Evelyn's POV
"Come." Damien stood, pulling me with him. His hand stayed wrapped around mine—warm, steady, real. "Let's get you somewhere safe before your family realizes you're gone."
Safe. The word felt foreign. I hadn't felt safe in five years.
He led me toward his mansion—all glass and steel and sharp edges. Nothing like my parents' house with its antique furniture and suffocating traditions. This place looked like it belonged to someone who'd built his empire with his bare hands and wasn't sorry about who he'd crushed along the way.
Inside, everything was pristine. Modern. Cold. Expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself.
"Sit." Damien guided me to a leather chair near enormous windows that showed the chaos next door. Police cars in my parents' driveway. Guests streaming out, gossiping. My mother on the front steps, playing the perfect hostess even now.
I sat because my legs wouldn't hold me anymore.
"Don't move. Don't think. Just breathe." Damien disappeared through a doorway.
I tried to breathe. I really tried. But every inhale felt like drowning. My cheek throbbed. My chest hurt. My whole world had shattered in less than an hour.
Damien returned with a small first aid kit and something in a cup. He knelt in front of me—this powerful, terrifying man kneeling at my feet—and carefully cleaned the cut on my face.
"This might sting." He dabbed antiseptic on the wound. His touch was so gentle I almost cried.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
"Because someone should be." He finished with my cheek and handed me the cup. "Drink. It's tea. Your favorite."
I looked down. Chamomile with honey. The exact tea I drank every night in my garden when I thought no one was watching.
The cup shook in my hands. "How did you know?"
"I told you. I've been watching." He sat back on his heels, studying my face. "For two years, I've watched you read in that garden. Watched you become someone else to please people who would never love you enough. Watched Marcus ignore you at dinners. Watched your parents treat you like a ghost." His jaw tightened. "It made me want to burn down their world."
"You're crazy," I whispered. But I drank the tea anyway.
"Probably." No apology. Just brutal honesty. "But I've never lied to you, and I won't start now. Everything I do is calculated. Everything has a purpose."
"Even proposing to me?"
His pause was telling. "Partly."
The honesty hurt. But it was better than Marcus's lies.
I sipped the tea, let the warmth spread through my chest. "Tell me about your sister."
Damien's face went hard. Not angry. Worse. Empty. The same emptiness I'd seen in Isabelle's eyes.
"Elena was twenty-five. Brilliant. Studying genetics and neuroscience." His voice was flat, like he'd practiced this story until it stopped hurting. Except it clearly still hurt. "She was dating one of your father's researchers. He told her things he shouldn't have."
"What things?"
"About experiments that shouldn't exist. About data that didn't make sense. People who were supposed to be dead but stayed in the system. Money disappearing into black projects." He stood, moving to a desk in the corner. "Elena gathered evidence. Planned to report it to the medical board."
My stomach twisted. "What happened?"
"Three days later, her car went off Eagle Point cliff." He pulled out a thick folder. "Police called it an accident. Mechanical failure. But Elena's car was brand new. And the brake lines were cut so cleanly, so professionally, that it looked natural."
"Eagle Point." The words tasted like ash. "That's where Isabelle crashed."
"Exactly." He dropped the folder in my lap. Heavy. Full of secrets. "Same location. Same method. Two years apart. Your father killed my sister to protect his secrets. Then he killed yours."
"But Isabelle's alive—"
"Is she?" Damien's eyes bored into mine. "The thing you saw tonight—did it seem alive to you? Did it seem like your sister?"
No. God, no. Those empty eyes. That flat voice. The way she'd moved like a puppet on strings.
My hands shook as I opened the folder.
Photos. Dozens of them. My father entering unmarked buildings. Money transfers to shell companies. Death certificates that had been canceled. Medical records that made my head spin.
And there, near the bottom—a photo of Isabelle.
In a hospital bed. Covered in wires and tubes. Body broken and burned. Eyes closed. Machines breathing for her.
The date stamp read six months ago.
"She never died," I whispered.
"She did." Damien's voice was gentle now. Terrifyingly gentle. "The girl you knew—your sister—died in that crash five years ago. What your father brought back is something else."
"What do you mean?"
He pulled out another sheet. Medical jargon I could barely understand. But some words jumped out: consciousness transfer, neural mapping, synthetic integration, host compatibility.
