Midnight crept in like a thief.
Elara sat in darkness, the glow of the clock mocking her with every passing minute. Her hands trembled as she slipped on the black cloak she had found in the wardrobe—something simple, plain, easy to hide in. She told herself it was only precaution, but deep down, she knew she was preparing for betrayal.
The mansion was still, but stillness never meant safety. Damian's house was alive with invisible eyes, guards at every door, cameras in every corner. She knew the risks; one wrong step could end with her dragged back, thrown at his feet like prey.
And yet she moved.
Barefoot, silent, she slipped from the room, clutching her phone like a lifeline. The hall stretched long and golden, chandeliers glittering faintly above her, their crystals catching moonlight. Her heart pounded so hard she was certain it would betray her.
She crept past the staircase, every shadow her enemy, every creak of the floor a knife against her nerves. At one point, a guard's footsteps echoed down the corridor, steady and unhurried. She pressed herself into the alcove behind a marble pillar, barely breathing until he passed.
Finally, she reached the glass doors at the far end of the mansion. Beyond them, the garden shimmered faintly, the greenhouse rising from the darkness like a jewel. Its windows gleamed under the moon, throwing fractured light across the manicured grounds.
The glass garden.
Her fingers hovered over the handle. A part of her screamed to turn back, to return to her cage where at least the rules were clear, where Damian's wrath was terrifying but familiar. But the message pulsed in her mind, sharp and urgent: If you don't come tonight, you may never get another chance.
She opened the door.
The night air hit her skin, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of roses and wet earth. The path stretched before her, white stone glimmering under the stars. Each step toward the greenhouse was heavier than the last, as if chains still clung to her ankles.
The glass garden loomed closer. Its panes glistened with condensation, glowing faintly from within. She reached the doors, her hands slick with sweat, and pushed.
Inside, warmth enveloped her instantly. The air smelled of orchids, lilies, roses blooming unnaturally out of season. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water onto soil.
And then—
"You came."
Elara spun, her heart leaping into her throat.
The figure stepped out from behind a wall of climbing ivy. He wasn't dressed like Damian's men—no suit, no tie. Just dark clothes that blended into the shadows. His face was partially obscured by the hood, but his eyes… she recognized them. The same eyes that had watched her from across the street.
The man in the shadows.
Her voice faltered. "Who are you?"
He lowered the hood, just enough for the moonlight to catch his features. A scar cut across his cheek, sharp and unforgiving, but his mouth curved in something between defiance and relief.
"Someone who remembers you before he stole you."
Her knees weakened, confusion flooding her. "Before…?"
The man stepped closer, but not too close, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of trust. "I don't have time to explain everything now. But you need to know—Damian isn't invincible. And tomorrow, when he tests you, he'll put you in the hands of someone who wants you dead."
Elara's breath came in shallow bursts. Her chest burned with questions, her body taut with fear. "Why should I trust you?"
His eyes softened, just barely. "Because I'm the only one who's telling you the truth."
The words sank into her like a blade.
Behind her, the glass panes of the garden creaked as though the mansion itself was listening. Somewhere in the distance, a guard's voice echoed faintly.
Elara realized with a start—time was running out.