The private elevator hums upward like a predator purring before the strike. Damien stands too close, one hand braced against the mirrored wall beside my head, his body a wall of heat and barely leashed control. The scent of him—dark sandalwood, black pepper, smoked vanilla—fills the small space until I can barely breathe without tasting him.
I stare at the glowing numbers, willing them to move faster. Thirty minutes. I just need to survive thirty minutes.
The doors open into his penthouse. Cold luxury everywhere—black marble, steel accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city he rules. He doesn’t offer me a drink or a seat. He simply watches me step inside like a predator studying trapped prey.
“Talk,” he orders, voice low and rough. “Why the hell did you really come tonight, Elena? Don’t feed me that story bullsh!t.”
I clutch my bag like armor. “It is the story, Damien. My editor—”
He steps forward, backing me against the glass wall. The city lights blur behind me. “You think I believe that? You could’ve sent any other reporter. But you walked into my gala. In that dress. Looking at me like you want to k/ll me and f## me at the same time.”
My phone vibrates inside my clutch. Once. Twice.
Damien’s eyes flick down. Before I can react, his hand shoots out and yanks the phone from my grip.
“Give it back!” I lunge for it, but he turns away, swiping the screen open effortlessly.
He freezes.
The silence stretches, thick and dangerous.
“What the f## is this?” His voice drops to a deadly whisper as he stares at the lock screen photo—Noah laughing in the park, dinosaur clutched tight, dark hair messy.
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Damien—”
“You have a kid.” He turns the phone toward me, the photo glowing accusingly between us. His jaw clenches so hard I hear it crack. “Four years old. Cute little family you built while you were gone.”
Rage and something darker—jealousy—burn in his gray eyes. He pockets my phone like it now belongs to him.
“Who’s the father?” The question lashes out like a whip.
“None of your business,” I snap, lifting my chin even as my heart pounds.
He laughs, but it’s cold and sharp. “None of my business? You disappear for five years, show up looking like sin, and now I find out you’ve been playing house with some other man? Do I know him?”
I swallow hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It friggin’ matters to me.” He slams one hand against the glass beside my head, caging me in completely. His breath fans hot across my lips. “While I was tearing this city apart looking for you, you were spr3-4ding your |3gs for someone else? Letting him put a kid !n you?”
The jealousy is there—raw, ugly, barely hidden beneath the fury. His free hand fists at his side like he wants to punch through the glass.
“Tell me his name,” he demands, voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Is he the reason you ran? Some pathetic a$$-ole who made you feel safe while I was too much for you?”
“Stop it,” I whisper, tears burning but refusing to fall. “You don’t get to ask me that. Not after what I saw that night. You were !ns-de Isabella while I—”
“While you what?” He leans in closer, nose brushing mine. “While you were already planning to replace me?”
The air crackles between us. Hate. Old desire. Fresh jealousy. His body presses against mine just enough to remind me how easily he could break me.
He pulls back slightly, eyes still blazing. “Here’s what’s happening now. You and that boy move into this penthouse tonight. You will be my image consultant for the next thirty days while I close the biggest merger of my career. Smile for the cameras. Stand at my side. Play the part of the woman who came crawling back to me.”
My knees weaken. “And if I refuse?”
His smile is slow, cruel, and beautiful. “Then by morning your journalism career is dead. Every contact dries up. Your editor gets proof you’ve been leaking stories for cash. And I’ll drag you through every court I own for custody of that child. By the time I’m done, you’ll be lucky if you see him on weekends.”
He cups my chin roughly, forcing my eyes to his. “Or you can be smart, little ghost. Thirty days under my roof. My rules. Maybe I’ll even be generous and let you keep pretending that kid’s father was better than me.”
I close my eyes, thinking of Noah sleeping peacefully back home. The life I fought tooth and nail to build.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word tasting like ash.
Damien’s eyes flare with dark satisfaction. He strokes his thumb across my lower lip, possessive and mocking.
“Good girl. Pack your things. My men will handle the rest. Welcome home, Elena.”
He steps back, but the invisible chains are already locked tight.
As he walks away, I realize the terrifying truth: this isn’t just about the child anymore.
It’s about ownership.
And Damien Voss has never been good at sharing what he considers his.
—
To be continued…….