ELLE'S POV
I wake up staring at the wall clock. 10:24 a.m.
Not surprising. Remote work and running my foundation from a laptop have slowed mornings and stretched my nights. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and listen.
Everywhere was just serene and so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.
I step out of the guest room. Damian's door is open, the bed already made. Gone. Of course. I drift into the living room. Perfect, cold, curated; this penthouse feels like a museum. My eyes shifts to the transparent glass cupboard. The family gallery.
I walk slowly toward it. Young Damian; small, solemn, big eyes. His parents behind him, all warmth and pride. There's one picture of him on graduation day. Graudation photos. Birthday photos. Then one, younger, eight maybe, sitting on his mother's lap while his father stands behind them.
They look like a family that belonged to another life entirely. I reach out, brushing my fingers against the rim of one frame...
And the world rips open.
Pain shoots through my skull so violently I choke on my own breath. The room stretches, then warps. I'm somewhere else. A dim room forms around me. Cement walls. Old wooden table. A painting on the far wall, familiar. My stomach drops. I've seen this place. Been here.
A woman stands, back rigid, voice sharp and low. She argues with a man who shifts just enough for me to see his face.
Uncle Harrison.
My chest seizes.
She shoves a file at him. Blackmail, I realize. I can feel it in the tension, in the cold steadiness of her shoulders. And then I recognize her.
Damian's mother.
Anger flickers across her face. Or fear as Harrison steps closer, too close, and then...
The vision snaps.
I'm back at the penthouse, my heart hammers. My lungs burning.
"Good morning, ma."
I whirl around. A woman in a crisp uniform stands behind me. I never heard her walk in. Not a single step. I thought I was all alone in this house. Her smile is polite, but my pulse spikes anyway.
"Uh… good morning," I manage.
"Are you ready for breakfast, ma?" she asks gently.
I nod, because my mouth refuses to work. She leaves just as quietly.
The moment she's gone, I run. Back to the guest room. I slam the door shut, grab my phone with shaking hands and I dial Camila.
"Come on," I whisper. "Pick up. Pick up…"
It rings. And rings. Then stops. No answer.
I stare at the screen, palms sweating. I try again, but before I can call again, my phone vibrates. Martha. One of my staff.
"Hello?"
"Good morning ma'am. Sorry to disturb you. For tomorrow's gala, should we finalize the seating now or wait for you?"
"Just… wait. I'll be there soon. I'll handle it myself."
"Oh, okay ma. Thank you."
I hang up fast and drop the phone onto the bed.
I end the call and sink onto the bed for a second. My thoughts are a storm. Something is wrong with me. Or with this place. Or with the past I keep seeing without warning.
I drag myself to the bathroom. I didn't come prepared to stay the night, so brushing my teeth becomes another problem until I open the cabinet.
A neat stack of unused toothbrushes sits in a corner. Like someone expected me to need one.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
I grab one, shower quickly, and head to the dining area.
The table is already set.
Scotch eggs. Tea. Toasted bread. Everything warm. Waiting.
Ms. Vivian stands at the corner, hands folded.
"If you need anything, call for me, ma'am," she says before disappearing into the kitchen.
I eat, but nerves don't warm. I thank Ms. Vivian out of politeness, even though her presence still lingers in my head.
I grab my bag and leave the penthouse.
The moment I step into the foundation building, the air changes. Noise and movements everywhere. This is my life.
People are already setting up decorations for tomorrow's gala; balloon arches half-done, donation tables waiting to be arranged, volunteers running in every direction.
I slip into work mode automatically, grabbing my work clipboard.
"Please shift that banner two steps left," I say, pointing at the entrance. "And the art boards? Lay them flat first, I want to check if the kids' drawings are sorted by age."
Someone hands me their clipboard. I flip through it while walking, giving instructions, adjusting placements, reminding the caterer about the allergy list. This part of my life grounds me. No visions, no strange house staff, no ghosts from someone else's past.
Just kids and purpose.
As I'm checking the seating chart, a small weight slams into my legs.
"Miss Elle!"
I look down.
A little girl, Alora. Tiny braids, wide smile, bright eyes.
Before I can crouch, she wraps her arms around my waist.
"We missed you," she says, voice muffled against my dress. "Will you leave us now that you're getting married to Prince Charming?"
I laugh a little, touched and stunned all at once.
"Sweetheart, no one is leaving anybody. I..."
I'm cut off gently as a woman steps forward and places her hands on the girl's shoulders.
"If anything, she'll come back here with her prince charming, so you all could live happily ever after. Now, go join the others, okay? Miss Elle is working."
The girl nods, waves at me, then runs off.
I rise slowly, looking at the woman. Late twenties. Casual blouse. Sharp eyes. She smiles like she's used to this.
"Thank you," I say, catching my breath. "Marielle Morgan." I extend a hand.
She takes it. "Lila Monroe."
My mind blanks for a split second. No way.
I squint at her. "Wait… aren't you the blogger always shading Mr. Blackwell..." I correct myself, "...my fiancé?"
She laughs. " Guilty as charged. Well… I report what people want to read, most cases; the truth."
Sure you do.
"What brings you here?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She lifts her phone, fingers tapping lightly. "Heard about your gala. Thought I'd stop by. Take a few shots. Might help the kids, might be just what you need."
I hesitate.
She senses it.
"Don't worry," she adds. "I'm not here to dig up dirt. Just to highlight something good."
Nothing in her eyes says she's lying.
But nothing says she's harmless either.
Still… she's right. Visibility helps the children.
"Fine," I say. "You can cover it."
Her smile sharpens. "Perfect. I'll stay out of your way."
She walks off, snapping photos of the hall, volunteers, banners.
And I stand there, heart steadying but mind ticking. Tomorrow's gala will be one for history books.
*****
I'm in my office, buried under vendor forms and visitor lists, when someone knocks.
"Come in," I say without looking up.
Martha steps in, clutching a clipboard like it's about to explode. "Ma'am, we're short on the centerpieces you approved. The supplier says they can only deliver half today. Should we switch to the backup design?"
"Oh, perfect," I mutter under my breath. I rub my forehead and look at her. "No. Call them again. Tell them I'll double the payment if everything arrives before four. If they still drag their feet, I'll speak to them myself. This gala isn't like the last one; the people we need impressed are actually showing up."
Martha nods quickly. "Yes, ma'am. I'll..."
My phone starts ringing. Camila.
I grab it. "Cam, I have a lot going on. Can I call you..."
"She's here," Camila cuts in, her voice tense.
I straighten. "Who?"
"Your mom. She's at the house. Didn't she tell you she was coming?"
For a second I forget how to breathe. My heart drops straight into my stomach. My mom? Here? Out of nowhere?
"No… she didn't." My voice shakes before I get a hold of myself. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," Camila says. "I haven't seen her. I just spoke with her."
Great. Just what today needed; another problem on my tab.
"I'm on my way," I say. "Thanks."
I end the call. Martha is still there, unsure what to do with herself.
"Handle the centerpiece issue," I tell her, grabbing my bag. "If they act stubborn, threaten to blacklist them."
"Y-yes, ma'am."
I'm already halfway out the door.
I order a cab before I even reach the elevator. My hands won't stop shaking. My mother never visits unannounced.
So whatever brought her here…
It has to be serious.