POV: Selena Hart
If Damon Blackwood wanted me close, he'd get exactly what he asked for—and maybe his blood on the floor while I was at it.
The air here in this tower didn't smell like sea and salt—it smelled like money and secrets.
Inside, the halls were quiet enough to hear the click of my heels echo against polished marble. Staff moved like shadows, eyes down, voices hushed.
Damon was waiting in the sunroom, backlit by pale winter light. He didn't rise when I entered, only gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Elena," he said smoothly—my alias rolling off his tongue like he didn't believe it for a second. "Welcome to my humble adore."
The thoughts of last night—the photograph and the ten letter words still flicked on my head, but not here would I fall for it.
I had to remain calm and appear strong not to show any vulnerability whatsoever.
I sat, keeping my posture measured. "Generous of you to invite me, Mr. Blackwood."
"And what would you love to take?" he asked, expression wasn't budging.
"I don't want anything, sir." I said, my voice not budging as I tried not to show him the chaos that erupted deep inside me.
He leaned closer, eyes locked on me as he fluttered his hands on my shoulder, "Miss Elena. Stop all this hardness you're trying to put out."
I cut him, "And who told you am being just hard."
His mouth curved, but his eyes didn't. "Elena. I have been watching you from a distant for some time now and I will confidently say that Damon has to a point studied your personality to its 80% mark."
My voice budged, eyes widened in epiphany, but I struggled to hide all of that, "Empty talks, Damon."
He grinned, "Let's see if you still think that by tomorrow."
Then there was a knock at the door, slivering the already tensed air. It was Stephanie.
"Sir, the meeting is in five minutes and the investors are already waiting at the boardroom." She said with a warm smile tugged on her lips.
The "corporate retreat" was anything but. By midday, I'd been maneuvered into a high-stakes strategy session in front of half a dozen board members and investors. Damon sat at the head of the table, letting me talk, then dismantling my points—not cruelly, but precisely. A public test.
When one smirking investor tried to cut me off, Damon's voice slid in like a blade. "Let her finish. She's making more sense than you are."
It was protection, yes—but also ownership.
After dinner, the storm rolled in. The rain came hard against the glass, wind pressing at the eaves. Guests retired early, but I didn't. My curiosity had teeth.
The library was dim, smelling of paper and something faintly floral. My eyes caught on a framed photograph on the far shelf. A photograph similar to the one of yesterday night. Margaret Blackwood beside him, smiling in a way that looked… intimate. And there, half-hidden behind them, was a boy—Damon. Younger, maybe eight. His eyes even then were sharp.
"You shouldn't be in here." A voice cut through.
I turned. A woman leaned against the doorway—tall, dark hair swept into a sleek knot, an expensive kind of beauty. Isabella Blackwood.
"You're Elena Marlowe," she said, but it wasn't a question.
"And you're Damon's sister."
Her gaze flicked to the photograph, then back to me as she grabbed a seat. "Our mother had a complicated life. Richard Hart was… part of it. Maybe more than part." She smiled, slow and knowing. "Which would make you and my brother—well, let's just say certain lines shouldn't be crossed."
The words landed like ice water.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because truth has a way of ruining people at the worst possible time."
"Yes, I know you to be Damon's sister from the framed picture at his sitting room, but I barely know who you're in person and you come here to spit out nonsense?"
I didn't even drop my statement properly when a hot palm landed on cheek.
As I was about to give my part, another hand-this time with a punch landed to my head—It was one of her security personnel.
"You're nothing but a whore. You think I don't know all your schemes," she grinned, "You lie, Lena. You're Selena, not Elena and just have at the back of your mind that you're a failure."
I left the library with my pulse pounding, uncertain if she was the darkness from the beginning. From my father's death. To my arrest.
Later, while heading to my room, I heard a voice—Damon's. Low, tight. I froze near the half-open study door.
"If she finds out before I'm ready," he said into the phone, "it won't be her life that's ruined—it'll be mine."
Before I could process, the line went silent. I slipped down the hall, every nerve alert.
I didn't make it far when a hand shot from the shadows, pulling me back against a wall. The person filled with the scent of rain and leather. Owen Hale, Damon's head of security, his voice a whisper hot against my ear.
"They're watching you," he said. "Same people who killed your father, and I will advise you stay undercover."