Chapter 4 - The Mask of Complicity
“Good morning,” Damian said, his voice flat and even.
Brenda gasped, nearly dropping her gold-rimmed cup, while Gertrude immediately adjusted her posture, smoothing her cashmere sweater.
“Damian! Darling!” Gertrude beamed, rising to kiss his cheek. “You’re up so early! We thought you had an eight o’clock board meeting downtown.”
“Canceled,” Damian replied simply, letting his eyes sweep across the kitchen.
Fiona was standing by the oversized refrigerator, holding a glass carton of orange juice. Her hair was pulled back in a simple clip, her face pale, dark circles bruising the delicate skin under her eyes. She wore a washed-out cotton blouse—the same one she had owned before his first company went public. When their eyes met, she offered a hesitant, tired smile, one that looked bracing for criticism.
It shattered Damian’s heart to realize she was afraid of him.
“Fiona,” Brenda snapped, waving a hand dismissively. “Pour Damian his coffee before it gets cold. Honestly, do you ever anticipate anyone’s needs?”
Damian watched Fiona quietly set down the juice, reach for a mug, and step toward the espresso machine without a word of protest. She didn't fight back because she had been conditioned to believe that keeping the peace protected Damian’s focus.
“Stop,” Damian said softly.
Fiona paused, her shoulders tensing.
Brenda smirked, leaning back. “See? Even Damian is tired of your sluggishness.”
Damian walked past his sister, straight to Fiona. He reached out and gently took the porcelain mug from her trembling fingers. He set it on the counter, then took her cold hands in his own.
“You haven’t eaten,” Damian said, ignoring Brenda and Gertrude entirely.
Fiona blinked, startled by his touch. “I’m fine, Damian. I had some tea earlier—”
“Elena,” Damian called out, his voice cutting through the silence of the massive kitchen.
The cook hurried out of the walk-in pantry, wiping her hands on an apron. “Yes, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Prepare a full breakfast for two on the terrace. Eggs, sourdough, fresh fruit. Fiona and I are eating together.”
Brenda’s smile vanished. “Damian, don't be ridiculous. Julianna will be here in an hour, and Fiona needs to finish the guest prep—”
Damian turned slowly, fixing his sister with a stare so icy that Brenda’s voice died in her throat. “Fiona does not prep rooms. She is the mistress of this house. If this estate needs cleaning, call a service. If you need your clothes steamed, Brenda, hire an assistant with your own salary.”
Gertrude’s eyes narrowed. “Damian, there is no need to speak to your sister like that. We are only trying to maintain standards—”
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“We are going to talk about standards very soon, Mother,” Damian said quietly. “Believe me.”
***
