25. Damien

I watch her run away from me. My limbs ache, willing me forward but I resist. The hurt in her eyes; the tears that stung those gentle golden irises are because of me. An area where I'd typically feel nothing. Have felt nothing, I feel a dull ache that spreads like wildfire in my chest.

"Fuck me," I grumble, shoving a hand in my pocket while rubbing the back of my neck with the other. No fucking phone. No fucking clue. Yet I know Tatiana is up to something fucking sneaky.

Involving Mila in any of her bullshit would only obliterate any means of resolving these issues. I'm tense as finally stalk back to my car. Mila's long ahead of me when I make the journey. I don't even see her when I get to my car.

I shove down the overwhelming urge to storm into her apartment and ravage her body the way I wanted to at the club. Ruthless. Relentlessly. Until her body pulsates and jerked, exhausted from the pleasure and pain, both physically and emotionally.

With a firm shake, I slide into the drivers side of my car, clutch the steering wheel tightly and let the haunting images of the past horrific twelve hours wreak havoc, momentarily.

I scour through the bullshit images, attempting to come up with something, any real reasoning for this shit. Could it really be as simple as rejection? Does Tatiana want to destroy me because I fucking rejected her? Like we're in high school, and she's a pathetic teenage girl who just can't take no for an answer.

She signed on for this. Fucking agreed to it, and now I'm the jackass for honoring the contract we had in place. I'm shaking my head as I crush the steering wheel in my grasp, knuckles purplish white, losing color and circulation.

Calm down... just fucking breathe.

I steady my breathing, attempt to clear my head, and thankfully, decide on a destination.

***

The white Victorian looks the same as it always does, freshly cut shrubbery, vibrant flows, and thick green leaves line along the walls just beneath the windows. The stone path leads to a set of thick oak double doors that house a large brass knocker.

A maid pulls open the door, brows furrowed with unfamiliarity as she regards me. "Yes?"

I shove my hands in my pocket and curse. "I'm here for Lance Sinclair. I'm his son," I add because I know that annoying look of uncertainty won't leave her face unless I specify. She nods, pulling her lips into a thin smile as she steps back and opens the door.

I step past her into the foyer, eyes sweeping over the statues and artwork. I haven't been to the house in a year, but I still feel the cold, impersonal air settle on my shoulders.

"Is he expecting you?"

I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets. It wasn't like I was expecting to come here, but if one thing was true, my father was one of the top defense attorneys in the area. He'd be able to shed some light on things. Yet, I wanted to avoid his ridicule. Coming here was not the way to do that.

"If you want to wait a moment," she says, gesturing towards the couch. "What would you like to drink?"

"I'm good for right now." I purse my lips, and stride towards the couch, determination furrowing my brow. I'm determined to get through this meeting with minimal arguing. But knowing my father, that'll be close to impossible. Ever since I was younger, I was convinced he enjoyed the disappointment of my failures – especially considering I was never able to make him proud.

To Lance Sinclair, I was in adequate. Despite my accomplishments.

His voice is low, gravely and surprised by my presence.

"Damien?"

I stand, and turn, taking in what can only be considered a gray-haired replica of myself. Our resemblance is uncanny. I always wondered if that's why he was incredibly hard on me, because he saw himself. And in me, he saw some of the same mistakes he'd made when he'd pursued being an attorney.

"Hi Dad." I greet, awkwardly shifting my gaze around the room that looks slightly altered from that of my childhood. "I see you've redecorated." With wide arms, I gesture to the walls around me, and clear my throat.

"What's the reason for your visit?"

Straight to the point. Like a businessman. It's always business with him. Rubbing the back of my neck, my eyes widen on the small cart of liquor and glasses. I move towards it, calling behind me. "Care for a drink?"

My eyes drift to the obscure painting hanging above the fireplace of our family. I was eighteen when they'd repainted the portrait, and my mother had been alive. "Scotch, neat," He replies. I begin making his drink, deciding on matching it with one of my own.

He reaches for the glass as I offer it, eyes narrowing cautiously, as he again prompts me for reasons as to why, after a year. Gently shifting my glass as to stir up the contents, I lick my lips, and bring raise the glass to my mouth before taking a swig.

