Elena's POV
The hand over my mouth smelled like soap and lavender.
Not a man's hand. A woman's.
"Shh, it's me—Sophie!" she whispered urgently. "Don't scream. Just listen."
She pulled me backward, away from the dining room, into what felt like a small alcove. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would explode.
"There are two men upstairs," Sophie breathed into my ear. "I saw them on the security monitors in Mrs. Cross's room. They disabled the cameras on the second floor, but they missed one. Gabriel's team is moving in now. But you need to stay hidden until—"
A crash from above. Shouting. Gunshots—sharp and terrifying.
I grabbed Sophie's arm. "What's happening?"
"Damien's men found them." Sophie's voice was tense. "Stay here. Don't move. Don't make a sound."
More shouting. Running footsteps. Then silence.
The worst kind of silence.
Finally, heavy footsteps approached. "Miss Sophie? Mrs. Cross? It's Gabriel. They're gone. Subdued. You're safe."
Sophie's grip on my arm loosened. "Thank God. Elena almost walked right into them."
"Marcus's men are getting bolder," Gabriel said grimly. "We caught them before they reached her, but it was close. Too close. I need to inform the boss."
"Wait." Sophie's voice turned sharp. "Look at her. She's shaking. She's been here less than twenty-four hours and she's already been attacked twice. She needs a moment to breathe before Damien tears through here like a tornado."
"The boss will want to know—"
"The boss can wait five minutes," Sophie snapped. "Come on, Elena. You're coming with me."
She guided me through more hallways, up an elevator, down another corridor. I was too shaken to memorize the path. Too terrified to do anything but follow.
Finally, we stopped. A door opened. The air changed—warmer, with the smell of flowers and medicine.
"Mrs. Cross?" Sophie called softly. "Are you awake? I brought someone to meet you."
"Sophie, dear." The voice was weak but warm. Like honey and smoke. "Who's there?"
"Elena. Damien's wife."
Silence. Then a soft laugh. "Ah. The girl who caught my impossible son. Come here, child. Let me feel your face."
Sophie guided me to a chair beside what must be a bed. Soft hands—paper-thin skin over delicate bones—touched my cheeks, my forehead, my hair.
"Beautiful," Catherine murmured. "I can tell from your bone structure. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. You're stronger than you look, aren't you?"
"I don't feel very strong right now," I admitted. My voice cracked.
"Why? What happened?"
And suddenly, I was crying. Telling this dying woman I barely knew everything. About Owen's betrayal. About waking up in Damien's penthouse. About the forced marriage. About the man who broke into my room last night. About the intruders this morning who wanted to sell me to Marcus Steele.
"And Damien," I finished, wiping my eyes. "He hates me. He made it clear at breakfast that I'm nothing to him. Just a burden. A mistake he has to tolerate until you—" I stopped, horrified. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Until I die?" Catherine's laugh was soft but genuine. "It's all right, dear. I know I'm dying. Everyone knows. It's the worst-kept secret in this house."
Her hand found mine and squeezed.
"My son is cruel to you because he's terrified," she said quietly. "Let me tell you about Damien. The real Damien, before the world broke him."
I settled back in the chair, listening.
"When Damien was six years old," Catherine began, "his father—Victor Cross—came to our little apartment in the slums. We'd been his secret for years. His shame. That day, Victor's legitimate son had died in an accident. Suddenly, Victor wanted his bastard child. Wanted to make Damien his heir."
I heard the bitterness in her voice.
"I refused. I told Victor that Damien was mine, that we didn't need his blood money. Victor left. And the next week, I lost my job. Then our apartment. Every door I knocked on closed in my face. Victor had blacklisted me across the city."
Catherine's breathing grew heavier, and Sophie moved closer with an oxygen mask. Catherine waved her off.
"Damien was eight when I got sick. We had no money for doctors. He watched me cough up blood and knew—even at eight—that his mother was dying because we were poor. He blamed himself. Blamed his existence."
My throat tightened.
"He started working," Catherine continued. "Any job he could find. Delivering papers. Cleaning shops. At ten years old, he was working sixteen-hour days to buy my medicine. He'd come home exhausted, and I'd find bruises on his arms. He said he fell. I knew better. The older boys were beating him, stealing his money."
"That's horrible," I whispered.
"But here's what you need to understand, Elena." Catherine's grip on my hand tightened. "Despite everything—the poverty, the violence, the pain—Damien was the most loving child. He'd bring me flowers he picked from abandoned lots. He'd read to me from library books. He'd hold my hand through the coughing fits and tell me stories to distract me from the pain."
I tried to imagine it. The cold, cruel man from breakfast as a loving little boy.
"What changed?" I asked.
"I died." Catherine's voice was flat. "Or nearly did. When Damien was sixteen, my heart stopped. He found me collapsed on the floor. Performed CPR he'd learned from a medical book. Kept me alive until the ambulance came."
She paused, breathing hard.
