Chapter 184: Too Poor to Be Suspicious
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"I don’t understand why she said those things." I muttered, I did understand. But it still didn’t make sense. She barely knew me, why would she just come to that assumption after like ten fuckass seconds of meeting me.
I mean I’ve spent years of my life, depending on noone but myself. Never asking for help from anyone financially despite being surrounded by rich people, only for one random woman to come in and call me a golddigger.
Like are you fucking with me?!
The words sat heavy in the quiet apartment, the kind of silence that felt almost accusatory. My hands were still faintly trembling from the encounter, and I kept curling and uncurling my fingers against the soft fabric of the couch as if the motion could shake the lingering sting out of my skin.
His jaw tightened, a familiar twitch in the muscle. "...Don’t listen to Dianne."
"Easy for you to say."
"It is."
"You’ve dealt with her your whole life."
"I have."
"I’ve only had about twenty minutes, and somehow she made me question my entire existence."
Damien crossed the room to stand in front of me, close enough that I had to tip my head back slightly to keep looking at him. The faint scent of his cologne—something clean and expensive—drifted toward me, mixing with the residual cold air that had followed him in from outside. "Look at me."
I did.
"My family..." He exhaled quietly, the sound carrying more weight than the words that followed. "...They’re difficult."
"That’s one way to put it."
"They care about appearances."
"I’ve noticed."
"They think everyone wants something."
"Money?"
"Our family name, our connections, our influence."
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, a gentle and absent gesture, the kind of affection that had become as normal as breathing between us. His fingertips lingered for half a second longer than necessary against the shell of my ear, warm and steady. "They’re wrong."
"But that’s how they see people." I said.
"It isn’t how I see you."
I wanted to trust him. I really did. But Dianne’s elegant, cold smile kept replaying in my head, her words echoing: Not from any important family. The memory of her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the side of her bag felt almost louder than the actual conversation had been.
"What if..." The question slipped out before I could catch it, quieter than I intended. "What if they always think that about me?"
"They will."
I blinked. "...Wow."
Definitely wasn’t expecting that...but fair.
Rich people were dumb sometimes.
He sighed, sounding frustrated with himself more than with me. "I didn’t mean—"
"No, I get it." His honesty hurt less than a lie would have, even if it still stung. "They’ll think it."
"But they’ll be wrong."
His hands settled gently on my waist, thumbs tracing absent lines on my shirt. The pressure was light, almost careful, as though he was afraid any firmer touch might startle me away. "And I don’t care."
"You say that now."
"I’ll say it tomorrow."
"And next year?"
"I’ll still say it."
His confidence should’ve comforted me. Instead, it made me wonder how many battles he had resigned himself to fight just to keep saying it, and how exhausting it could be to fight the same war continuously. I could almost picture the long table in some massive dining room, the polished silverware, the polite, cutting remarks disguised as concern.
"...Why didn’t you tell me any of this?"
His gaze drifted toward the window again, as if the answer was easier to share with the glass than with me. Outside, the streetlights cast long, thin shadows across the floorboards. "Because I didn’t want this world affecting you. I thought I could handle it without involving you and your overthinking habits."
I glared at him so hard I was surprised I didn’t shoot lasers from my eyes, "Hey!"
"I mean it. They ruin everything they get involved in." Damien continued, "I didn’t want them ruining this too."
"This?"
His eyes met mine again, steady to the point that it took my breath away. "Us."
My heart, honestly. Just one word from him and it forgot how to function, lost every ounce of grumpy self-preservation I’d cultivated in the last hour. The simple honesty in his voice made something in my chest tighten and then slowly loosen again.
"...You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you"
"I know."
"I was doing such a good job being mad."
A tiny laugh escaped him, quiet and genuine. Mission accomplished. Barely.
Awkward and heavy. It sat between us on the couch, judging silently, like an uninvited roommate who contributed nothing but tension.
I stood by the kitchen counter, pretending to organize the groceries Damien had brought home. We somehow ended up with three cartons of milk, which, statistically speaking, was pretty alarming for two people who only drank milk a couple of times a week. The fluorescent light above the sink hummed faintly, casting a cool glow over the cluttered countertop and the plastic bags still half-unpacked.
"I don’t think we’re starting a dairy farm," I muttered, holding up the third carton and scrutinizing it like it might explode.
Behind me, Damien let out a small huff of laughter, little more than an exhale, but I appreciated it. "I didn’t know I bought three."
"I’ll call the papers." I set the carton down with more seriousness than it warranted, mostly to buy myself a few moments before turning around and facing him. The cool cardboard under my palms felt grounding, something solid to focus on while the earlier conversation still circled in my head.
He didn’t respond.
I glanced back. He stood by the window, hands in pockets, staring outside as if lost in thought, the streetlights illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw but doing nothing to soften whatever was brewing behind his eyes.
His shoulders seemed heavier, like he was carrying an invisible weight that had grown significantly in the last hour. The usual easy set of his posture had been replaced by something tighter, more guarded.
It hurt to see him like this; it didn’t suit him, Damien was supposed to be the unshakeable one, the guy who adjusted collars and won staring contests with doorframes, not the one looking out the window as if the world had become heavier since breakfast.
Damn...what kind of family where we dealing with here?!