Chapter Four
I couldn't sleep.
Not after that photo.
Not after seeing her.
Elara.
Blonde hair. A soft, almost fragile smile. And Damien's arm around her like she was his whole world.
And then the other photo — the one in the hospital room. That one haunted me.
Because it wasn't just Elara lying there with wires in her skin and fading color in her cheeks.
It was Ava, standing behind her like some beautifully dressed vulture.
Smiling. Watching.
And somehow, I just knew she was the reason Elara wasn't smiling anymore.
The next morning, I moved through the mansion like a ghost. The ring on my finger felt colder. Heavier. Like it belonged to someone else.
I wasn't sure what was worse — not knowing who Elara was, or suspecting that she'd once been exactly where I stood now.
Another contract bride.
Another temporary obsession.
Another woman Damien Vale would eventually walk away from.
Or worse… bury.
At breakfast, Damien sat at the long marble table, dark hair tousled, tie undone, sleeves rolled like always. He was scrolling through something on his tablet with his usual bored elegance.
When he looked up and met my eyes, something in his expression shifted.
"Did you sleep?" he asked, voice low.
I lied. "Fine."
He gestured to the seat beside him — closer than the one I usually took across the table.
I hesitated… and then obeyed.
The smell of him — dark, warm, expensive — invaded my thoughts.
I sat. He reached for the coffee pot and poured me a cup without asking.
I took a sip.
Then set the cup down.
Then reached into the pocket of my robe… and slid the photo across the table.
Face down.
His hand froze halfway to the toast.
He stared at it for a beat.
Then picked it up.
And for the first time since I met him, Damien Vale looked shaken.
"Where did you find this?" His voice was quieter now. Deeper. Less controlled.
"In the drawer beside the bed," I said. "Was I not supposed to?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at the picture again.
"Elara," I said, testing her name on my tongue.
Damien looked up slowly. His jaw was clenched. His knuckles are white.
"Who was she?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stood — his chair scraping sharply against the stone floor — and walked out of the room without another word.
Vincent Vale found me an hour later in the garden.
He was Damien's older cousin and advisor — tall, neatly dressed in gray slacks and a navy jacket, with silver streaks in his dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses.
"Miss Hart," he greeted politely. "Or should I say, Mrs. Vale?"
I didn't smile. "What do you want?"
He joined me on the stone bench without asking.
"You found the photo," he said calmly.
I turned to him. "Who was she?"
Vincent exhaled through his nose. "She was someone Damien cared for. Once."
"What happened to her?"
Vincent's jaw tensed. "That depends on who you ask."
"What if I ask you?"
"She got sick," he said. "Cancer. Late stage."
I blinked. "She's dead?"
"Presumed," Vincent said carefully. "She disappeared two weeks before her final treatment. Damien searched for her. Hired investigators. She was never found."
I stared at him. "And Ava?"
"Ava was Elara's best friend," he said. "Roommates in college. She moved in after Elara got sick to help care for her."
"And now she just… lives here?"
Vincent gave me a long look. "Don't underestimate her, Selene. Ava's loyalty has always been to Damien. Even when it shouldn't have been."
"What do you mean?"
But Vincent stood up. Straightened his jacket.
And left me with more questions than answers.
That night, I found Damien in his study.
Books lined the walls. The fireplace crackled. And he sat behind a heavy walnut desk, swirling whiskey in a crystal glass like something from a gothic painting.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"You didn't have to walk away," I said softly.
"I didn't want to lie," he replied.
My heart squeezed. "Then don't."
Damien finally looked up. His expression is unreadable.
"She was the first woman I let too close," he said. "The first I couldn't control. And the first I couldn't save."
I walked toward him slowly.
"She signed a contract too, didn't she?"
He didn't deny it.
"She said she could handle it," Damien murmured. "Said she just wanted time. Said it was enough."
He looked away. "It wasn't."
Silence.
Then, softly: "Do you still love her?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
I turned to go.
But his voice stopped me at the door.
"You were right to ask," he said. "I won't make you the same promise I made her."
I turned back, heart thudding. "What promise?"
His gaze locked with mine.
"That I'd never fall in love."
Later that night, I lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the ceiling.
Every touch, every look, every breath between us carried the weight of something unfinished.
Something raw.
Something dangerous.
I reached for the drawer again. The photo was still there.
Only this time, there was something new beneath it.
A slip of paper I hadn't seen before.
It had two lines, typed neatly in bold print:
She knew too much.
You're next.
I stared at the note.
The handwriting wasn't Damien's.
And it wasn't Vincent's either.
Which left only one person in the house bold enough to plant it in my room.
Ava.
But the question burned deeper than that.
What did Elara know — and why had it gotten her killed?