The scotch slides down my throat easily, but it doesn't take the edge off as I utter my next words.

"I'm being sued."

"By whom?"

"A woman who used to work for me.... We uh," I halt, messing with my tie briefly before I relinquish my transgressions. "We were intimately involved."

The disappointment flashes in his eyes fiercely, lighting up the blue iris. He sets his drink down on the cart, and spins back around to face me with fury.

"Go on," He demands, rolling his hand as if to hurry me along.

"She says I fired her due to wanting an inappropriate relationship. She wants a years' worth of salary, plus emotional damages. Hell, if it was up to her, she'd take my whole fucking company."

"Damien," He admonishes me for my vulgarity with a crude shake of his head. "If I've done any inkling of a good job raising you, you'd keep that from happening."

"That's why I'm here," I admit, downing the rest of my scotch and turning to pour another. "I wanted your representation." Admitting I need my father's help is almost as physically painful as it is emotionally. I taught myself to never need this man. Rely on someone else before coming to him, but I know how good of a lawyer he is.

"I'm retired."

The small tongs I'm holding slip from my hand, clinging against my glass as I whip around, an incredulous look on my face.

"Since when?" I counter, anger knitting my brow. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants, and shrugs.

"Five months ago. You'd know if you visited." Whoa. Never thought my father would make me feel guilty for not visiting. It's not like our visits are ever pleasant. They're cold, frigid, impersonal. Just like my childhood.

"I've been busy," I reply.

"Clearly," He states sarcastically.

"Well, actually I have been. I had to admit Isaac back into rehab." I know one thing, when it comes to the baby of the family, Isaac gets away with murder. Anything he does is a reflection of how my father failed him, and the man continuously spends his time attempting to correct something that had been broken a long time ago.

"He was fucking out of control, came to my house, fought me while he was high. It took everything to get him to go."

Dad nods, with his lips firmed.

"He's your brother. We have to help him."

"He's not going to get better unless he wants to. It's the same thing with him." I make a dismissive wave with my hand. "Nothing's changed." And it hasn't since my mother died when we were teenagers. Isaac took it the hardest. Spiraling completely out of control and he's been on a decline ever since. Granted he was only thirteen. We continue to cut him slack, at least my father does. I haven't since the fifth time he's stolen from me.

"What is this girls real problem?"

"What do you mean?"

"I assume she's not suing you because she truly believes you wrongfully fired her."

He was right about that. This is only a spiteful way for her to get back at me because I don't want to fuck her anymore. Scratching at my facial hair, I sigh.

"Honestly, she's angry because I won't sleep with her anymore."

He scoffs, running a hand down his face. "Try and get her to admit that. Record it if you can. It'll dismiss her case."

"How?"

"I'm assuming you have opportunities to get alone with her. Seeing how that was the problem in the beginning. A confession is not far-fetched."

A confession? Tatiana is a lot of things, but I'm not sure she's dumb enough to fall for that. Besides, I can only imagine the way I'll get her to meet to negotiate, and it entails the club, and a whip in my fucking hand.

Which is not going to happen. Not now, not when I have Mila.

It's not like you have her right now... She seems pretty keen on not wanting anything to do with you. Thanks to Tatiana.

Offering my father my hand, he grips it and shakes it.

"Thank you."

He nods. "I'll send the case over to Jason in the office and I'll have him call you."

Releasing my hand, he steps back. I nod, and we begin walking back towards the front door. This has always been our relationship. A few minutes of serious conversation here and there. No time for anything else.

"Listen, Damien," He begins as I reach for the door handle. "You've always been one for getting what you wanted. You're a good lawyer. Don't let her play you for a fool." A soft chuckle escapes his lips as he pats my shoulder. "The thing we men go through for sex."

A small smile comes to my lips and I utter a goodbye before I stride down the walkway towards my car. At this point, I have to do what I have to do. Even if that means getting Tatiana back in the club long enough to trick her into a confession.

But, fuck – Mila.

A feeling sits deep in my chest, and no matter how much I clear my throat or cough, I can't dispel the crushing pressure. Disappointment? I don't dwell for long. Behind the wheel of my car, with my mind racing, I begin to formulate a plan.