The flashes hit before the sound does — sharp bursts of white light cutting through the morning drizzle like knives through gauze. For a second, I mistake them for lightning. Then the shouting starts.
"Mrs. Kade! Over here! Lena, look this way!"
I freeze, half-step from the glass doors of the conference building, the rain needling down my neck, the city thrumming behind it all. Damian's hand closes around mine, sudden and firm, and I feel the heat of his skin even through the wet.
"Keep walking," he murmurs. Calm. Controlled. His voice is the only thing that keeps me from bolting.
The paparazzi surge closer. Umbrellas collide. A camera nearly smashes into my shoulder, its lens fogged by the storm. I try to pull free, but his grip tightens. He moves between me and the flashing lights with a precision that feels military — body turned, head angled, every motion measured to shield me from their frenzy.
"Is it true, Damian? You're divorcing already?"
"Was she the secretary before the wife?"
"Lena, how much did the ring cost?"
I hear myself laugh — the brittle, nervous kind that cracks in the air and immediately dies. The sound doesn't belong to me. My chest tightens, and I hate that they see me like this — cornered, fragile, the woman behind the scandal headline.
Damian steps closer, his voice low. "Stay behind me."
And suddenly, it's him and the storm.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't shove. He moves — quiet but absolute — through their noise, his arm around me, his body an unspoken warning. The photographers stumble back, uncertain. There's something in his stillness that unnerves them; even the air seems to bend around it. I catch the faint scent of his cologne — cedar, clean and cold — and for a moment, I can't tell if the shiver that runs through me is fear or something else entirely.
When we finally reach the car, I'm trembling. He opens the door, gestures me in first, and slams it shut behind us. The world outside keeps flashing, but inside, the air is sealed — heavy, quiet.
He exhales once, then looks at me. Not the practiced look of the CEO. Not the patient one he gives the boardroom. This is something unguarded. Concern, maybe. Or recognition.
"You all right?"
My voice barely works. "I think so."
He nods, starts the engine. "They won't stop until they get what they want."
"What is it they want?"
"Blood," he says softly, and the word lands with too much truth.
We drive in silence after that. The rain thickens. The city blurs. His reflection wavers against the window beside me — strong lines, faint scar near his jaw, that same composure that somehow unsettles me more than anger would.
Outside, the lights streak gold and white. Inside, something starts shifting. I'm aware of every breath between us. Every inch of space. Every question that's never been asked.
Maybe that's why I don't see it — the sudden flicker of headlights in the rearview mirror, the way his hand jerks on the wheel a second too late.
The world lurches.
A horn blares. Metal screams. For one disorienting second, I see the hood of another car skidding toward us, spinning out of control, water spraying in violent arcs. Damian's arm snaps across my chest — a reflex, protective — and then there's impact. The crunch of steel. The bite of the seatbelt. The taste of iron in my mouth.
Silence.
Then — pain.
I'm half-sprawled against him, the airbag deflated like a dead lung between us. Rain pelts the windshield in a wild rhythm. Damian's breathing is shallow, his head turned toward me. There's a small cut along his temple, a trickle of blood sliding down into his collar.
"Damian—"
"I'm fine." He tries to move, winces. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, though the ringing in my ears hasn't stopped.
He tries to open his door; it groans but gives way. I follow him out, legs trembling, soaked to the knees in the gutter. The other car has spun into the divider, its front half crushed, smoke coiling like gray fingers from the hood. People are running toward us from the sidewalk.
And through it all, Damian doesn't let go of my hand.
By the time the paramedics arrive, he's insisting I be checked first. His shirt is torn where the seatbelt caught him; blood stains the white cotton like something too intimate to look at.
The cameras are already back, flashing through the fogged glass of the ambulance. He sits beside me, unbothered by them now, eyes fixed on the rain beyond the window. His hand rests on mine again — not tight this time, just steady. It shouldn't matter. But it does.
He refuses to stay at the hospital longer than an hour.By the time we return home, I'm the one insisting he lie down. His stubbornness only makes the tension worse, that quiet authority he carries into every argument. Finally, when I threaten to call his assistant, he relents.
The bedroom smells faintly of antiseptic and rain. I help him out of the jacket, unbutton his cuff. His skin is warm — too warm — and when I touch the bandage along his ribs, he flinches.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"You're trembling," he says.
I hadn't noticed. I look at my hands; they're shaking slightly. "It's just the adrenaline."
He studies me — not in the way a man studies a woman, but as though trying to solve her. "You shouldn't have been out there."
"Neither should you."
Something flickers in his expression — not anger, not quite affection either. "You think I'd let them touch you?"
The question lodges somewhere deep, where the bruises of the day still throb. I want to tell him I don't need saving, that I'm not one of his employees or his PR disasters to be managed. But instead, I sit on the edge of the bed and press the cold cloth to his shoulder. The muscles jump beneath my hand.
We stay like that, the air between us weighted with everything we haven't said.
His lashes lower. His breathing slows. When I pull the blanket over him, my hand brushes against his chest — and that's when I see it.