My vision went dark around the edges.
"He's moving people's minds," I said slowly. "Into other bodies."
"Yes."
"And Isabelle—"
"Is part your sister's memories, part computer program, part something else entirely." Damien knelt again, taking my shaking hands. "Her body was kept alive on machines for five years while your father perfected the transfer. What came back isn't fully human anymore."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't process this.
"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why would he do this?"
"Because Victor Whitmore wants to conquer death." Damien's grip tightened. "And he'll sacrifice anyone to do it."
"But why keep it secret from me? Why let me think she was dead?"
His pause made my blood run cold.
"Because you weren't just the grieving sister." Damien's voice went deadly quiet. "You were the backup plan."
"What?"
He pulled out one more document. My name across the top. Medical records I'd never authorized. Brain scans I'd never agreed to. Detailed genetic analysis.
And a timeline. A plan.
"Isabelle's consciousness is degrading," Damien explained. "Whatever he created, it's breaking down. Forgetting things. Acting wrong. Losing pieces of itself." He pointed to a notation dated two months from now. "That's when your father planned your accident."
The words on the page blurred. But I saw enough.
Subject transfer: Evelyn Whitmore. Location: Eagle Point. Method: staged accident. Timeline: post-honeymoon. Host body preparation: optimal.
"He was going to kill me," I whispered.
"Yes." Damien's voice was hard. "Stage your accident at Eagle Point. Same as Elena. Same as Isabelle's original crash. Then transfer what's left of Isabelle's consciousness into your body. Let her live your life while everyone mourned you."
My stomach lurched. I barely made it to the trash can before I threw up.
Damien held my hair back. Brought water. Didn't say anything. Just stayed.
When I could speak again, my voice was raw. "Marcus knew."
"Of course he knew." Damien's eyes were ice. "The engagement was surveillance. Keeping you close. Keeping you trusting and vulnerable before the final phase."
"And my parents—"
"Approved every step. They chose Isabelle over you five years ago. They'll choose her again." He paused. "Unless we stop them."
I looked at the documents scattered around me. At the proof of my father's crimes. At the evidence of my family's betrayal.
Then I looked at Damien—this dangerous stranger who'd been watching me for two years. Who'd investigated my family. Who'd proposed marriage to protect me.
"How do we stop them?" I asked.
His smile was cold and beautiful and absolutely terrifying.
"We expose everything. Every experiment. Every death. Every secret." He stood, offering his hand. "But first, we get married. Legally bind you to me so your father can't touch you without consequences."
"When?"
"Three days. That's how long it takes to get a license." His hand stayed extended. "Can you wait three days?"
I thought about going back to that house. About facing my father's cold eyes and my mother's fake tears. About watching Marcus kiss Isabelle's hand while plotting my murder.
"No." I put my hand in his. "I can't wait three days."
"Then we leave tonight." Damien pulled me to my feet. "Pack nothing. Need nothing. We'll start fresh. And when we come back—"
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it and went completely still.
"What?" I asked.
He turned the screen toward me.
A text from an unknown number: Stop interfering, Ashford. The girl doesn't concern you. Return her by midnight or face consequences. - V.W.
V.W. Victor Whitmore. My father.
"He's threatening you," I whispered.
"He's threatening what's mine." Damien's voice went deadly. "That was his first mistake."
"What's his second?"
"Thinking I'd give you back."
He made a call. "James. Get the jet ready. We leave in thirty minutes." A pause. "Nevada. Find me a chapel that's open at midnight."
I stared at him. "We're getting married tonight?"
"Unless you've changed your mind."
I looked at my phone. Seventeen missed calls from my mother. Thirty-two texts from numbers I didn't recognize, all asking if I was okay, if the rumors were true, if I was really crazy.
Then one text from my father: Come home. We need to talk about your future.
My future. The future where they killed me and let Isabelle wear my skin.
I threw my phone in the trash.
"I haven't changed my mind," I said. "Let's go."
Damien's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Mrs. Ashford. I like the sound of that."
"We're not married yet."
"We will be." He grabbed his keys, his phone, his jacket. "By sunrise, you'll be my wife. And your father will learn what happens when someone tries taking what belongs to me."
He said it like a promise.
Like a threat.
Like a vow.
And God help me, I believed every word.