Elara's POV
I wake up screaming.
The nightmare is always the same: my father standing over Damien's father in that courtroom, watching him die, counting money while a fifteen-year-old boy becomes an orphan.
"Elara! Hey, I've got you." Damien's arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. "You're safe. It was just a dream."
But it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory—someone else's memory that I've inherited like a curse.
"I can still see it," I sob into his shirt. "Your father on the floor. My father just standing there. Doing nothing."
"Shh. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault."
"How can you say that? My blood is his blood. What if I'm like him? What if I—"
