BOUND IN SILENCE
"I'm fed up !!! Damien! Every time I bring up something important, you hide behind your mother like a scared little boy. It's either her or me, choose!!"
Clarissa's voice cracked like a whip, laced with disdain as she stood at the far end of the grand lounge, arms folded, lips curled in irritation. Damien Ashwood had just walked in, shirt clinging to his back from the warehouse night shift, hoping to rest for a moment. But rest was a luxury denied in this house.
"Clarissa, please," Damien said softly, taking a step toward her. "She's all I have. The money's for her hospital bills. I just need a little more time."
"Don't come near me with that stink!" she hissed, recoiling. "You reek of sweat and desperation. You'll ruin my dress."
That dress, Damien noted bitterly, cost more than his entire month's earnings. And now, the sweat he earned hustling for their survival was filth to her.
"You have a choice," she said with a sneer, snatching her designer bag off the table. "Either give me that $700 for a new handbag, my birthday's tomorrow—or spend it on your pathetic old mother."
His chest tightened. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me, Damien," she snapped, her voice colder than steel. "I'm done playing house with a failure. My family let you squat in our mansion, and this is how you repay us, by being broke? By dragging your dying mother into everything? I regret ever marrying you."
She turned toward the door, only to double back and yank his credit card out of his hand.
"I'm still taking this. I need the money. I can't be seen with this outdated purse tonight."
"But my mother's treatment....."
"To hell with your mother!" she spat. "If she dies, that's your problem. My problem is that I married a man who earns little income monthly while other men are building empires. You're lucky I even settled for this dump."
Damien stood rooted to the floor, jaw tight, unable to say a word. The rest of the household had long gone to bed. Maybe that was mercy. Had they seen this, it would have been yet another round of mockery.
He lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, his hands trembling as he buried his face in his palms. The ache in his chest wasn't from exhaustion, it was from humiliation, from helplessness.
The doctor needed $900 to begin treatment for his mother. After two jobs and countless sleepless nights, Damien had scraped together $700, hoping to cover most of the bill.
Now it was gone. Clarissa took it. And maybe he had no one to blame but himself. Maybe if he'd worked harder, he could've bought her the damn bag and saved his mother.
Tomorrow was July 21st. Her birthday. She said she deserved it. Maybe she did.
The Langford family was one of the richest in all of Oakbridge, and yet they never spared a dime for Damien's mother. No, instead, her mother, Miranda Langford—mocked him at every opportunity, treating him like a stain on the family's polished image.
They claimed they'd done him a favor letting him stay in their mansion. But the truth?
He had saved them.
No one wanted to marry Clarissa. Not after she was diagnosed with terminal kidney disease. Even her own family refused to donate.
Then came the offer—$15 million to any man willing to marry her and donate a kidney. Desperate to save his own mother and escape the grip of poverty, Damien accepted.
He thought the money would change everything.
But fate ripped it away.
Augustus Langford, the family's patriarch—approved the deal. But he died a month later. The money? Vanished. The promise? Forgotten. The contract? Ignored.
Still, Damien kept his word. He gave up his kidney and saved Clarissa's life. She lived—stronger than ever—but never acknowledged him as her husband.
Three years had passed. Three long, bitter years. And still, he clung to hope that maybe… just maybe… she would see how deeply he loved her.
"You disgusting tramp of a man!" Miranda Langford's voice tore through the silence like a whip. "Laying on my couch with your sweat-soaked body? Were you raised in a sewer?"
Damien sprang to his feet. "Good evening, Ma'am…."
"Spare me your useless greetings. Does your greetings get me anything?"
"I'm sorr…"
"Don't you dare call me 'mother!'" she shrieked, slapping him hard across the face. "You address me as 'Madam.' Do I look like your dirty, bedridden mother?"
The sting of the slap throbbed on his cheek, but Damien didn't flinch. He simply bowed, absorbing the humiliation like he'd been trained to.
"I apologize, Madam. I'll go take a shower right away."
"Oh, you will. And while you're at it, make me some hot traditional tea. My stomach's in knots."
"Yes, Madam."
"And where is my daughter? Where's Clarissa?"
"She stepped out… said she was going to a birthday gathering."
Miranda scoffed. "Thank heavens she didn't take you. She would've died of shame sitting next to you and your stench. Now get out of my sight, you worthless nobody. I pray the day she divorces you comes quickly. Maybe then we can forget you ever existed."
Damien said nothing. He walked silently toward the corridor, heart aching, pride shattered.
Under the shower, he let the water cascade down his face, as if it could wash away the humiliation. He dried himself off and dressed in clean nightwear, then headed to the kitchen.
He brewed the tea carefully—boiled herbs, milk, a trace of sugar. He brought it to the living room, where Monica was waiting, lips pursed in disdain.
"Here you go, Madam."
She sniffed. "I hope you didn't overdo the sugar. You know I hate sugar."
"I barely added any. Just a touch for taste."
"I'll take it in my room. I can't sit here any longer with your presence polluting the air," she said with an exaggerated sniff, before disappearing up the stairs.
Damien's shoulders slumped. He wasn't dirty. He wasn't smelly. But in this house, he'd been conditioned to believe he was less than human.
"I'll stay on the couch," he muttered. "I want to be the first to wish Clarissa happy birthday."
He sat there in silence. Time crawled past. Midnight approached. His eyes fluttered shut.
At 12:02 a.m., Damien stirred. Clarissa still hadn't returned. He reached for his phone, about to send her a message, when he noticed the door creak open.
A feminine figure slipped in quietly, trying not to draw attention.
Damien smiled in the darkness. He could recognize her silhouette anywhere.
He stood, quietly moved behind her, and wrapped his arms gently around her waist.
"Happy birthday, my love," he whispered.
A sharp gasp. "What the heck?!"
She spun around as the lights flicked on. Damien's eyes went wide. His blood ran cold.
It wasn't Clarissa.
It was her younger sister.
Natalie Langford.
"Nat…." Damien stammered.
A crack resounded as her palm smashed against his cheek.
"You sick pervert! Were you trying to rape me?!" she screamed, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, gown torn, hair a mess.
She'd clearly been in a fight somewhere else. But now, all her fury turned to Damien.
"I swear, I thought you were your sister! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…."
"You tried to rape me! MOM! Knox!!" she shrieked, calling for her mother and elder brother.
And just like that, Damien knew...
His life was over.