A scar. Thin, pale, almost hidden beneath the new bruise. Just below his left collarbone.
I go still.
It's not the wound that unnerves me. It's the shape. A faint, curved mark — like a crescent. Identical to the one I've carried since I was a child, in the same place. I remember my mother once called it a "birthmark from angels," and I'd laughed. But seeing it mirrored on him now feels like falling into something I don't understand.
For a long minute, I just stare. The scar looks older than the accident, older than either of us.
"Lena," he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. "What is it?"
"Nothing," I lie, quickly lowering the blanket. "Just making sure you're comfortable."
He nods faintly, already slipping into sleep.
I sit beside him longer than I mean to. The rain outside softens to a hush. Somewhere down the hall, the clock ticks like a heart refusing to stop.
When I finally drift off in the chair, the dream comes.
It's not new — it's one I've had before, in fragments. But tonight it's whole.
Two babies, crying in a dim room. One wrapped in a blue blanket, the other in white. A woman's hands — gentle, trembling — lifting them, separating them. A door slams. A voice says, "This is the only way."
Then, silence.
I wake to the sound of Damian murmuring.
At first, I think he's talking in his sleep. Then I realize he's awake — half-dreaming maybe, but conscious enough that his brow is furrowed, his lips moving softly.
"Elena…"
The name slices through the quiet like a blade.
I freeze.
His hand twitches against the sheets. "Elena, wait…"
My pulse trips over itself.
I lean closer, heart pounding, the name echoing in my head. Elena. Not Lena. Not even close.
When his eyes finally open, they're unfocused — a thousand miles away.
"Who's Elena?" I whisper.
The question hangs there, suspended in the dimness between us.
For a heartbeat, I think he might answer. Then his gaze sharpens, and the walls come down. That familiar distance returns, the one that's colder than silence.
"No one," he says at last.
But the way he says it makes me certain that's not true.
The word doesn't leave me. It lives under my skin, whispering, Elena, Elena, long after he's turned away and drifted back to sleep.
I sit there, unmoving, my hand hovering above his chest where that faint crescent scar hides beneath the blanket. His breathing is even again, as if the night never cracked open to let that name slip through.
No one, he'd said. But his voice had betrayed him.
People don't call out to "no one" in their dreams.
I rise quietly, my feet cold against the marble. The room feels too big, too white — every shadow a reflection of the doubt spreading in me. The city outside hasn't slept; the rain glints off the glass towers like tears caught in light.
From the window, I can still see the faint blue strobes of news vans parked near the gates. The paparazzi haven't left. I watch one of them light a cigarette beneath an umbrella. The glow flares, then fades. Somewhere in that distant smoke, my life is being rewritten — new headlines, new lies.
And Damian, the man whose name I carry like a title and a curse, lies behind me, dreaming of another woman.
I open the door carefully, step into the hallway.
The house hums faintly — a modern creature breathing in circuits and electricity. The security panel glows near the stairs. Beyond it, the living room sits in half-dark, still marked by the chaos of our return: his jacket tossed over the couch, my purse spilled open, a single earring glinting near the rug.
It looks lived-in — which somehow feels more intimate than any of our silences.
I pour a glass of water in the kitchen, the cold biting my teeth. My reflection in the steel refrigerator startles me: hair wild, mascara smudged, a bruise ghosting my collarbone. I look like someone halfway between survival and confession.
The scar.
The dream.
The name.
The pieces don't fit yet, but I can feel the shape of something forming — something old, something wrong.
I return to the bedroom. Damian hasn't moved. He's turned onto his side now, one arm stretched toward the space where I was sitting, fingers curling as though still reaching for something lost.
I stare at that hand longer than I should.
In the half-light, he looks almost gentle. The same man who commands rooms, who dismantles entire companies with a signature, lies defenseless before me. His hair falls over his forehead, the faintest shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. There's a bruise near his temple now, ugly and spreading.
He saved my life tonight. I should remember that before anything else.
Still — I can't ignore the voice in my head, the one that whispers, Why did he say her name?
The morning comes slow, threaded through with dull silver light.
By the time I wake, the space beside me is empty, the sheets still warm where he'd been.
For a moment, I think he's gone to the office. Then I hear movement downstairs — the quiet clatter of dishes, the soft murmur of his phone voice.
I linger in bed longer than I should, staring at the ceiling. Every joint in my body aches from the crash, but it's the unease that really hurts. There's something unbearable about how calm everything looks after the night before, as if the universe has chosen to forget what it almost did to us.
When I finally come down, he's standing by the kitchen island, shirt sleeves rolled, a bandage still on his ribs. There's coffee steaming beside him, and an untouched plate of toast.
He looks up the moment he senses me. His eyes flick briefly over my face, checking, assessing, softening.
"You should still be in bed."
"You should still be in a hospital."
The corner of his mouth lifts — not quite a smile, more a shadow of one. "Hospitals bore me."
He gestures to the coffee, and I take it. Our fingers brush. The warmth seeps deeper than it should.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then I ask, quietly, "Do you remember anything from last night?"
