Chapter Five
The note sat on the nightstand like a wound.
She knew too much.
You're next.
Two lines. No signature.
Just the stale scent of lavender perfume lingering behind.
Ava's perfume.
The same kind she wore every time she slithered past Damien with that practiced smile.
I didn't sleep that night. I barely even blinked.
My mind kept replaying Elara's smile in that photograph — delicate and fading — and then imagining how it must have twisted into horror when she realized she was in over her head.
Like I was now.
By morning, the world felt thinner. My head pounded, and my chest was tight.
I moved on instinct, pulling on a silk blouse and tailored black slacks from the closet Damien had filled for me. The note was folded and stuffed in my bra — close to my heart, like a secret.
The kitchen was quiet. No Damien. No Vincent.
But Ava?
She was waiting.
Leaning against the island in white silk, flawless as always. Her copper hair swept into a low bun, her green eyes sharp behind the mask of indifference.
She held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand. The other stirred it lazily.
Like a witch mixing poison.
"You look like hell," she said smoothly, not looking up.
"Did you leave something in my room?" I asked calmly.
She finally glanced at me. Smiled faintly. "A little late to start accusing me of trespassing, sweetheart. You're the one who's playing house in my ex's bedroom."
I stepped closer. "Elara didn't die, did she?"
Ava's smile faltered — just for a second.
It was quick, like a blink. But I saw it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said flatly.
"Because she left? Or because you made her?"
That got her.
She set the mug down, slowly, like she wanted to throw it but couldn't afford to crack the porcelain.
"You have no idea what you're in the middle of," Ava said, stepping toward me.
I didn't move.
"Damien's heart is a locked room," she whispered. "Women like Elara — and now you — you all think you're the key. But you're just the noise he lets in while he waits for silence again."
"Then why are you still here?" I asked.
She stared at me.
For the first time, I saw something beneath her polished cruelty.
Loneliness. Bitterness. Something so dark it chilled me.
"Because unlike you, Selene, I know how to survive him."
Later that afternoon, I found Damien in the stables, brushing down a black stallion with white eyes and a temper to match his owner's.
He wore black riding pants, boots, and a fitted gray sweater that clung to every lean muscle. The breeze lifted strands of his dark hair, but he didn't seem to notice.
He looked like he belonged to another world.
And maybe he did.
"I want answers," I said, walking toward him. "No more silence."
He didn't look at me, just kept brushing.
"What did Elara know?" I demanded.
"Too much," he said quietly.
He finally turned.
"Enough to make her dangerous. Enough to make her a threat to someone close to me."
I stepped closer. "Ava?"
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. The contact made my heart stutter.
"You need to stop asking questions that will get you hurt," Damien murmured. "You're not her."
"I'm not trying to be her," I said, eyes locked on his. "But I won't be your blind pet either."
There was heat in the air between us now. Sharp. Cracking.
And then suddenly, he grabbed my wrist.
Not hard.
But enough to pull me close. To make me feel the raw heat of his breath.
"I warned you," he whispered. "I warned you I wouldn't protect your heart. Why are you still here?"
My voice trembled, but not from fear.
"Because I want to know who you are, Damien."
A pause.
Then his lips crashed into mine.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't kind.
It was fire and desperation and possession all at once.
I gasped, and his hands slid into my hair, gripping me like he could anchor himself through the storm building between us.
My body pressed to his, and he deepened the kiss with a growl that made my knees buckle.
His mouth tasted like whiskey and winter.
His hands were heat over my spine, my hips, my lower back — tracing the curve of my body like he needed to memorize it.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless.
Shaking.
But not afraid.
"I shouldn't have done that," Damien said hoarsely, stepping back.
"But you did," I whispered.
His eyes locked on mine — thunderclouds of something unspoken.
Desire. Guilt. Regret.
And something deeper.
Something dangerous.
That night, I searched the east wing again.
The wing Ava never let anyone enter.
Half the doors were locked.
But one wasn't.
Inside was a room that looked like a museum. A shrine.
And on the far wall, a large portrait.
Of Elara.
Wearing white. Looking ethereal. Painted with the same delicate smile I'd seen in the photo.
But in this version, she wore a wedding ring.
And in the bottom corner of the canvas… a signature.
A.D.
Ava.
I stepped back, breath catching.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I spun.
And froze.
Ava stood in the doorway, her face pale.
"You shouldn't be in here," she said softly.
But this time… she wasn't smiling.