By mid-morning, Damian had caught enough fragments of whispered words and sidelong glances to know something was festering.
He walked into the break room just as two employees stilled, their laughter dying the moment they saw him. His presence cut the air like glass.
"Who started the rumor?" His voice was low, calm, but the weight in it froze everyone. "About the MD of this company."
No one spoke. Someone shifted nervously near the fridge.
Damian's gaze swept over them, sharp and unrelenting. "Let me make this clear once. If I hear another whisper — if I see another sidelong glance — I will find out who's behind it. And when I do, you won't have a place in this company."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The silence that followed was absolute.
Turning, he left the break room, already pulling out his phone to text Layla: Lunch. Don't argue.
Scene – Lunch, Damian's Office
His mother arrived just before one, dressed elegantly, though her hands twisted the strap of her handbag as if she wasn't sure she belonged.
"Thank you," she said quietly when Damian let her in. "You didn't have to agree."
"You said once," Damian replied, his tone neutral. "So once."
She sat across from him, searching his face for an opening he wouldn't give. "I know you don't want me in your life, but—"
"Keep it professional," he cut in. "You asked for my time, you've got it. Say what you came to say."
Her lips parted, then pressed together again. For once, she seemed… fragile.
The door clicked open.
Layla stepped inside with a folder, her voice steady as she said, "Here are the contracts for—"
She froze. Her eyes flicked from Damian to the woman across from him.
There was a stillness before his mother rose slowly, studying Layla's face. A faint smile curved her lips.
"You," she said softly. "I've seen you before. That night Damian was sick."
Layla's brows knit, realization dawning. "You're… his mother."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Layla—"
But Layla was already turning toward him, her eyes searching. "You never told me."
His mother's expression shifted, guilt flickering there, but Damian's was unreadable stone.
"It's complicated," he said finally, his tone clipped, shutting the subject down.
Layla lingered, questions brimming in her eyes, but Damian's look told her not here, not now. She handed over the folder and left the room, her thoughts tangled in more knots than before.
The door shut behind Layla, leaving a faint echo in the office. Damian's mother's eyes lingered on it for a moment before she looked back at him, her hands smoothing over her handbag as if steadying herself.
"She's… graceful," she began softly, a tentative smile touching her lips. "And sharp. You can see it in her eyes. She seems to care for you—"
"Stop."
The word was quiet but final. Damian didn't raise his voice, but the edge in it was enough to cut through her sentence.
His mother blinked, startled.
"You don't get to comment on my life. Not her. Not anyone," Damian said, his gaze unflinching, his posture rigid behind the desk. "You forfeited that right a long time ago."
"I'm not trying to meddle," she whispered. "I only—"
"You are meddling," he cut in sharply. "And you don't know her. You don't know me anymore. You're a stranger who shares my blood. That's all."
The words landed heavy, harsher than he intended, but he didn't take them back.
His mother's breath hitched. Her composure wavered, her eyes glistening. She pressed her lips together as if holding herself from breaking completely.
"I never wanted to be a stranger," she said at last, her voice trembling. "Do you think I chose this? Do you think I wanted to watch you grow up from a distance, powerless—"
"Enough." Damian's tone snapped like a whip, silencing her. He leaned back, expression unreadable, but his eyes were darker than usual. "You said once. You've had it. This conversation is over."
She stared at him, her throat working, but no words came.
Damian glanced at his watch, then at the door. "My meeting is here."
It wasn't true — not yet. But it was the only way to shut the door between them.
His mother inhaled shakily, nodded once, and stood. She adjusted her bag against her arm, her movements stiff, as though forcing herself not to crumble in front of him.
When she walked past him toward the door, her perfume lingered faintly in the air — elegant, familiar, and painfully out of place.
Damian didn't look up again until the click of the door told him she was gone.