He glances at me, a quick look that disappears too fast. "Enough. The crash. You screaming my name. Why?"
My throat tightens. "Nothing. Just wondered."
He studies me, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn't press. "I've arranged for the security detail to stay outside for a few days. Until the press dies down."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can." His tone softens, and the words almost sound like an apology. "But I'd rather you didn't have to."
There it is again — that contradiction he wears like a second skin: distance wrapped around protection, tenderness disguised as control.
I look at him then, really look — and the sight hits me harder than it should. The faint curl of his hair near the temple, the lines carved by exhaustion near his mouth, the quiet grace with which he moves, even injured.
I want to ask him who Elena was.
But I don't. Not yet.
Instead, I nod and say, "Thank you. For yesterday."
He looks at me as though the words surprise him. "You don't need to thank me for that."
"Maybe not. But I will anyway."
He doesn't answer. Just leans back against the counter, fingers tapping absently against the glass. I catch the faintest tremor there — almost imperceptible — and realize the crash rattled him more than he'll ever admit.
Later, when he leaves for the office, the silence returns.
It's the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty but watchful.
I find myself walking through the house like a ghost — past the study where he spends his nights, the library with its untouched books, the hallway lined with family portraits that aren't ours.
His life feels like a set built around him — curated, immaculate, and yet… lonely. Like he's been waiting for something to fill it, but doesn't remember what.
I stop at the door to his office. It's slightly ajar.
Inside, the air smells faintly of leather and ink. The desk is neat — everything in its exact place, except for one frame turned face-down. I hesitate, then pick it up.
A photograph.
Him. Younger. Smiling. A woman beside him — dark hair, sea-glass eyes, the kind of beauty that lingers like perfume. There's a tenderness between them that almost feels intrusive to witness.
On the back, written in fine handwriting: D & E, forever.
My stomach drops.
Elena.
The edges of the photo dig into my fingers before I set it down again. My pulse is uneven, my breath too loud. The woman in the picture is real. And she looks enough like me that it hurts to see.
I leave the office before I can think, before the walls start to close in.
Outside, the rain has cleared. The city feels washed and sharp. Somewhere beyond the gates, cameras click again — faint but present.
I go upstairs, take out my phone. It's a reckless thought, the kind that burns hotter the longer you resist it. But the truth has begun to matter more than pride.
I open the recorder app.
It's almost absurd — the idea of recording my own husband, the man who just saved my life. But love, if that's what this is, shouldn't have to compete with fear.
The red circle glows in my palm, silent.
Just in case, I tell myself. Just until I understand what game I'm actually in.
The next few days unfold with unnatural politeness. Damian works late; I pretend not to notice. We move around each other like careful dancers, every word weighed before it's spoken.
The tabloids feed on the accident, twisting it into a dozen versions — The Billionaire's Reckless Bride, Kade's Dangerous Love Affair, Car Crash or Cover-up?
I stop checking after the fourth headline.
But one morning, I overhear him on a call — his tone sharper, stripped of warmth. He's pacing the hallway, unaware that I'm nearby.
"I told you not to use that name," he says.
A pause. Then lower, more tense: "Because she's gone, and I won't drag her through this circus."
I step back before he can see me, heart hammering.
So he does remember her.
And he's hiding it.
That night, I turn on the recorder again. Just a small click of sound buried beneath the hum of the lamp. His footsteps approach; I sit at my vanity, brushing my hair as though nothing inside me is unravelling.
He pauses at the doorway, watching me. "You look tired."
"Long day."
He comes closer, the air between us shifting. His reflection appears behind mine in the mirror — taller, darker, his gaze unreadable.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For all this noise. The cameras. The lies."
The apology catches me off guard.
"You didn't cause the crash."
"No," he says, eyes still on mine through the mirror, "but I caused everything else."
I turn then, the brush falling from my hand. "Damian—"
But he steps closer and kisses me.
It's not the first time, but it feels like it. His mouth is warm, deliberate, the kind of kiss that asks for forgiveness instead of passion. My pulse trips, confused between wanting and warning. His hand rests against my jaw, thumb brushing the line of my throat — gentle, reverent almost.
For a fleeting second, I let myself believe this is real — that maybe, under all the scars and secrets, he could still be something good.
Then he pulls away. Too soon.
And for a moment, in the dim reflection, I think I see it again — the flicker of another face behind mine. Hers.
Elena.
He leaves before I can say anything.
When I check the recording later, his voice sounds softer than I remembered, almost breaking on that single word: sorry.
But buried beneath it — a whisper. Barely audible.
"Elena…"
And then, silence.
The city sleeps while I lie awake, the red light of the recorder still glowing faintly on the nightstand.
Outside, thunder rumbles in the distance — slow, inevitable.
The scar on my collarbone aches again, as if remembering something my mind can't yet name.
Somewhere deep inside, I already know this isn't coincidence.
And if he won't tell me the truth, I'll find it myself.
Even if it means learning that the man who saved my life might be the reason it's never really been mine.