Chapter 4

For the next two weeks, I became invisible in this mansion.

Damian was busy to the point of madness. He canceled all unnecessary meetings, handed over company affairs to the vice president, and threw himself entirely into preparations for welcoming Claire.

He flew to Paris personally—not for business, but to visit Claire’s favorite fashion house and commission a gown for her homecoming debut. Rumor had it the dress cost a million euros and was encrusted with thousands of Swarovski crystals.

He used his connections to buy out every seat in the front row of the concert hall—not just one ticket, but all of them. He wanted Claire to see him the moment she looked up; he wanted the whole world to know that the Blackwood family was Claire Lancaster’s staunchest supporter.

The most laughable part was that he began renovating the third floor of the villa.

That floor had originally housed guest rooms and a gym, but Damian hired Chicago’s best interior designer.

Workmen rushed day and night; the sounds of hammering and electric drills were ceaseless. Dust drifted down to the second floor, and I had to have the cracks of my bedroom door sealed.

I was like a decoration about to expire, casually set aside in a corner by Damian, awaiting the moment of disposal. He no longer asked me to accompany him to dinner parties, no longer asked what I did each day, and didn't even come home for dinner anymore.

Sometimes, I would stand at the staircase to the third floor, watching the workers bustle about. They tore down the original clean, modern decor and replaced it with elaborate plaster moldings, gilded mirror frames, and pink silk wallpaper. Damian supervised the work personally, nitpicking every detail.

"This crystal chandelier isn't big enough. Change it for a larger one."

"The wallpaper needs to be pinker, like the color of ballet shoes."

"The carpet won't do. I want a hand-woven Persian rug, and the pattern needs to be intricate."

I watched all of this with cold eyes. The man known for his cool decisiveness in the business world was now acting like a teenage boy in the throes of first love, using the clumsiest methods to please his goddess.

And his goddess probably didn't even remember his phone number.

Finally, on the night before Claire’s return.

Damian rarely came home for dinner, but tonight he did. He looked exhausted, yet there was a hyperactive light in his eyes. I knew the moment of judgment had arrived.

The Last Supper.