The door closed behind her like a final judgment.
Nyra staggered into the suite like a ghost made of skin and regret, the tremble in her limbs more violent now than it had been all morning. Nyra stumbled into the room, her heartbeat pounding in her ears louder than her footsteps. The moment the silence greeted her, something cracked. The pain, the hunger, the confusion—everything collapsed into one overwhelming wave.
The cold luxury of the room mocked her. High ceilings, pale gold wallpaper, glass chandeliers, and white orchids arranged too perfectly on the marble shelf. It looked like heaven, but felt like a trap—a beautiful cage with no door. Her body shivered despite the warm morning sun pooling through the windows. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, but it was too late.
Her stomach twisted.
She rushed into the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before the bile rose from her stomach in violent spasms. Her knees hit the cold marble floor hard as her insides twisted and purged nothing but acid and despair. Her throat burned, her palms gripped the edges of the sink like she could anchor herself there, but it didn't stop the room from spinning.
She tried to get up but again fall, her knees again hit the cold floor with a crack that sounded like punishment. A moment later, her body lurched forward as a sharp, choking sob escaped her throat. Vomit splashed into the toilet bowl—acidic, sour, violent—like her body was trying to expel not just breakfast, but memory, fear, everything. Again and again.
She gripped the porcelain like a lifeline, her forehead pressed against the edge, cold sweat dripping from her temple. Her sobs turned to cries, and the cries turned into a low, broken wail—the kind that didn't come from the throat, but from somewhere much deeper. Somewhere raw. Somewhere sacred.
Tears burst free—raw, unfiltered sobs that crawled up her throat like claws. She gasped as she fell to the side, curling on the tiles, clutching her head. Her body trembled as she cried—not because she wanted comfort, but because she wanted it all to stop.
"Why did I come back…" she whispered, voice hoarse. "Why the hell did I come back…"
Her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled. The woman who once wore white lace now lay on a cold floor, broken not by others—but by herself. The one mistake she couldn't erase: survival.
"I shouldn't have come back," she whispered, barely able to hear herself over the thud of her heartbeat. "I should've let myself go that night…"
Her voice cracked at the edge of that confession. The tears came faster.
Her reflection stared back from the vanity mirror above the sink—pale, tear-streaked, broken. Not the woman who'd once stood beside Nolan Hayes as his bride-to-be. Not the girl who used to believe in happy endings. No. This version of her was ghost-white, trembling, sick with dread, with betrayal, with the weight of everything she remembered and no one else did.
Her knees ached. Her throat burned. Her heart felt too heavy to carry.
She stayed on that bathroom floor for what felt like forever, arms curled around herself, sobbing into the cold silence. She didn't know how long it took her to stand. Five minutes? Thirty? The walls seemed to close in around her with every breath she took.
When she finally pushed herself up and washed her face. Her face pale, eyes swollen, limbs heavy. She rinsed her mouth and splashed water on her face. She didn't look in the mirror. Couldn't. her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
When she finally stepped out into the bedroom, she froze.
Damien was there. Stood near the window, tall and still like a shadow carved from night itself. His hands were in his pockets, the other holding a crystal glass of something dark, dressed in black slacks and a button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the ink etched along his forearm—lines sharp and black, like ancient promises made in violence. The morning light sliced across his profile, turning him into something unreal: jaw like sculpted marble, a cruel mouth that could seduce or command without effort, and eyes so calculating they could split someone open with a single glance.
He didn't look at her right away. But he didn't need to.
She could feel his gaze cut through her like a blade, even from the side.
When he finally turned his head slightly and caught her reflection in the windowpane, he smiled—but there was no warmth in it. Just that sharp, unsettling edge.
That slow, deliberate smile curved on his lips—cold, amused, lethal.
"So," he murmured, voice like velvet over a loaded gun. "You're not even strong enough to stomach this."
Nyra flinched. Her bare feet touched the cool floor again, but she felt miles beneath him. She didn't speak. Not yet.
Damien finally turned. And in that morning light, he looked devastating. Not beautiful in a romantic way—no. Beautiful like fire licking up the edge of a cathedral. Dangerous. Unholy. Sculpted with a kind of violence that seduced rather than repelled.
His jaw was clenched, a shadow of stubble dusting the cut of his face. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, as if he hadn't slept either. But his eyes—God, those eyes—they weren't tired. They were calculating. Focused.
Nyra flinched, just slightly, but didn't meet his eyes. Her legs moved on instinct, carrying her to the nearest chair like she might shatter if she stood too long. She sank down into the velvet, back straight but shoulders trembling. The silence between them crackled.
Damien turned back to the window, gazing out at the city below like it was a kingdom he already owned.
"I just got a call," he said casually, stepping closer. "Hayes Nolan has started looking for his runaway bride."
Nyra's breath caught in her throat.
He didn't glance back, just kept watching the skyline with that same eerie calm. "Seems the perfect groom finally noticed his little bride-to-be vanished. Quietly. No note. No spectacle. Just a blood-soaked dress in a storm."
Nyra's fingers clenched the armrest. The white of her knuckles stood out against the bruises still fading on her wrists.
"He's not shouting it to the media yet," Damien continued, "but the hounds are loose. And sweetheart..." he took a sip from his glass, "if they caught you and you try to run again, they'll tear you apart. And if you go back…" he paused, letting his gaze rake over her trembling form, "hell will welcome you like a daughter."
She didn't respond. Just walked slowly to the chair near the window and sat down, her knees drawn up, hands gripping the armrests as if bracing for a storm.
Damien's voice dropped, soft but lethal. "You run again… or try to betray me… you won't get far. And if you go back—" he finally turned toward her, taking a step forward "—the kind of hell that will rain down on you won't come from me. It'll come from the man you were supposed to marry."
She could barely breathe.
"And trust me, sweetheart," he murmured. "I'm the lesser evil."
His words hung in the air like smoke from a burning confession.
She stared down at the floor, then up at him. Her throat was raw, but her voice didn't shake.
"I'm not going to betray you," she said softly, finally.
Damien tilted his head, studying her. The silence stretched between them like a thin sheet of glass.
He chuckled under his breath, looking at the skyline—the time is merciless. Emptier.
"That's what time's gonna tell," he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. "They all say that in the beginning."
The air between them was suffocating—too thick with unspoken wars, lies, and bruised truths. Nyra sat silently, eyes on the floor, body heavy with exhaustion and dread. Damien, still facing the morning cityscape, didn't need to look at her to read her.
He already knew. This wasn't the end of the storm.
This was only the eye.
He turned and walked toward the door. She expected him to leave.
But then he paused—just before exiting—and added without turning back, "Keep yourself together, Nyra. You've barely seen what loyalty costs in my world."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And this time, she didn't cry.
She just sat there in the velvet chair, trembling, alone with the echo of a devil's promise and the monsters in her chest that wore the faces of the people she once loved.