Chapter 9 - THE CARD THAT STARTED EVERYTHING
The black card remained in my wallet.
I hated it there.
Months had passed since Evan's surgery.
The medical bills were resolved through insurance, Damian's legal responsibility as Evan's father, and arrangements our attorneys negotiated.
Not gifts.
Responsibility.
Difference.
One afternoon, I placed the card on Damian's desk.
He stared.
“What is this?”
“Your card.”
“I know.”
“I don't want it.”
His face changed.
“You may need—”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“For five years, that card represented everything wrong with us.”
He went quiet.
“You couldn't say stay.”
“So you gave me money.”
“Yes.”
“You couldn't ask whether I was okay.”
“Yes.”
“You gave me access to everything except you.”
Damian looked down.
“Yes.”
I pulled scissors from my bag.
His eyebrows rose.
“You're not.”
I cut the card in half.
Damian stared.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
“That card is metal.”
The scissors had barely scratched it.
I stared.
Of course.
Billionaire nonsense.
Damian laughed harder.
I threw the scissors down.
“This is humiliating.”
“Wait.”
He opened a drawer.
Produced industrial shears.
I looked at him.
“Why do you have those?”
“Shipping company.”
Together, we cut the card.
Two pieces.
I felt absurdly free.
Damian placed them in the trash.
Then said:
“If Evan needs another surgery—”
“I call you.”
His expression changed.
“If Noah needs something?”
“I call you.”
“Caleb?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
I stopped.
“What about me?”
“If you need something.”
My throat tightened.
“Maybe.”
Damian nodded.
“Maybe is more than I deserve.”
“Don't do that.”
“What?”
“Turn accountability into self-punishment.”
He stared.
“Therapy?”
I smiled.
“My therapist.”
His eyebrows rose.
May you like
“You have one?”
“Apparently you're contagious.”
