THE HUSBAND THEY BULLIED, THE KING THEY FEARED

CHAPTER 10

SERVANT BOY RETURNS

The elevator ride down was silent, the hum of soft music filling the quiet. Elara kept on glancing at Damien but his expression still remained unreadable. Yet, something in his eyes had shifted…

After everything that had happened upstairs, she couldn't help but rethink her decision. Maybe she wasn't meant to be in this world–everything was just so different. She clutched the keycard tight, wondering if she should just thank him and reject his offer–if she should walk away, or follow him?

She looked up at Damien, watching as he stood by the street, answering a call. Before she could make up her mind to tell him, a car stopped in front of them and Damien opened the door without a word. His gaze met hers–cold, steady, but not unkind. Elara hesitated, heart tightening, before finally stepping in beside him.

Without another word, Damien walked to the other side and got in. As soon as the door clicked shut, the car pulled away from the curb. 

Silence filled the space, left for the soft purr of the car's engine. Elara gaze remained fixated on the cara window, watching Damien's reflection. His eyes were pinned to his phone, his gaze unreadable. She was unsure of what to say or ask this stranger. 

But one question remained in her thoughts–where was he taking her to?

Time ticked by and a strange feeling crept up Elara's chest. 

“Damien…”

She fell silent as a certain sound reached her hearing–cheering and screaming. 

Frowning, Elara looked ahead. The cars ahead of them had begun to slow down, creating a line. To the right, a crowd of shouting journalists and paparazzis stood behind a red velvet tape, shouting questions and flashing cameras. A long red carpet stretched from the streets in front of them into the entrance of a tall glass building. 

The Bentley pulled to a stop in front of the red carpet. Elara was still trying to process what was happening when a man in black suit and glasses walked to the door and pulled it open. 

“W-What’s happening?" Elara muttered, more to herself than anyone in particular. 

Confused, she turned, only to watch Damien open his door and step out. He walked around the car to her side and stopped in front of her. 

“Come out,” he said simply.

Elara stared at him, stunned. “What? Why—”

He held out his hand. Swallowing her questions, she placed her hand in his and stepped out of the car. 

Damien’s hands firmly grasped hers as he led her into the building. But as they walked, Elara couldn't help but realize that no one paid them any attention–the flashing lights, screaming questions all seemed to stop as they walked down the carpet. 

As they neared the door, the screaming inside the building became clearer–everyone was chanting her name, their whispers growing louder. Vanessa, was the name on everyone's lips.

Elara's eyes widened as she realized where she was–the bell ringing banquet.

Damien pushed the door open and the entire hall went silent. The whispers changed–it was Vanessa's former love. His cold gaze swept over the room as the crowds soon began to shift. 

“Damien?” she hissed, her face squeezing with disgust. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

Someone behind Vanessa pointed at her, whispering. She couldn't get everything they said, but the bits she heard told her all she needed to know. 

“The bankrupt CEO.”

The name spread through the crowd and soon, everyone was snickering, pointing at her. Elara swallowed, her grip on Damien's hand tightening. As if noticing the tension, Damien squeezed back–a subtle reassurance. 

“Quiet," Vanessa said as she tapped her glass. "I'd love some space please.”

The crowd hesitated, murmuring, before slowly parting to reveal a clear path. The room fell into an uneasy silence, with all eyes fixed on Damien, Elara, and Vanessa.

Damien was about to speak when a man walked out of the retreating crowd, champagne glass in hand. “Vanessa, love," the man said in a soft voice as he wrapped a hand around Vanessa's waist, pulling her to himself as he planted a kiss on her lip. He looked up at Damien, sneering. “Do you want me to leave too?" 

Damien's gaze narrowed as he watched the two flirt. That was THE Sebastian–the man Margaret claimed had bought her the penthouse, the man that had proposed to Vanessa live. 

"Oh, my dear, Sebastian,” Vanessa said with a soft chuckle as she ran a hand down his strong chin. “You are such a gentleman.” She sighed, linking her arm with his. "You're one of my own, my love. You don't need to go anywhere.”

Damien watched, his gaze holding no emotion. “If you have anything to say, Vanessa," he said, his voice steady, "I advise you to say it quickly. I have business to attend to.”

Margaret chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “There's nothing much to talk to you about, Damien," she said, her face falling into a disgusted frown the moment his name slipped out of her lips. “I have signed the divorce papers. I just want to know what you intend to do with all the junk you have back home.”

“Do whatever you deem fit with it," Damien answered, without a flicker of emotion. “I have no need for any of it." 

Vanessa's eyes suddenly went cold, but she blinked the reaction away. “Damien," her voice dropped to a soft whisper as she took a step toward him, “we both know you have nothing. If you let those things go, you’d end up sleeping on the street.” 

Elara froze, her gaze traveling between Vanessa and Damien. Why did they always speak to him in such condescending tones? Didn't they know who he was, what he was capable of? 

Damien just stood there silent and composed as ever as someone stifled a laugh at the back. She wasn’t angry—just stunned. The more she watched, the clearer it became–they had no idea of who stood before them.

“You should cherish those old things,” she continued, taking a sip of her wine. "After all, they are really expensive. Selling a piece or two could keep you alive… well for a while.”

“Don't embarrass yourself trying to look rich, Dammy," Sebastain cut in, a slow smirk forming on his lips. “Your pride isn’t worth much. I advise you to focus on your next meal rather than whatever game you're trying to play.”

Elara’s jaw tightened as she watched the two mock Damien. Unable to hold in her frustration anymore, she stepped forward. "Enough!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the hall. "Are you two serious right now? Who uses someone else’s belongings to settle a divorce? If you truly wanted to compensate him, you’d just give him money. Can’t even spare a few hundred thousand, yet you’re pretending to be generous?”

The hall went silent.

Vanessa’s smile froze, a twitch flickering at the corner of her eye. She turned her head toward Elara, voice sharp and rising.

“Who do you think you are, huh?” she snapped, her words slicing through the air. “A bankrupt nobody daring to lecture me?” She gave a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head. “You think you’re qualified to speak to me? Your company failed. You’re nothing.” Her eyes flicked up and down Elara with disdain. “What are you even doing here? Here to mooch food and drinks?”

A ripple of whispers ran through the crowd. Some guests chuckled behind their hands, others exchanged knowing looks.

Vanessa snapped her fingers toward security without even glancing back. “Check if they have a pass. Throw them both out if they don’t.”

Elara’s heart plummeted. A cold rush of panic spread through her chest as laughter rippled from the crowd. She could feel every pair of eyes on her — the same people who used to greet her with polite smiles at board meetings now whispering behind raised glasses.

“Isn’t that Elara from the Hale Group?”

“Didn’t her company collapse last quarter?”

“Guess she’s still clinging to someone new.”

The whispers cut deeper than anything could. Her face burned and her fingers went numb. She wanted to disappear—melt into the marble floor and never be seen again.

Why had Damien brought her here? Did he really have the passes? Or was this just another cruel mistake?

Embarrassment clawed at her chest, her cheeks reddening. Words traveled through the crowd, each holding different names they called her–whore, golddigger, liar. 

She tugged at his sleeve, voice small, desperate. “Let’s just go,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the floor, unable to bear the weight of her former partners’ stares.

But Damien didn’t move. He just stood there, calm and composed, as he watched the security guard slowly walk up to them. 

The guard, packed with muscles and a throbbing vein below the scar on his neck, stepped in front of them. “Sir, ma’am, may I see your passes?” he said, grabbing the baton by his side. 

Damien glanced down at the baton before bringing his gaze to meet the guard squarely in the eye. “I don’t have one,” he answered flatly.