“Mr. Blackwood?”
“Camille, please come upstairs. Bring a blanket, water, and a first-aid kit.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slowly crawled out from beneath the desk.
Damien stood near the window with his back partly turned.
He was tall and powerfully built, with short black hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and eyes that seemed capable of noticing everything.
He glanced at me.
Not at my bare foot.
Not at the wrinkled dress.
At my face.
“Are you injured?”
I looked down at my wrist.
“It’s nothing.”
His expression didn’t change.
“You don’t have to minimize it.”
Those words nearly made me cry.
I sat in the leather chair he’d offered.
Then I began shaking harder.
Damien didn’t approach.
He stayed several feet away, allowing me space.
“My name is Damien,” he said.
“I know.”
His mouth curved slightly.
“Apparently, your husband does too.”
I looked at him.
“Are you really…?”
“The man people have been telling stories about?”
I nodded.
“Some of those stories are true.”
I swallowed.
“Should I be afraid of you?”
For the first time, he looked genuinely troubled.
“You have every reason to be cautious around someone you don’t know.”
That wasn’t the answer I’d expected.
He continued.
“But nobody in this room is going to force you to leave with anyone. You can call someone you trust, ask us to call the police, or leave on your own when you feel safe.”
I stared.
“Why are you helping me?”
He looked toward the closed office door.
“Because a man came into my office and tried to decide what another person was allowed to do.”
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
“I’ve seen what happens when people mistake control for love.”
Before I could respond, the door opened.
A middle-aged Black woman entered carrying a blanket, bottled water, and a small medical kit.
She introduced herself as Camille Roberts, Damien’s operations manager.
She spoke gently.
“Would you like me to sit with you?”
I nodded immediately.
Damien looked relieved.
“I’ll step outside.”
I watched him leave.
Camille placed the blanket over my shoulders.
Then she sat beside me.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “has your husband hurt you before?”
I stared at my hands.
For three years, I’d protected Brandon’s reputation.
Explained away the bruises.
Hidden the arguments.
Told myself every marriage had difficult moments.
But sitting in that office, with a stranger offering me water and asking a question without judgment, something inside me finally broke.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Camille took a slow breath.
“Do you have somewhere safe you can go tonight?”
I thought about my sister, Jasmine.
We hadn’t spoken in eight months.
Brandon had told me she was trying to destroy our marriage.
I’d believed him.
Or perhaps believing him had been easier than admitting how isolated I’d become.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Camille nodded.
“Then we’ll help you find out.”
