Damien
The past week has been hell. Absolute fucking hell.
She hasn't called. She hasn't texted. Not a single word. And it's eating at me, gnawing away at whatever control I've managed to cling to.
Every day has been a slow crawl through obligations I couldn't care less about, my mind elsewhere—always on her. I've gone through the motions, kept my mask in place, but it's all an act.
To everyone else, I'm still Damien Frost, the unshakable force. But behind closed doors, I've been spiraling. Drinking too much. Sleeping too little. Nights are the worst.
When the world goes quiet and the distractions fade, her absence echoes through the penthouse like a scream. Then I wake up with the bitter taste of regret and bourbon on my tongue and repeat it all again.
I thought I could handle it. I told myself I could give her space, let her work through whatever she needed to. But it's eating me alive.
