DAMIAN'S POV
Streetlights blur across the glass as I drive, each reflection cutting across the dashboard. Her words echo in my mind: "Your own end of the bargain."
My hands tighten on the wheel. Her smile, so infuriatingly confident haunts me more than any warning from Harrison ever could. She isn't just bold. She's calculated, and she knows exactly were to push. One single move from her and the board turns on me.
I ease into the garage, sitting in silence for a moment before pacing the length of the space. Contracts. Payment. Her charity, Little Lights Home. How did it come to this? I can't afford to misjudge her, not even for a second.
I return to the car, phone in hand, pause, and finally dial Kennedy, my private investigator.
"Ken. I need everything on an Elle Morgan. You can also search for Elm. One 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 to the shower. I turn the water hot; too hot and let it hit until my skin burns. It doesn't help. Her voice is still in my head. Her face at dinner, composed yet sharp, won't fade.
I dry off, put on a grey shirt and walk to the bar. I reach for the bottle of scotch, pour a glass, and drink. Slow burn, small help.
My phone rings. I think it is Ken. He should be calling with information. It's not, it is Carson.
I let it ring twice, then answer. "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 says. He always starts like that. "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 claiming it's a stunt. And you know, the board is... they're..."
"This exactly is why you called," I cut in, voice low. "To ask about blogs."
He clears his throat. "I'm just trying to look out for the company. That's all."
He is lying. He wants security. He wants assurance that his money is safe because to him, my life is a balance sheet.
"I will release a statement when I choose to. Do not speak for me."
I hang up before he says another thing. I finish the drink and just stare at the ice melting at the bottom of the glass. Everyone wants something. Investors want reassurance. Harrison wants control. The board wants stability.
Elle wants a bargain. And I still do not know what she wants beyond that.
Ken sends the first drop. I open my laptop at the desk and start reading. Then more files land. I keep going.
No posts 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 keep reading. I keep clicking. I lose track of time.
I wake to my phone buzzing on the desk.
My neck hurts. My eyes burn. I lift my head slowly and realize I fell asleep on my laptop. The screen is still open to Ken's report. The sunlight slips through the blinds, catching the documents spread across my desk
I rub my face, push my hair back, and stare again at the screen. I spent half the night reading the files again and again, like the answers will change if I stare long enough.
My phone buzzes again.
I grab it. "Mr. Alfred."
"Damian," his tone is tight. Urgent. "You need to get online."
"What happened."
"It's your fiancée," he says. "An anonymous account posted about her past on twitter. It's spreading fast."
My hand goes cold. "What did they post?" I ask.
"Not facts. Holes. No photos from childhood. No school records before eighteen. Her name change. People are asking why her life looks erased."
I shut the laptop. This stinks of Harrison. Push the girl. Shake me. Same play.
Worse thought. Elle sees this and thinks it is me. She gets angry. She leaks our deal. She ruins the board vote.
I scroll for her number. I do not 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 get her number?
"Idiot," I mutter under my breath and dial the only other person who might know.
Camila picks up on the second ring. "Sir?"
"Where is she?"
A pause. "In her room. She doesn't want to talk."
My jaw clenches. "of course," I mutter, "Get to her before she does something..." 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 move.
"Prepare a holding statement," I say. "We do not confirm personal details. We do not deny anything. Focus only on company matters."
"Understood."
I hang up and pause at the bar. I don't pour a drink just stare at the empty glass from last night. The ice is gone. The bottom is wet.
My phone buzzes again. Another notification. I type quickly:
"Stay off Twitter. I'll handle it. Tell her to meet me at Little Lights at ten."
I send it and immediately dislike how it looks. Like I am asking, like I am not in control.
I grab my coat and head out. The engine growls as I pull into the street, moving fast through the quiet city. Every headline, every whisper about Elle's erased past spins in my mind.
Camila called a few minutes ago, said Elle just walked out. No explanation. Just gone. And that silence from her is louder than any accusation.
I press 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 it finishes ringing.
"You've got something," I say.
"I do," he replies. "And you're not going to like it."
"Go on."
"There's a sealed court file under her old name; Seraphina Carrington. It's not just a routine case. It's tied to a wrongful death lawsuit from twelve years ago and she's listed as the plaintiff."
I tighten my grip on the wheel. "Who was sued?"
A pause. Kennedy's voice drops. "Blackwell Industries."
My company.
I slam on the brakes. Tires screech. For a second, nothing else exists.
"That case was supposed to be buried," I mutter.
"It was," Kennedy says. "But there's more, a federal relocation order in the file. Signed at midnight by Judge Renshaw. That kind of order only comes with..."
"Witness protection," I finish quietly.
"Exactly," Kennedy says. "She wasn't hiding her past, Damian. She was hiding herself."
My chest feels tight. Witness protection. Twelve years ago. Why? Who was she running from?
"There's something else," Kennedy continues. "The attorney on that case; Gerald Pike."
My head snaps up. Pike. A board member. The same man backing Harrison's move for control.
What kind of coincidence is this?
I end the call, my mind racing. Elle's missing history. My father's company. Pike. Harrison. Every piece loops back to her.
And the worst part?
She probably already knows.
And she's been playing me from the start.