Chapter 4: Damien Cross
Damien stood there, unmoved.
Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and made a call—calm, precise, without ever taking his eyes off Zara.
She was still slumped against the now-tainted luxury car, mumbling incoherent words through half-sober lips. He couldn't make out what she was saying. More importantly—he didn't care.
A few minutes later, a sleek white SUV pulled up to the curb.
The door opened and out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in white joggers and a fitted tee. His presence was sharp—like someone who didn't speak unless it was necessary.
"Sir, the car is here," he said, nodding toward the SUV.
Damien didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on Zara for one last moment—messy, disoriented, completely unaware of just how bad this looked.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
"Take care of that," Damien said coolly, pointing toward the vomit-stained car… and Zara.
"Yes, sir," the man replied.
Damien opened the passenger-side door and slid in effortlessly.
Before the SUV pulled off, he glanced at Zara one last time—expression unreadable, eyes dark with something that looked like… disappointment. Or maybe it was just indifference.
Then he pressed the window button.
The tinted glass slid up slowly—cutting off the view, the noise, and the girl who had just made an unforgettable first impression.
---
Jessica's POV
Before all hell broke loose outside, Jessica had been minding her businessstumbling into the ladies' bathroom with the grace of a drunken diva.
She'd barely finished fixing her lipstick when, on her way out, a figure blocked the narrow corridor. A guy—tall, smirking, reeking of cheap cologne and overconfidence.
"Hey shawty," he said, licking his lips like he was auditioning for a rap video from 2006.
Jessica raised a brow. "What the hell are you doing standing in front of the ladies' room?"
He leaned closer, swagger in full force. "Saw a sexy shawty go in there… figured I'd wait to say hi."
She snorted, staggering slightly in her heels. "Yeah, well, this shawty has a drunk best friend waiting outside, so kindly move your crusty ass out of my way."
She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm.
"Hold up, don't be like that," he said, grin widening. "I could help you get your friend. Then maybe we all head back somewhere… private. Just the three of us."
His hand started trailing somewhere it shouldn't.
Jessica didn't hesitate.
Wham.
She kneed him clean in the groin.
The man crumpled like a dropped napkin. "Aghh—bitch!"
Jessica didn't wait around. She darted off, heels clicking furiously, muttering under her breath.
"Creep. Disgusting waste of cologne."
As she returned to where she'd left Zara, her heart dropped.
The seat was empty.
"Dammit, Zara!" she hissed, looking around. "I told you not to move your ass from this spot!"
She searched the dance floor, scanned every booth, peeked into all the bathrooms again. Nothing.
"I swear I'm gonna kick her pretty little ass when I find her."
Her gut told her to check outside.
"But what could she possibly be doing out there?" she muttered, pushing open the lounge doors.
Then she froze.
There was Zara, slumped against the hood of a sleek black BMW, her curls a mess, dress wrinkled, vomit splattered on the car's pristine paint like a crime scene.
Jessica's jaw dropped. "Girl! What the actual hell are you doing?!"
Zara mumbled something incoherent, eyes half-closed. "Ughh... I'm sooo tireddd. I wanna go home."
Jessica hurried over and hooked an arm around her. "Yes, you're going home, right the hell now."
She glanced at the BMW and winced. "Damn. You did not just ruin this gorgeous ass car. This thing looks like it belongs to a billionaire villain."
Zara groaned and leaned into her, totally checked out.
Jessica shook her head, pulling out her phone. "You're lucky I love you, you drunk goddess."
She called an Uber.
"Tonight is cursed," she muttered, helping Zara into the back seat. "I swear if I have to carry your drunk ass up the stairs again, I'm charging interest."
Zara mumbled, "Homeeee..."
Jessica climbed in beside her, gave the driver the address, and leaned back in her seat.
"Damn," she whispered as the car pulled away from the lounge. "What a f*cking night."
Damien's Residence
The white SUV glided into the private estate's gated entrance, its wheels crunching softly against the smooth, stone-paved driveway.
Inside, Damien ended a call with his grandfather.
"Yes, sir. Noted," he said curtly, his tone flat—emotionless, as always.
He stepped out of the SUV, his Italian leather shoes landing with quiet precision.
