And his grandmother Eleonor was no different.
Polite. Gracious. Always perfectly placed. But beneath the warmth was steel. She chose carefully what to offer and what to withhold.
Together, they were insulated. Aligned. Quietly formidable.
They protected their own. And what he had dismissed as a petty misstep had, without him realizing it, drawn an invisible line—one that split the space around him into men on one side, women on the other.
Now he understood what his father and grandfather had meant.
This was a kind of war he could not win.
Damien exhaled sharply, only then realizing how long he’d been holding his breath.
Waiting had never been his strength.
Losing control had never been acceptable.
Yet here he was—boxed in by silence, forced into stillness, aware for the first time