"That's when he went to Victor. Begged his father for help. For money to save my life. Victor laughed at him. Said I was worthless. That Damien should let me die and come live in the Cross mansion as the heir he was meant to be."
"No," I breathed.
"Damien walked out of that mansion and straight into the underground. Made a deal with Marcus Steele—the city's most dangerous crime lord. He'd work for Marcus, do whatever was asked, if Marcus paid for my medical care."
My stomach twisted. "How old was he?"
"Sixteen." Catherine's voice broke. "My baby was sixteen years old, selling himself to criminals to keep his mother alive. And I didn't know. He never told me where the money came from. He just smiled and said he got a good job."
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"Marcus used him for everything. Debt collection. Intimidation. Worse things I don't want to imagine. For five years, Damien lived in hell, becoming harder and colder with each terrible thing he had to do. All to keep me alive."
"He loves you," I said softly. "He loves you so much."
"Yes. And that's exactly what terrifies him about you." Catherine squeezed my hand. "Don't you see? Every person Damien ever loved, he nearly lost. Me, over and over. Love taught him that caring about someone means watching them suffer. Means being helpless to stop their pain."
"So he pushes people away," I realized.
"He pushes YOU away," Catherine corrected. "Because somewhere in that frozen heart, he already cares. And it scares him to death."
The door burst open. Footsteps. I recognized them instantly.
Damien.
"What is she doing here?" His voice was ice. "Gabriel said there was an incident. She should be in a secure room, not wandering the mansion."
"Your wife needed comfort," Catherine said firmly. "Something you clearly don't provide."
"Mother—"
"Don't 'Mother' me. This girl is your wife. The mother of your child. And you're treating her like a prisoner."
"I'm protecting her!"
"You're destroying her!" Catherine's voice rose, then broke into coughing. Sophie rushed forward with the oxygen mask.
When the coughing subsided, Catherine spoke again, weaker now. "Damien. Come here. Both of you."
I felt Damien move closer, standing stiff beside my chair.
Catherine's hands found both of ours and pressed them together. Damien tried to pull away, but his mother's grip was surprisingly strong.
"Promise me," Catherine whispered. "Promise you'll try. Both of you. Elena, promise you won't give up on him. Damien, promise you won't push her away."
"Mother, this isn't—"
"Promise me!" Catherine's voice cracked. "I'm dying, Damien. I'm dying, and this is the only thing I want. Promise me you'll try to love each other."
Silence. Damien's hand was rigid in mine.
"I promise," I whispered.
Finally, reluctantly: "I promise."
Catherine sank back against her pillows. "Good. Now leave me. I'm tired."
Sophie guided us out. In the hallway, Damien immediately dropped my hand like it burned.
"Don't read into that," he said coldly. "I made a promise to a dying woman. Nothing more."
"I know."
"And don't think some sad stories about my childhood change anything. That boy is dead. I killed him to survive."
"I know," I repeated.
But I didn't believe him. Because when Catherine talked about young Damien, I heard something in his breathing. A hitch. A catch.
The boy wasn't dead. He was just buried deep.
Damien started to walk away.
"Wait," I called. "I need to know something. This morning—the men in the house. How did they get past your security?"
Damien stopped. "We're investigating."
"But you have fifty guards. Cameras everywhere. How?"
He turned back, and I heard something new in his voice. Uncertainty.
"That's what worries me. They had access codes. Knew which cameras to disable. Moved through the mansion like they'd memorized the layout."
My blood ran cold. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Marcus has someone inside this house. Someone on my staff. Someone who's been here long enough to know every detail of my security."
"A traitor."
"Yes." Damien's footsteps came closer. "Which means you can't trust anyone. Not the maids. Not the guards. Maybe not even Sophie."
"Sophie just saved my life!"
"Or she wants you to think she did." His voice was cold logic. "The perfect cover—befriend you, gain your trust, then deliver you when the time is right."
"You're paranoid."
"I'm alive." He paused. "Stay in your room. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone except me or Gabriel. And Elena?"
"What?"
"My mother asked me to try. But trying doesn't mean trusting you either. For all I know, you're working with Marcus. Playing the innocent blind girl while reporting everything to our enemies."
The accusation stole my breath. "You think I'm a spy?"
"I think everyone's a suspect until proven otherwise." His footsteps moved away. "Welcome to my world, wife. Trust no one. Suspect everyone. And sleep with one eye open."
The door slammed.
I stood frozen in the hallway, Catherine's words echoing in my head: "Show him love doesn't always end in loss."
But how could I show him anything when he saw enemies everywhere—even in me?
Sophie's hand touched my shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you back to your room."
We walked in silence. But as we reached the door, Sophie leaned close.
"He's right about one thing," she whispered. "There is a traitor in this house. But Elena?"
"What?"
"It's not me." Her voice dropped so low I barely heard it. "It's someone much closer to Damien than you think. Someone he trusts completely. And if we don't figure out who before tonight, neither of you will see tomorrow."