Meanwhile, at the Sterling mansion, Don Sterling's health had deteriorated further. Though his body was failing, his mind remained startlingly sharp, focusing with laser precision on his last wish: to see Damien married to Penelope. The chilling pallor of illness had replaced the vibrant flush of his youth, and the scent of antiseptic now faintly permeated his usually grand suite.
He summoned Damien to the mansion, his voice weak but insistent, barely above a whisper, yet resonating with the steely will that had built the Sterling empire. "I've spoken to Thomas and we have arranged… an engagement dinner tonight," he rasped, his hand trembling as it rested on the velvet bedspread. "For you… and Penelope."
Damien stood by the massive mahogany desk, the manila folders detailing the next quarter's corporate strategy suddenly feeling insignificant.
"Our families will hold the press conference in a week to share the news with the public. You two will have to take some photos to show your affection." Damien then spoke coldly, "There's no affection between us."
"Then you better find it." Don spoke with resolution in his voice, his eyes, though clouded with age, pinning Damien in place. "The announcement will solidify the Sterling-Wellington alliance. It is essential, Damien."
Damien's heart sank, a cold, heavy stone in his chest. He had hoped to delay this inevitable arrangement, but his grandfather's failing health left him with little choice; the old man's sunken eyes held a plea Damien couldn't deny. The old man wants to see me engaged to Penelope, so I better oblige and put on a show for him. Later, I will figure a way out. I just need to go through this charade to give him a piece of mind, he thought, the word charade echoing bitterly in his mind.
The Engagement Dinner
That evening, the grand dining hall of the Sterling mansion was a stage set for a performance of dynastic ambition. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittering, cold light over the long, ornate dining table, where Damien found himself seated across from Penelope Wellington and her impeccably dressed parents. The atmosphere was thick with expectation, unspoken agendas, and carefully veiled ambitions. It was less a celebration and more a board meeting disguised as a family gathering.
Penelope, in a striking midnight blue gown, looked every inch the perfect corporate wife: beautiful, poised, and utterly detached. She met Damien's forced gaze with a calculated calmness that only deepened his sense of dread. The woman looked undeniably beautiful on the outside, but inside, she was calculating and power-hungry, just like her father Thomas.
Don Sterling sat at the head of the table, propped up slightly, his frame diminished but his presence still commanding. His gaze was fixed on Penelope and Damien, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes—the culmination of a carefully laid plan. "This is the granddaughter I have always wanted for Damien," he said, his voice gaining surprising strength.
"We couldn't be happier to bless this engagement," Thomas Wellington, Penelope's father and CEO of Wellington Financial, boomed, raising his wine glass. "Damien is an outstanding man. I'm sure he will make our little princess happy in the future." His smile was wide and predatory, the smile of a man who'd just closed the deal of the decade.
"Penelope," Don began, his voice raspy but firm, interrupting the clinking of silverware. "You are a beautiful and accomplished young woman. I know you will be a great ally and a wonderful wife to my grandson. This toast is for you. After you marry into my family, Grandpa will give you 30% of the shares in Sterling Design." Thomas and Evelyn looked at each other, and Penelope smiled, a sharp glint in her eyes. Damien was shocked. Thirty percent of shares? That was no joke. He had forty-seven percent.
Penelope: "Grandpa, I know you love me, but this is too much."
Don: "You will be my granddaughter in the future, so I must make sure that after my death, you are well taken care of."
Don took a glass of deep ruby wine and drank it slowly, savouring the moment.
Penelope smiled, a practiced, polished smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. It was a mask of sophisticated agreement. "Thank you, Grandpa," she said smoothly, using the familial term with chilling ease. "I'm sure Damien and I will have a very happy and successful future together." Her words hung in the air—happy and successful, a chilling juxtaposition that underscored the purely transactional nature of their union.
Mr. And Mrs. Wellington exchanged a knowing glance, their faces beaming with approval. They saw this union not as a love match but as a business merger, a strategic alliance that would cement their family's place in the upper echelon of the global market and eventually help them challenge Sam for control of the Wellington family company.
The Crushing Burden
Damien remained silent, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the china plate before him, a fortress he couldn't break through. He felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of expectations and obligations that had been systematically piled upon him since birth. He knew, with a certainty that was both agonizing and absolute, that he couldn't go through with this charade. He couldn't betray Sarah, the woman whose quiet strength and genuine love were his only respite. He couldn't betray his own heart, the part of him that craved authenticity.
But how could he defy his grandfather? A man on his deathbed, a man who had sacrificed his entire life to build the legacy Damien was now bound to inherit? The question hung heavy in the elegant air, a dark cloud looming over the polished dinner party.
He looked up, meeting his grandfather's tired, hopeful eyes, and felt the enormity of his commitments press down on him. The sheer scale of his duty was immense, forcing him to manage not only the massive Sterling Technology and Sterling Design firms but also two smaller companies, all while juggling his personal obligations to his grandfather and the woman he loved, Sarah. This new alliance with the Wellington family only added a suffocating layer of political and corporate expectation.
The weight he felt was too grand, a pressure that promised to crush the very soul beneath the impeccable suit. He picked up his fork, the metal cold against his hand, and tried to swallow the rich food, but it tasted like ash. He was a prisoner in a golden cage, and the bars had just been welded shut. This was the price of the Sterling name.