The early morning air was sharp, cool against her skin as she sat by the window, arms folded over the table. The silence outside was almost unnatural—no footsteps, no whispers, no signal of a search party. She was the runaway bride of Nolan, a scandal in herself. And yet… nothing.
No headlines, no chaos, no one pounding down the gates.
Her thoughts tangled like thread in her mind.
Was this the calm before the storm? Or worse… indifference?
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.
Did they really believe she'd just vanish without consequence? Or had Damien done something behind the scenes—erased her existence, scrubbed the narrative clean? The thought made her stomach coil. Maybe the world had already rewritten her story, and she was the only one still screaming the truth no one remembered.
A soft knock broke through the silence.
Zydan peeked in.
"Miss," he said carefully, "Mr. Blackwood wants to see you. In his study."
She didn't answer right away. Just stared at the rising sun, burning soft gold behind the trees.
"Is he alone?" she asked.
Zydan hesitated, as if sensing the storm swirling in her chest. "Always."
She stood, pushing back the chair, brushing wrinkles from Damien's oversized shirt that still hung off her like a borrowed identity. Her hair was damp from the bath, her feet bare against the cold floor.
As she passed him, she murmured, "You can take the tray now."
Zydan hesitated, glancing toward the untouched food—he knew Damien's rules. But Nyra was already walking away.
So he did.
Damien's Study – Morning Light
She stepped into his study with quiet defiance.
Morning light bled through tall windows, streaking the dark interior with a warmth that didn't reach him. Damien stood by the massive fireplace, sleeves rolled up, his shirt white and crisp against his tanned skin. He hadn't shaved—the stubble framed his sharp jaw like a threat.
His presence struck her again like a sudden shift in gravity.
Powerful. Controlled. Dangerous in a way no one could fake.
He turned slowly, those onyx eyes scanning her like he was memorizing every weakness. There was no welcome in his gaze, no warmth. Only heat.
And dominance.
"Sit," he said.
She didn't argue.
The leather chair chilled her thighs through the shirt. She crossed her legs, trying not to show how unsteady she felt beneath his stare.
Then he pulled a chair and sat on the other side. Leaning back in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed casually over the other, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Damien Blackwood wasn't just sitting; he owned the space. Every inch of him screamed dangerous luxury. The morning light filtering through the tall windows caught on his raven-black hair, slightly tousled, the sharp jaw shadowed by a day's worth of stubble that somehow made him even more devastating. His white dress shirt clung to his body like sin, chest broad beneath thin fabric, a few buttons undone, exposing a line of skin that looked carved by hunger and power.
His eyes—obsidian and merciless—dragged over her like a weight. He didn't blink. Didn't smile.
And yet, Nyra felt something primal tighten in her gut.
Without a word, Damien dropped an envelope onto the glass table between them.
The Envelope felt like a new game on board.
There it was. Resting like a loaded weapon.
Sealed with black wax, his insignia pressed deep like a warning.
She stared at it for too long. Something about the way it sat there—silent, waiting—made her stomach twist. Not fear. Something worse.
Anticipation.
Because she already knew: this wasn't an offer. This was the first page of a contract with the devil. And she'd already signed it in blood.
It wasn't just an envelope. It was a line in the sand.
"Open it," Damien said, voice flat. But she just stared at the Envelope like it was going to swallow her whole.
"Open it," Damien said again, voice sharp, clipped. Like he was done with pleasantries. Hearing his voice, Nyra jolted as if his voice was an alarm that woke her up from a dream. She sees toward him and then slowly picked up the envelope.
Her fingers moved, slow and precise. She broke the seal. Her breath caught.
Inside—documents. A passport, a driver's license and a bank card.
Elara Myles.
Her name. Her new identity. A life waiting to be lived—but not freely. Not truly.
"Why that name?" she asked, voice low.
Damien tilted his head. "Because Nyra's story ended at the cliff. You're not her anymore. And I don't work with ghosts."
Her throat tightened. She didn't respond. There was nothing to say. Not now. Her heart stuttered, but she said nothing was there something she could say.
The Card
Then she saw it—tucked beneath the documents. It wasn't the documents that froze her heart.
It was the blood-red card tucked at the bottom. No logo. No address. Just a single, elegant sentence n bold, printed in black ink:
"Loyalty is proved, not spoken."
The words felt like cold metal against her ribs. The words echoed. Bounced inside her chest like a ticking bomb. She folded it twice, and slipped it into her bra—like armor, like a curse.
She didn't trust Damien.
But he hadn't lied.
And that terrified her more than any deception.
She looked up,ready to speak—but he was already on his feet.
"Follow me."
No room for refusal. No explanation.
She followed.
Damien – The Execution Room
No words were spoken as Nyra followed him through a narrow corridor lit with sterile lights and a suffocating silence. The air thickened with each step. Gone was the luxury, the glass and velvet. The deeper they went, the colder it got. Damien walked like a shadow in human form, every step measured. They descended into a room Nyra hadn't seen before—colder, darker, humming with threat.
Then they reached the door.
Damien opened it without hesitation. Inside, the air was dense with tension.
Two of his men stood on either side of a bound figure kneeling on the concrete floor. Blood stained the man's shirt, and his face was bruised, swollen, barely recognizable.
Nyra stepped back instinctively, heart hammering.
Damien didn't even flinch.
He walked in, slow and deliberate. The man lifted his face at the sound of footsteps—fear drenched every twitch of his expression.
Damien approached him. No words. No anger. Just presence.
"You lied," he said, tone casual.
"Please—" he croaked. "Damien, I didn't — I swear—"
"You stole from me." Damien's voice was quiet. Too quiet. That dangerous kind of calm that came before something violent.
"I-I only took a little—my sister—she was sick—"
Damien crouched in front of him, eyes dark and empty of emotion. "You thought pity would buy you mercy?"
"I was going to return it—every cent—"
"But you didn't." Damien stood, straightened his cuffs like the man's life was a wrinkle in his clothes. "You gambled your loyalty. And lost."
One nod. That was all it took.
A muffled bang echoed through the room.
Nyra flinched.
Blood. Silence.
Damien didn't even look at the body. He simply turned to her.
"I don't tolerate betrayal. Not in business. Not in life."
Damien turned to his men. "Burn the body. Wipe the footage. Clean the floor."
He walked out like it meant nothing.
Because to him—it did.
And now, Nyra knew. She sank to the floor as she saw blood sprayed across the marble, quick and final. The man dropped.
No warning. No threat. No theatrics.
He wasn't just dangerous.
He was the consequence. She tried to stand but again fall to the ground. One of the man came towards her and seeing that, she moved backward. But then he gently said, "You should leave now, ma'am."
She tried her best to get up and run back on the same way she came from.