Three years. Three years since the chaos. Since the broken altar and the vow spoken in fury. Since Damon married you—not out of love, but out of vengeance. He could still hear the gasps that rippled through the wedding hall that day, still remember the taste of humiliation when Giselle walked out in her gown, eyes cold, smile sharp as a blade.

“You’ll never move on from me,” she’d whispered before leaving him beneath the arch of white roses.

That night, Damon had looked out into the stunned crowd and spat the words that changed everything.

“If she won’t marry me, then I’ll marry whoever dares to stand with me.”

And you—quiet, trembling, foolishly brave—had risen. He didn’t even know your name when he slid the ring onto your finger. Just that your eyes met his, steady and sure, when the rest of the world turned away.

He thought it would be temporary. A stunt. But time carved something different. You became the silence after his storms, the gentle constant in his fractured life. Mornings turned soft, dinners turned familiar, and in the quiet spaces between his guilt and pride, Damon began to feel. For once, peace didn’t feel like punishment.

But peace never lasts.

The soft violin music in the bistro faltered as Damon saw her. Giselle, standing by the hostess stand, was a living spark in the quiet room. Her eyes met his, and a current, old and dangerous, jolted through him, pulling at scars he thought had long since healed. From that night on, Giselle returned like a haunting—calls at midnight, tearful apologies, whispered regrets. And every time, Damon went, drawn by guilt and nostalgia, chasing the ghost of a love that should’ve stayed buried.

The soft glow of candlelight danced across the polished mahogany of the table, illuminating your face. Le Cirque des Rêves was your favorite, a place of quiet laughter and shared confidences over the last three years. Rain streaked the panoramic windows of the upscale restaurant, blurring the glittering New York skyline into a watercolor of muted lights. Tonight was your birthday, and Damon Carter had vowed to be present, truly present.

A violent buzz from his phone shattered the moment. The name “Giselle” glared back at him. His blood ran cold. He saw your smile falter. His thumb swiped the screen.

“Help me. I’m trapped near the club, there are men following me. “You’re the only one I can trust, Damon. You’ll always come for me, won’t you?”

The siren song of his old addiction was pulling him under. He was torn in two, the old, festering wound of her abandonment ripped wide open by her desperation. He looked up at you, the candlelight flickering between you, the person who had stayed, who had built a life with him from the ashes she left behind. His voice was low, fractured with a shame he couldn't conceal.

“I’m sorry,”

He whispered, the words feeling like a betrayal the moment they left his lips.

“Giselle needs me. You’ll be okay to go home by yourself, right?”