Damian's Pov
Streetlights blur across the glass as I drive, each reflection cutting across the dashboard. Her voice won't stop echoing in my head: "Your own end of the bargain."
My hands tighten on the wheel. Her confidence is more than just bold; it's calculated. She knows exactly where to push. One wrong move from her and the board will eat me alive.
I pull into the garage and sit in silence, my mind racing. Contracts. Payments. Her charity, Little Lights Home. How did I let it get this far? I can't afford to misjudge her, not for a second.
I reach for my phone and dial Kennedy.
"Ken. I need everything on Marielle Morgan. Search the name 'Elm' too. You have an hour."
"On it," he says. No questions.
I consider texting my assistant to draft the contract, but stop myself. The fewer people involved, the safer this stays.
Upstairs. I head straight for the shower. I turn the water up until it burns, letting the heat sting my skin. It doesn't help. Her face at dinner; composed, sharp, mocking, stays burned into my mind.
I dry off, put on a shirt and head to the bar. I pour a scotch and drink it slow. It's a small help for a growing fire.
My phone rings. I expect Ken, but it is Carson. I allow it ring twice before answering. "Carson."
His voice comes out too fast. "Damian, thank God you picked up."
I close my eyes. "What is it."
"It is nothing serious," he always starts like this. "I just need to confirm a few details for the press. They want statements. I need to know what to say."
I rub my beard. "Don't say anything."
"Of course," he says quickly. "But... should I at least confirm it is real? Some of the blogs are calling it a stunt. And you know, the board is... they're..."
"This is why you called?" I cut in, my voice low. "To ask about blogs?"
He clears his throat, sounding small. "I'm looking out for the company."
He's lying. He's looking out for his dividends. To him, my life is just a balance sheet.
"I will release a statement when I'm ready. Do not speak for me." I hang up.
I stare at the melting ice in my glass. Everyone wants a piece of me. Investors want reassurance. Harrison wants my chair. The board wants a puppet. And Elle... I still don't know what she really wants.
*****
I wake up with my face pressed against my laptop.
My neck is stiff, my eyes burning. Sunlight slips through the blinds, catching the documents Ken sent over during the night. I spent hours reading them, hoping the answers would change if I stared long enough.
Ken had dropped the first batch and when I opened my laptop and started reading, more files kept landing.
No history of Elle before eighteen. Blank feeds. A trimmed bio on Wikipedia. A sealed court file. A name change. A big donor to Little Lights Home listed as D.C. Her charity registration tied to an address I haven't seen in years. My childhood street.
I kept reading and clicking until I lost track of time.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
"Mr. Alfred," I rasp, my voice thick with sleep.
"Damian," his tone is urgent. "Get online. Now."
"What's going on?"
"It's your fiancée," he says. "An anonymous account is posting about her past on twitter. It's spreading."
My blood goes cold. "What are they saying?"
"Not solid. Just holes. No photos from childhood. No school records before eighteen. Her name change. People are asking why her life looks erased."
I slam the laptop shut. This stinks of Harrison. He's trying to shake me by breaking her publicly. Or worse, Elle sees this and thinks it is me. She gets angry and burns our deal to the ground.
I scroll for her number. I don't have it.
How the hell did I spend the last forty-eight hours with a woman who has my future in her hands… and never got her number?
"Idiot," I mutter under my breath and dial the only other person who might know.
"Sir?" Camila answers on the second ring.
"Where is she?"
"In her room. She won't talk to me."
My jaw clenches. "of course," I mutter, "Get to her. Don't let her do anything..." a new buzz interrupts me. One of the board members. I can't waste a second. I hang up, grab my keys and call my head of PR as I head for the door.
"Prepare a holding statement. We don't confirm details. We don't deny. Focus only on company matters."
I hang up and pause at the bar, glancing at the empty glass from last night. The ice is gone. The bottom is wet.
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. I type a quick text to Camila:
Tell her to stay off Twitter. I'll handle it. Meet me at Little Lights at ten.
I hate how it looks. Like I'm asking. Like I'm not in control. I pull into the street, the engine growling. Camila calls back a few minutes later; Elle just walked out. No explanation. Just gone. That silence is louder than any accusation.
Ipress harder on the gas.
Somewhere between anger and worry, it hits me; I don't even know where she goes when she disappears. I don't know her world at all.
And yet, she's wrapped in mine so tightly.
My phone buzzes. Kennedy. I answer before the first ring ends.
"Tell me you have something."
"I do," Ken says. "And you're going to hate it."
"Go on."
"There's a sealed court file under her old name: Seraphina Carrington. It's a wrongful death lawsuit from twelve years ago. She was the plaintiff."
I tighten my grip on the wheel. "Who was she sueing?"
A pause. Kennedy's voice drops. "Blackwell Industries."
My company. I slam on the brakes. Tires screeching against asphalt.
"That case was supposed to be buried," I mutter, air leaving my lungs.
"It was," Ken says. "But there's a federal relocation order in the file. Signed at midnight by Judge Renshaw. That only happens for one reason."
"Witness protection," I finish, my chest feels like it's in a vice.
"Exactly," he says. "She wasn't hiding her past, Damian. She was hiding herself."
Twelve years ago. Who was she running from?
"There's something else," Kennedy continues. "The attorney on that case? Gerald Pike."
My head snaps up. Pike. The board member backing Harrison's move for control.
It's not a coincidence. Every piece of this loops back to her. My company, my father, my enemies.
And the worst part?
She's probably known since the moment we met. She isn't just an accidental fiancée. She's been playing me from the start.