The estate sprawled in elegant silence, nestled deep within a high-security neighborhood where no outsider could gain access without explicit approval from a family member. Every inch screamed wealth—quiet, generational, and untouchable.
The mansion was a marvel of architectural excess: white limestone walls, tall arched windows, marble pillars, and a grand double-door entrance that opened into a foyer bathed in golden light.
Inside, a giant chandelier—a custom Murano glass masterpiece imported from Venice—hung from the cathedral ceiling, glittering like a constellation. Polished floors reflected everything like a mirror. A soft classical piano played faintly from invisible speakers.
"Ouu, my son is back!" his mother, Sofia Cross, beamed as she came hurrying down the marble staircase, arms open wide.
Damien offered a faint nod. "Hi, Mum."
He didn't slow down, didn't smile.
Sofia paused mid-step. She was used to this. The coldness. The unreadable face. She couldn't tell whether her son was happy, angry, exhausted or all three.
"How are you doing, darling? How's work going?" she asked hopefully, walking beside him.
"Oh Mum, at least let him sit down first. He looks exhausted," said Tiara, Damien's younger sister, sprawled on the velvet couch with a bag of sea salt chips, phone in one hand, eyes rolling.
Sofia let out a soft laugh, flustered. "Yes, yes—silly me. You must be tired, Damien. Go freshen up and join us for dinner, hmm?"
There was a soft flicker of hope in her voice. She couldn't remember the last time Damien sat at the family table. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner—it didn't matter. He was always working, always distant.
Damien paused at the bottom of the stairs, eyes cold as ever.
"I've got work to do. I won't be eating tonight," he said flatly, then ascended the stairs without sparing Tiara a glance.
"Ugh, this brother of mine," Tiara sighed, tossing a chip into her mouth. "He's got all the money, all the looks, and none of the warmth."
Sofia offered a tight smile, her gaze still on the stairs. "He's just tired, sweetheart. He'll come around later."
Tiara scoffed under her breath. "Yeah, sure. There's always an excuse for his frosty attitude."
Upstairs, Damien disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, his mind already far away—on deadlines, contracts, and, for some reason… a brown-skinned girl who'd called him "fine shyt" while vomiting on his car.
Just as the house was starting to quiet down, the front door flew open.
"What's up, family!"
Leo Cross stumbled in, half-drunk and grinning, flanked by two curvy Latina girls in bodycon dresses and six-inch heels. Their perfume filled the air like smoke—sweet, bold, and utterly out of place.
Leo—second son of the Cross family, the infamous rebel.
He lived for chaos: street racing, beach parties, late-night benders, and any high that distracted him from the suffocating expectations of the Cross name. Ever since they were boys, Leo had hated how Damien was treated like royalty—praised for his intelligence, his discipline, his perfection.
Leo was the opposite.
Slow, wild, impulsive—and constantly reminded of it. Especially by their father, Raymond Cross, who never once looked at Leo with pride. So, Leo stopped trying.
He became everything his family despised.
"Oh no," Tiara muttered from the couch, popping another chip into her mouth. "Here comes the rebel."
"Leonard!" Sofia gasped, springing to her feet. "What the hell is this?! What is wrong with you?!"
Leo threw his arms open like a magician mid-performance. "Oh mother, don't be dramatic. I brought you presents!"
He gestured flamboyantly toward the two girls, who both giggled and waved.
Sofia's face twisted in disgust. "My God, I've had enough of this rubbish!"
Leo just laughed—a low, wicked sound. "Lighten up, Ma. We're gonna have so much fun tonight."
Tiara groaned dramatically. "Ugh. I've got a cold, arrogant, emotionally stunted brother" she motioned upstairs
"and now a drunk, stupid, disgusting, wayward one. Life really said diversity, huh?"
Suddenly, a cold, razor-sharp voice sliced through the tension.
"What's going on here?"
Everyone turned.
At the top of the grand staircase stood Damien.
One hand tucked into his pocket.
He had changed into a white fitted
T-shirt and grey joggers, his hair still a little messy.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes locked directly on Leo.
Leo smirked, but there was a flicker of tension in his posture. The air between the two brothers tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Because Damien wasn't their father.
But he had that same way of making Leo feel small without saying a word.