Elle's Pov
I don't remember the drive to the penthouse last night. All I remember is the static in my brain and the way Damian's voice sounded over the phone when I called asking about Camila, telling me Camila was "fine" and that he'd come get me because I needed sleep.
I wake up staring at the wall clock. 10:24a.m.
The terror from my nightmare hasn't left; it's just settled into a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes. I sit up, the expensive, curated silence of the penthouse pressing in on me. It feels less like a home and more like a museum where I'm the latest exhibit.
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, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. My eyes shift to a glass display case: the family gallery. I know I shouldn't touch things. I know what happens when I do. But the pull is magnetic.
I stop in front of a photo of Damian at age eight, sitting on his mother's lap. They look like a family from a different universe. I reach out, my fingertips brushing the edge of the silver frame.
The world rips open.
Pain lances through my skull so violently I choke. The room warps. I'm standing in a dim, cold space with cement walls. A familiar painting hangs on the far wall. This is a memory I haven't lived, but I recognize the woman standing there, her back rigid with fury.
Damian's mother.
She's shoving a file at a man. Blackmail. I can feel the oily slick of it in the air. The man turns just enough for me to see his profile.
Harrison.
The vision snaps back like a rubber band.
"Good morning, ma'am."
I whirl around, heart hammering against my ribs. A woman in a crisp uniform stands behind me. She didn't make a sound. Not a single footstep.
"Uh… good morning," I manage, my voice sounding thin and trapped.
"I am Ms. Vivian," she says with a practiced, patient smile. "Are you ready for breakfast? Mr. Blackwell asked me to ensure you were well-fed before you left."
Damian. Even when he's gone, he's managing me. I nod because I can't find my words. She leaves just as quietly. The second she's gone, I run back to the guest room and grab my phone. I dial Camila.
Pick up. Please, just pick up.
It rings until the voicemail clicks. The "Died:2026" from my dream flashes behind my eyelids. I try again, but a different name flashes on the screen. Martha.
My foundation assistant.
"Morning ma'am. Sorry to disturb you. For the gala tomorrow... should we finalize the seating?"
Shit! I literally forgot my children's fundraising.
"Not now, Martha," I snap, my voice trembling. "I'll handle it myself."
I end the call and sink onto the bed. My thoughts are a storm. The past is bleeding into my present, and the future is a headstone with my best friend's name on it.
I head to the dining area. The table is a spread of scotch eggs, tea, and toast. Ms. Vivian stands in the corner, hands folded. She's kind, but she feels like a guard. I eat because I have to, but the food tastes like dust. I need to get out of this museum. I need to be where the air is real.
*****
The moment I step into the foundation building, my lungs finally expand. This is my world.
Volunteers are scurrying, balloon arches are half-inflated, and the smell of fresh paint fills the air. I slip into work mode, grabbing my clipboard. "Shift that banner two steps left," I call out. "And the art boards? Lay them flat first."
Someone hands me their clipboard. I flip through it while walking, giving instructions, adjusting placements, reminding the caterer about the allergy list. This grounds me. No visions. No ghosts. Just purpose.
A tiny weight slams into my legs. "Miss Elle!"
I look down. My little girl, Alora. Tiny braids, wide smile. She wraps her arms around my waist. "Will you leave us now that you're marrying Prince Charming?" she says, voice muffled against my dress.
I let out a shaky laugh, crouching down. "Sweetheart, no one is..."
"If anything, she'll bring the Prince here to help us," a woman's voice interrupts.
The girl nods, waves at me, then runs off.
I rise slowly. woman in her late twenties stands there. Sharp eyes, casual blouse, and a smile that feels like a challenge.
"Thank you," I say, extending a hand. "Marielle Morgan."
She takes it, her grip firm. "Lila Monroe."
The name hits me like a bucket of ice. "The blogger? The one who spends her life shading my fiancé?"
She laughs, but her eyes stay on me, scanning every inch of my face. "Guilty. I report what people want to read. Usually, that's the truth."
Sure you do.
"What are you doing here, Lila?"
"Heard about the gala," she says, lifting her phone. "Thought I'd stop by. A few shots of the 'Future Mrs. Blackwell' doing charity work? It's the kind of PR your fiancé would pay for. I'm just here to highlight something good."
I hesitate. She feels like a predator disguised as a guest. But the foundation needs the visibility.
"Fine. You can cover it. Just stay out of the way."
"Perfect," she says, her smile sharpening. "I'll be a ghost."
I watch her walk off, snapping photos. Something feels off. She isn't just taking pictures of the kids; she's watching me.
And I stand there, heart steadying but mind ticking. Tomorrow's gala will be one for history books.
*****
I retreat to my office, buried under vendor forms, when Martha knocks.
"Ma'am, the centerpieces... the supplier is dragging their feet."
"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 3 p.m today. If they still drag their feet, Threaten to blacklist them. 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 buzzes. Camila. I answer instantly. "Cam, thank God..."
"She's here," Camila cuts in. Her voice is a frantic whisper.
"Who?"
"Your mother. She's at the apartment. Didn't she tell you she was coming?"
For a second I forget how to breathe. My mother never visits. She only appears when a secret is about to break or a life is about to end.
"No… she didn't. 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, grabbing my bag.
I'm out the door before my cab even arrives. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold my phone. Damian is digging into my past, Lila is stalking my present, and now my mother has arrived to claim what's left of my future.
I haven't even had the gala yet, and I'm already drowning.