He drew in a long drag of the cigarette, then exhaled slowly—his breath heavy, his face set like stone. Seven years had passed since he'd last been here. Standing in this place now only reminded him of everything he'd endured, of the harsh truth that had become his life.
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his black boot, grinding it into the pavement. Then he looked up again at the tall building before him. The sign read: 'Medical Centre.'
He hadn't wanted to come. Even after a month out of prison, he wrestled with the decision. But in the end, he came—to see his mother. She was still aware of her surroundings, still fighting cancer with clear eyes. And she knew. She knew he had spent seven years—his youth—behind bars. Even his appearance had changed; he was thinner, his clothes hung awkwardly off his frame.
He was innocent, yet being near her felt wrong. He felt stained. Like he didn't belong in her presence. Like he didn't deserve it. But he had to do this. No matter how much shame clung to him, he was still her son. Her only son. The last living family who hadn't turned his back on her.
Victor had looked after her while he was away. Thanks to him, at least he didn't have to worry constantly about her health.
Te hospital reeked of antiseptic and blood as he went in. The smell of blood hit him like a slap, sudden and sharp, turning his stomach. The farther he walked in, the stronger it got—thick and metallic—dragging up memories he wished he could bury.
He stopped, pressed a hand against the wall. Closed his eyes. Breathed.
This wasn't good. He should turn back, come again another day—when the air wasn't so heavy with blood. But this was a hospital. When would it ever smell any different?
No, he couldn't let it shake him.
The stench wasn't strong enough to break him.
He took a long breath and stepped toward the receptionist. She was young—maybe twenty—with soft brown hair that framed her face. When she smiled, it reached her eyes, lighting them up. But it didn't move him. Not like the face he'd been staring at in photographs.
The first time Victor showed him a picture of Alina Graves, he hadn't meant to stare—but he did. Her eyes held a kind of depth, a silent intensity that made it hard to look away. There was no smile in them. They were still, knowing—eyes that had seen too much and said nothing.
Anger stirred in his chest. He hadn't even met her, yet something about her—her chestnut hair, her pale, unblemished skin, that steady gaze—got under his skin. And he hated it. He hated the way she affected him, the way she lingered in his thoughts.
"Marina Cole," he said, giving the receptionist his mother's name.
She smiled warmly, even though his own expression remained stiff, his eyes unmoved. "Let me check her room number, sir. Please wait a moment," she said, nodding toward the row of seats where others sat in silence.
Damien sat—restless, impatient. His body remained taut, every muscle on edge, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He wondered what the encounter would feel like. What would she say when she finally saw him after all this time?
"Damien Cole?" the receptionist called.
He turned, startled. He hadn't told her his name.
He rose and walked toward her. She met him with that same bright, glowing smile. Then, raising an eyebrow, she gestured toward the TV mounted on the wall. That's when he saw it—the headline, the photo, the name.
Damien Cole: Billionaire and Ex-Convict Released From Prison.
The news anchor's voice carried on, polished and indifferent. He'd seen his face on the screen too many times. Now, it barely registered. It didn't even interest him anymore.
"Room 39," she said, then gave him directions, her smile still perfectly in place.
He thanked her and turned to leave—when her face appeared on the screen.
The face that haunted him. The one that fueled his rage.
The heiress of the Graves Company.
She looked elegant—poised, sharp, untouchable. A woman carved from steel, like nothing in this world could shake her.
Damien's eyes narrowed. 'We shall see,' he muttered. 'Let's see how long you stay strong… after I break you—and everything your father ever built.'
Damien stepped into the room. The lights were dim. His mother lay on the bed, and the space around her was grander than he remembered. A frown pulled at his face. Not only had he been released from prison under strange circumstances, but his mother had been cared for—far better than he had imagined. He wondered if it was the work of the same unknown person that had secured his release… or merely Victor.
His mother stirred, sensing someone near. Her hair had been cut short, a bandage wrapped around her head. She wore a stiff white hospital gown, her lower half tucked beneath a clean white blanket.
When she turned and looked at him, he drew in a sharp breath.
She was fragile—far too thin, as if she might break. Nothing like the last time he saw her.
Still, he remained near the door, hesitant to step closer, as if his presence might stain her, as if she were too pure to touch.
"Damien," she said, her voice soft, disbelieving—like she couldn't trust what she saw.
He looked into her eyes. When his gaze met her warm brown one, something in his hardened heart softened.
"Mother," he whispered.
But she heard him. The quiet room carried his voice to her ears like a melody.
"Oh…" Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Then she did something that caught him off guard—she raised a trembling hand toward him.
"Come here, my son. Come."
His heart skipped, then his feet moved. Slowly at first, but the pull of her voice—of her presence—quickened his steps. The moment he reached her, he fell into her embrace.
And she held him, gently, cradling him as he buried his head against her shoulder.
He let out a sigh and sank into her embrace, into her presence. 'Oh, how he had missed her.' How deeply he had longed to be held like this. For so long, he had forgotten what it meant to feel at home. Even before prison, he'd been consumed by work. As someone new to the business world, he had chained himself to it—so tightly that he'd lost touch with everything else, including her. But after seven years alone with nothing but his thoughts, he knew now—he would never take it for granted again.
"You poor thing," she whispered, crying and sniffing, clutching him as though she could anchor him to the world. "Promise me you'll never stay away that long again."
"I will never leave you, Mother."
If he could cry, he would have. He stood on the edge of it, closer than he had been in years.
He had expected resentment. Judgment. He had feared it. Everyone else he had known had turned their backs—everyone except Victor. He thought she would too.
But this was his mother.
How could he ever have doubted her?
"I wish I could have visited," she said, her voice laced with frustration. "I'm sorry."
"Mother…" He leaned back slightly and gently wiped her tears. "I should be the one apologizing. I made you worry."
"Oh no," she whispered, shaking her head before clasping his hands in hers.
A shudder passed through him.
They had never shared the closest bond—especially after his father died. She had grown distant, unreachable. So he turned to work, buried himself in it. Business became his refuge. But when she was diagnosed with cancer eight years ago—just a year before his arrest—he tried. He stayed. He showed up, even when she pushed him away.
Now, he saw it clearly.
They were just two people, broken in different ways, bad at communicating. But in a world where they only had each other, they couldn't afford to take one another for granted.
"How are you?" he asked, settling into the chair beside her bed.
"I'm better now, now that I've seen you," she said, smiling as she leaned back against the pillows.
Her face softened. Her smile was real. And it moved something in him—to know she wanted him here, that she had waited so long to see him again.
He held her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.
"I'll make sure you leave this place. I'll make sure you recover and get back on your feet," he said.
And they weren't empty promises. He meant every word. He would do everything to save her, to clear his name—and to make sure the Graves fell. All of them.