressful morning, I felt a flutter of nervous joy in my chest as I
reached to answer.
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