I wake into the nightmare before the alarm does.
Same dark alley. Same mask of indifference on his face. Same hand reaching for me—not to save me, but to silence. My eyes snap open, chest heaving like I’ve run a mile. The cheap cotton sheets cling to my skin, damp with sweat, and the faint scent of burnt toast from the kitchen tells me Noah is already up. Again.
I sit up slowly, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. Five years. Five damn years, and Damien Voss still owns my sleep.
“Mommy?” Noah’s small voice floats in from the hallway, followed by the patter of bare feet. He appears in the doorway clutching his stuffed dinosaur, the one with the missing eye I keep promising to fix. His dark hair is a wild mess, and those gray eyes—his eyes—stare at me with innocent concern.
“I’m okay, baby.” I force a smile and pull him onto the bed, burying my face in his hair. He smells like baby shampoo and crayons. Safe. Mine. “Just a bad dream.”
He snuggles closer, tiny fingers tracing the faded doodle on the chipped mug I keep on my nightstand. Leo’s old mug. The only piece of my brother I have left. “Dreams can’t hurt you,” he says solemnly, repeating the words I tell him every night.
If only that were true.
By the time I drop Noah at Mrs. Alvarez’s apartment down the hall for daycare, my hands have stopped shaking. Barely. I check my bank app on the cracked screen of my phone—rent is due in twelve days. Groceries are running on fumes. Freelance journalism doesn’t pay like it used to, especially when your biggest byline is from a scandal that almost ruined you.
My editor’s email pings as I’m pouring the last of the coffee.
Voss Tech Charity Gala tonight. Big profile piece on Damien Voss’s latest “philanthropy” push. You in? Pays double if you get a quote.
My stomach drops. Damien Voss. The name alone sends ice through my veins and heat between my thighs. Traitorous body.
I type back: I’ll think about it.
But I already know I’ll go. Because double pay means Noah gets new shoes and I don’t have to choose between electricity and dinner again.
—
The memory hits me like it always does when I let my guard down.
Five years ago. The Eclipse Hotel penthouse, all marble and shadows and that signature scent he wore like armor—dark sandalwood, black pepper, smoked vanilla. Eclipse. I’d shown up unannounced that night, heart full and stupid, ready to tell him I was pregnant. Ready to believe we could make it work despite his empire, despite the rumors, despite everything.
Instead, I found him in the private lounge with her. Isabella Vale, his Vice President. Her legs wrapped around his waist, red dress hiked up, his hands—those same hands that had worshipped me the night before—gripping her like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth. Moans. Whispers. The wet sound of betrayal.
I didn’t scream. I just stood there until he looked up and saw me. His expression didn’t even crack. Cold. Calculating. Like I was an inconvenience in a boardroom deal.
“Elena,” he’d said, voice velvet over steel. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
But it was. Exactly what it looked like.
I ran. Deleted his number. Blocked every trace. Changed my name on half my accounts. When Noah was born, I told myself the gray eyes were a coincidence. That my son was mine alone.
Lies taste bitterer with time.
—
The gala is at The Eclipse, of course. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I stand outside the grand entrance in my one good black dress—the one that hugs my curves just enough to look intentional instead of desperate. My press badge feels like a brand against my chest. Reporters mill around, cameras flashing under crystal chandeliers that drip like diamonds from the ceiling. The air is thick with perfume, champagne, and money.
I almost turn around. My feet itch to run back to the subway, back to Noah’s bedtime stories and our tiny safe apartment. But then I remember the tuition notice I found in my mail yesterday. The one for the private school with the waiting list that could give Noah a real future.
Fear is a compass I learned to obey long ago. It points to danger. And sometimes, to survival.
I step inside.
The ballroom is a sea of tuxedos and gowns worth more than my annual income. Live music swells—something classical and haunting. I grab a flute of champagne I have no intention of drinking and scan the room, notebook ready in my clutch.
And then I feel it.
That prickle on the back of my neck. The shift in the air, like the temperature drops ten degrees.
He’s here.
Damien Voss stands near the stage like he owns gravity itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, devastating in a tailored black suit that probably cost more than my car. His dark hair is perfectly styled, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. At thirty-four, he looks even more lethal than he did at twenty-nine—power etched into every line of him. The kind of man who breaks empires before breakfast and women before dinner.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room.
For a second, the world narrows to just us. Hate. Hunger. History. His gaze drags over me slowly, cataloging changes the way a predator sizes up prey that got away. My pulse hammers. My thighs clench involuntarily. Damn him.
He says something to the man beside him—his head of security, probably—then starts cutting through the crowd like a blade. People part for him without thinking.
I could run. Slip into the service corridor and disappear like I did before.
Instead, I straighten my spine and wait. Because running didn’t save me last time. It only delayed this.
“Elena,” he says when he reaches me. That voice—low, commanding, wrapped in velvet and venom. Up close, the scent hits me full force. Eclipse. It wraps around my throat like a hand. “You look… different.”
“Older,” I reply coolly. “Wiser.”
His mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Still running your mouth first. Some things never change.”
“Some things do.” I lift my chin. “I’m here for the story. Not you.”
“Liar.” He steps closer, crowding my space without touching me. Heat rolls off him. “You knew I’d be here. You came anyway.”
My fingers tighten around the champagne flute. “Arrogant as ever.”
“Realistic.” His eyes darken, dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second. “Five years, and you still tremble when I look at you.”
“I don’t—”
He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face with shocking gentleness. The contact burns. “Careful, little ghost. This time, I won’t let you disappear.”
My breath catches. In that moment, I see it—the storm behind his control. The obsession that never died. The man who once consumed me whole and left ashes in his wake.
I pull back. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure this article buries you.”
He laughs softly, the sound dark and promising. “Try it. I own the papers that print your words.”
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, jaw tightening. “Don’t leave early. We’re not finished.”
As he walks away, I finally exhale. My hands are shaking again.
I slip my phone from my clutch and open the voice recorder app, thumb hovering over the red button. Old habits. Small acts of defiance.
Because if Damien Voss thinks he can drag me back into his world, he’s wrong.
I have a son to protect.
And this time, I don’t plan to run.
—
To be continued…..!