Ann woke up before dawn, her body still warm from Damian's touch, but her mind restless. She lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to his steady breathing beside her. His arm was draped possessively over her waist, as if even in sleep, he refused to let her go.
She gently lifted his hand and slipped out from under him, careful not to wake him. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold marble floor as she tiptoed toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway — the door Damian always kept locked.
Her pulse pounded as she reached for the knob. Of course, it was locked. But last night, she had seen him slip the key into the inside pocket of his suit jacket before carelessly tossing it over a chair.
Quietly, Ann padded back to the bedroom. Damian was still fast asleep, one arm stretched across her side of the bed. She could almost believe he was just an ordinary husband, not the man who sent cold threats down the phone at midnight.
Holding her breath, she reached for the jacket draped over the chair. Her fingers found the small metal key, cold and sharp against her skin. For a moment, guilt stabbed at her — but the secrets were too heavy now. She had to know.
Ann crept back down the hallway, the key clutched tightly in her trembling hand. She pushed it into the lock. The door clicked open with a soft groan. She hesitated, heart hammering, then pushed it wide enough to slip inside.
The room was dimly lit by a single desk lamp. Stacks of files were piled on a long wooden table. A wall covered in pinned photographs made her throat go dry. Faces. Names. Documents. Some were crossed out in red ink. Some had dates scribbled beside them.
In the center was a photo of her — Ann, smiling, carefree, taken months ago before she ever met Damian. Underneath it, written in his sharp handwriting, were two words that made her blood run cold: Asset Secured.
She didn't hear him until it was too late. She spun around, and Damian was there — standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but loose black pants, his eyes darker than she'd ever seen them.
"Looking for something, Ann?"
She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. "What… what is all this, Damian? Who are these people? Why is my picture here?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that sounded more like a threat than safety. He didn't shout. He didn't move to grab her. He just watched her — like a wolf deciding whether to devour or spare its prey.
"I told you, Ann. There are things you're safer not knowing."
She clutched the edge of the desk behind her, needing something solid to keep her from sinking. "You used me. Didn't you? From the beginning."
He walked closer, and she hated how her heart betrayed her — racing for him, even when fear made her knees weak.
Damian raised his hand to touch her face, but she flinched back. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes — regret? Or just annoyance that his puppet had found its strings?
"I protected you," he said, his voice low and cold. "I still am. But now you've seen too much."
Ann's breath caught in her throat. "What does that mean?"
He stepped closer, trapping her between the desk and his bare chest. His fingers brushed her hair behind her ear, gentle, deceptive. "It means, my sweet wife…" His lips hovered just above hers, his breath warm and dangerous. "Now you have no choice but to stay."
Before she could answer, he kissed her — rougher than before, as if he could erase her questions with the taste of him. Ann hated how she melted into it, how his touch still made her forget everything except the heat between them.
But this time, even as his lips claimed hers, her eyes stayed open — staring past his shoulder at the photo of herself pinned to the wall.
This time, she knew. And she would never trust him the same way again.