89 Chapter 92
89 Chapter 92
Chapter 92 – The Sting of Embarrassment, The Shock of Care
The sickening thud of my head against the corner of the elevator wall made me wince. I’d been so preoccupied with avoiding the main lobby–where I knew Damien might still be watching–that I’d practically dived into the first available elevator and miscalculated the distance.
“Ow!” I hissed, pressing my palm against my temple.
A businessman already in the elevator raised his eyebrows. “You okay there?”
“Fine,” I muttered, face burning. “Just clumsy.”
Perfect. Just perfect. Not only had I fled from Damien’s confession like a startled gazelle, but I’d also managed to injure myself in what was probably the most ungraceful way possible. And knowing my luck, he’d probably witnessed the whole embarrassing spectacle through the building’s glass doors.
The elevator dinged at my floor, and I hurried out, still clutching Damien’s coat and my wounded dignity. My temple throbbed as I fumbled with my office key. Just a bump- nothing serious–but my ego was significantly more damaged than my head.
I pushed open the door, expecting darkness, but the lights in the main workspace were. on. Glancing at my watch–nearly 3 PM–I wondered which of my employees had stayed late.
“Ms. Ashworth, a deep voice called, and I jumped slightly.
Mr. Vance, my recently hired general manager, emerged from his office. Tall, with salt–and–pepper hair and impeccable posture, he had the kind of commanding presence that instantly put clients at ease. He’d been a godsend since joining the company last month.
“Mr. Vance, I didn’t expect anyone to be here still.” I tried to casually drape Damien’s coat over my arm, as though I regularly walked around with men’s designer outerwear.
“Just finalizing the production timeline for the Chen wedding. Their family requested some last–minute alterations.” His observant eyes took in my slightly disheveled appearance but, thankfully, he was too professional to comment. “Your meeting
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wrapped up early?”
I’d completely forgotten I’d told him about my “lunch meeting” this morning. “Yes, it was… productive.”
He nodded approvingly. “I’ve prepared the quarterly projections you requested. They’re on your desk when you’re ready.”
“Thank you. Your dedication is- My phone buzzed in my purse, interrupting me. I glanced at the screen and nearly dropped it.
Damien: Are you alright? I saw you hit your head. Do you need medical attention?
My stomach flipped. So he had seen my graceless entrance. Wonderful.
“Excuse me one moment,” I said to Mr. Vance, who nodded and retreated toward his
office.
I quickly typed: I’m fine. Just a small bump. Please don’t worry.
The response was immediate: Head injuries can be serious. Are you experiencing dizziness? Blurred vision?
Before I could respond, my phone rang. Damien’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hello?” I answered, trying to sound casual as I slipped into my private office.
“Hazel.” His voice was tight with concern. “Head injuries aren’t something to dismiss.
Even minor concussions-
“I’m really fine,” I insisted, my face hot with embarrassment. “It was just a little bump.”
“Is there someone there with you? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
I sighed. “Mr. Vance is here. My general manager. There’s really no need-
“Good. At least you’re not alone.” He paused. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“No!” I blurted, perhaps too forcefully. The thought of him rushing over because of my clumsiness was mortifying. “Damien, please. It’s barely even a bruise. I appreciate your concern, but I promise I’m perfectly fine.”
There was a knock at my office door.
“Come in,” I called.
89 Chapter 92
Mr. Vance poked his head in, his expression concerned. “Ms. Ashworth, I noticed you holding your temple. Are you injured?”
Before I could dismiss his concern, he entered holding an ice pack. “The first aid kit in the break room,” he explained.
Thank you,” I said, taking it from him, acutely aware of Damien still on the phone.
“Is that him?” Damien asked, his voice carrying a strange edge. “Your general manager?”
“Yes,” I replied, pressing the ice pack to my temple. “See? I’m being well taken care of. No need for you to worry.”
Mr. Vance, seeming to realize I was on an important call, mouthed “Let me know if you need anything else” and quietly left the room.
“He seems… attentive,” Damien observed, his tone carefully neutral.
“He’s a professional, I replied, unsure why I felt the need to explain. “And really, I’m fine. I need to review these quarterly projections now.”
“Alright,” Damien finally conceded. “But please call me if you experience any symptoms. -headache, nausea, confusion-”
“I will,” I promised, just wanting to end this mortifying conversation. “Goodbye,
Damien.”
I hung up and dropped my phone onto my desk, covering my face with my hands. The cool press of the ice pack against my temple was soothing, but nothing could ease the sting of embarrassment.
What was it about Damien Sterling that reduced me to a fumbling, flustered mess? I was an accomplished businesswoman. A talented designer. Yet around him, I seemed to revert to some awkward, insecure version of myself.
His confession in the car replayed in my mind: I have feelings for you. Strong feelings.
And then his concern over my ridiculous injury–the way he’d wanted to rush over immediately…
I glanced at the coat I’d draped over my chair. It still carried his scent, that distinctive blend of sandalwood and something uniquely him. The weight of it reminded me of his
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presence–solid, reassuring, but also overwhelming.
I picked up the quarterly projections, trying to focus, but the numbers blurred before my eyes. My phone buzzed again.
Damien: I’m still worried. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Anything at all.
I stared at the message, a strange tightness forming in my chest. When was the last time someone had shown such genuine concern for my wellbeing? Julian had never-
I cut off that thought immediately. Comparing Damien to Julian wasn’t fair to either of them.
But the realization stuck with me. For years, I’d been the caretaker. I’d donated blood for Julian. I’d meticulously planned our life together. I’d been the strong one, the one who handled everything.
And now here was Damien, wanting to rush across town because I’d bumped my head.
The funny thing was, my immediate response had been embarrassment and rejection. As though
could his concern was somehow a criticism of my capability–a suggestion that I
take care of myself.
I lowered the ice pack, my fingers tracing the tender spot on my temple. The injury was minor, but Damien’s reaction had touched something deeper in me. Something raw and unhealed.
The truth hit me with surprising force: I didn’t know how to be cared for.
Somewhere along the way–through my mother’s depression, my father’s neglect, my stepmother’s cruelty, and Julian’s ultimate betrayal–I’d learned that relying on others meant opening myself to pain. I’d built walls disguised as independence. I’d confused self–sufficiency with isolation.
And now Damien Sterling was systematically dismantling those defenses with his steady presence, his unwavering support, and his unnerving ability to see through my carefully constructed façade,
The question was: would I let him?
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