Chapter 313: Rich People Have Problems Too, I Guess

"Terrifying?"

"That’s the impression you give people, I guess."

"I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be frightening."

"You’re the CEO of Lockwood Group. You wear expensive suits, you rarely smile in public, and I’m fairly certain your employees are afraid to breathe too loudly when you’re around."

"That’s an exaggeration."

"Is it?"

He considered the question before answering. "I expect people to do their jobs properly. I don’t think that’s unreasonable."

"I’m sure that’s exactly what every terrifying executive says."

"Oliver."

"I’m listening."

"It’s demanding," he admitted. "More demanding than I expected it to be, even after everything I went through to take control of the company. There are meetings that could have been emails, emails that could have been ignored, and people who seem to believe that every decision requires an emergency conference."

"That sounds awful."

"Some days are worse than others." He turned his glass slowly between his hands. "There’s a constant expectation that I should be available, that I should have an answer for every problem, and that I should always know what comes next. Even when I’m not at the office, there’s usually something waiting for me."

"Do you ever take a day off?"

"Occasionally."

"Damien, that’s not what I asked."

His mouth twitched. "I take days off when I need to."

"Which is apparently never."

"I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

He looked at me for a moment, then glanced towards the dark kitchen window. Beyond it, the town was quiet, with only a few distant lights visible between the houses. "It’s different here," he said.

I followed his gaze. "Crestview Bay?"

"Yes. The pace of everything is slower...people don’t seem to be in such a hurry to get somewhere, and the streets are quiet enough that you can actually hear yourself think."

"That’s because the most exciting thing that happens here on a weekday is someone discovering that the grocery store has run out of bread."

"I noticed."

"Or our neighbor Mrs. Peterson arguing with the delivery driver because he keeps leaving her packages at the wrong house."

Damien smiled, but his expression soon became more reflective. "I think I could get used to living somewhere like this."

I looked at him. "Really?"

"Really."

"You? The man who probably has an assistant to remind him to drink water?"

He shook his head, but he didn’t argue. "I mean it, Oliver. If I had a real choice, I think I would have preferred a quieter life. Somewhere like this, perhaps, or a home on my island where I could wake up without having to think about the company before I even got out of bed."

I tried to imagine Damien living in a small coastal town, far away from the towering buildings, endless meetings, and expensive cars that had surrounded him for most of his life.

The picture was oddly easy to imagine, although I suspected he would still find a way to make even a peaceful island look like a corporate headquarters if he had the opportunity.

"You’d get bored," I said.

"Possibly."

"You’d complain about the lack of things to do."

"I don’t think I would."

His smile lingered, but there was a quiet honesty in his eyes that made my teasing fade.

"I don’t need a large house or a city full of people who know my name," he said. "I’ve spent most of my life being told what I should want, what I should achieve, and what kind of person I should become. There were times when I couldn’t tell whether I was making a decision because I wanted to or because it was what everyone expected of me."

I looked down at my glass, turning it slightly against the counter. I knew what he meant, although our circumstances had been very different.

Damien had been raised to inherit a powerful company, while I had spent most of my life trying to make sure that I could afford the next month’s rent and my father’s treatment. Still, there was something painfully familiar about living under expectations that left very little room for what you actually wanted.

"Do you hate it?" I asked quietly.

His eyes returned to mine. "Hate what?"

"The life you were pushed back into. Being the heir, taking over the company, all of it." I hesitated, trying to find the right words without making the question sound like an accusation. "I know I encouraged you to go back to your family, sometimes I wonder whether I was just sending you back into something that made you miserable."

Damien’s expression softened, and he placed his glass on the counter before moving a little closer. "Oliver, look at me."

I raised my eyes.

"I don’t hate it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." His voice remained calm, but there was a firmness beneath it that made me listen. "There are things about the position I dislike, and there are responsibilities I would gladly give up if I could, but I don’t hate what I’ve done with it. The company gives me resources and influence that I wouldn’t otherwise have, and I’ve been able to use some of that to help people."

I remembered the articles I had read about Lockwood Group over the years, the announcements about hospital funding, medical research grants, and donations to organizations that supported families dealing with serious illnesses.

Damien’s name had appeared in several of them, usually accompanied by photographs of him standing beside hospital administrators or officials at charity events. I had never known how much of the work had been his own initiative, but I remembered feeling a strange mixture of pride and sadness whenever I saw those stories.

"I read about some of those donations," I admitted. "The hospital projects and the research funding. There was an article about a medical research center that received a huge grant from Lockwood Group last year."

"That was one of the projects I wanted to support."

"I remember thinking you were doing something good."

His gaze stayed on mine. "I wanted to. There are people who need those resources, Oliver. Hospitals that are struggling to provide equipment, researchers who have important work but no funding, families who can’t afford treatment. I can’t solve every problem, but I can make some things easier for people who are dealing with circumstances they never asked for." He paused, his fingers resting loosely against the edge of the counter. "If I have the ability to help, I don’t see a reason to waste it."

I nodded slowly, feeling the tightness in my chest ease a little. "That’s good, Damien. Really."

"I don’t want you to think that everything I’ve done was a mistake just because it wasn’t the life I would have chosen for myself."

"I don’t think that."

"You sounded as though you blamed yourself."

I looked away, suddenly finding the faint marks on the countertop far more interesting than his face. "I suppose I did, a little."

He reached for my hand before I could retreat further into my thoughts, his fingers slipping gently around mine. His touch was warm, and his thumb moved slowly across my knuckles in a familiar gesture that brought back memories I had spent years trying not to revisit.

"You didn’t make those decisions for me," he said. "I made them myself."

"I know, but—"

"Oliver." His thumb brushed over my hand again. "You encouraged me to return because you believed it was what I needed to do. You weren’t trying to hurt me, and you weren’t responsible for what my parents chose to do afterward."

I swallowed, struggling to find an answer that didn’t sound like another attempt to argue with him. "I just wish things had turned out differently."

"So do I."