The night pressed against the windows, a suffocating cloak that offered neither comfort nor escape. Elara lay on her side, staring at the outline of the satchel beneath the blanket. Damian's words still echoed inside her skull: Secrets have weight.
Her chest tightened. Sleep was impossible. Memories demanded release.
She closed her eyes—and the darkness swallowed her whole.
It had been raining that night. Not the kind of soft drizzle that whispered against rooftops, but a storm that cracked the city open, drowning its alleys and washing the blood from its streets.
Elara had been hiding in the back room of her employer's club, her fingers shaking as she stacked ledgers. The club was a front—she had known that much—but the depth of rot beneath it only became clear when she overheard the argument.
Two men, their voices sharp, filled the office on the other side of the wall. She had frozen, heart pounding as she listened.
"…names of everyone—our buyers, our couriers, our moles in the precinct. If this gets out, we're finished."
"Elara won't talk. She's too quiet, too… broken."
Her stomach turned. Broken. That's what they thought of her?
The second man snarled. "No risks. We tie up loose ends."
Fear had wrapped around her throat, but instinct screamed louder. She had slipped inside the office once they left, eyes darting to the open drawer. That was when she saw it—the black ledger. Neat, organized, damning.
And she had taken it.
Not out of bravery. Not even out of vengeance. She had taken it because something inside her whispered that if she didn't, she would never leave that place alive.
The door had burst open moments later. Elara remembered the shouts, the scramble, the taste of rain as she fled through the streets clutching the satchel to her chest.
Her eyes flew open. She sat up in bed, chest heaving, the storm of memory still raging in her ears.
A figure sat in the chair across the room.
Elara's breath hitched. Damian.
He lounged as though the room belonged to him—which, in truth, it did. His elbows rested on the armrests, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes glittered with something unreadable in the dim light.
"How long have you been there?" she whispered.
"Long enough," he said smoothly. "You talk in your sleep, Elara."
Her blood went cold. "What… what did I say?"
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "You called out for mercy."
Shame and fury twisted inside her. "You had no right to listen—"
"I have every right," he cut in, his voice like velvet lined with blades. "You live under my roof. You breathe because I allow it. And yet, you keep secrets from me."
His gaze slid to the satchel. "That bag isn't just yours. Not anymore. It belongs to me now, whether you admit it or not."
Elara hugged her arms around herself, defiance warring with terror. "You can't own the truth, Damian."
He rose from the chair, his presence swallowing the space between them. The air thickened as he reached her bedside, his hand brushing her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"No," he murmured. "But I can own you."
Her breath trembled, her heart caught in a dangerous rhythm.
And in that moment, Elara realized something more terrifying than the storm outside, more damning than the ledger itself—
Part of her wasn't afraid of belonging to him.