Damian lay quietly on his bed, the ceiling above him blurred by the storm raging in his mind. The stillness of the room did little to soothe him. Instead, it pressed against him, suffocating in its silence. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and his hands lay limply at his sides as though even moving them would cost too much strength.
He had thought prison had shown him every cruelty life could offer. The iron bars, the endless nights of regret, the stench of hopelessness that seeped into his skin he thought he had survived the worst of it. But nothing, not even those years of torment, had prepared him for what awaited him outside those walls.
Abigail.
Her name cut through his thoughts like a jagged blade. The woman he had once loved with a fire that consumed every corner of his being, the woman he would have sacrificed everything for and indeed had sacrificed everything for was now his father's wife. Not only his wife, but the mother of his child.
It was too much to process.
He pressed a palm against his forehead, shutting his eyes tight. Memories tumbled one after the other, ruthless and unforgiving. He remembered holding Abigail's hand under the stars, whispering promises of a future they would build together. He remembered believing that no chain, no storm, no force in the world could break what they had.
But the world had broken it.
The cruel irony of fate mocked him. While he rotted behind bars, Abigail had become part of the very household that bore his name. His father's house. His father's wife. His father's child.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. It was a hollow sound, one that echoed off the walls and faded into nothing. How could life be so cruel?
As he drowned in his thoughts, the door creaked open. Damian turned his head slowly, too weary to rise. The tall, commanding figure of Mr. Jacob—his father, filled the doorway.
"Why did you suddenly leave that way?" Jacob asked, his tone steady but lined with curiosity. He stepped into the room with the air of a man who was always in control, yet beneath his commanding presence was the subtle trace of concern only a father could wear.
Damian said nothing. His silence was heavy, deliberate. He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, trying to mask the storm within.
Jacob's eyes narrowed as he studied his son. He noted the pallor of his face, the stillness of his frame. For a man who had just returned home after years in prison, Damian looked more haunted than ever. Jacob's instincts stirred uneasily. He approached the bed, lowering himself slightly to touch Damian's forehead, checking his temperature like a father would a child.
"Are you alright?" he asked, softer this time.
Damian finally broke his silence, his voice low and worn. "I'm fine, Dad. I just… need some rest."
Jacob hesitated. He wasn't convinced, but he didn't press immediately. Instead, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. The silence between them stretched, heavy with all the words they had never said to each other.
"You know," Jacob began slowly, "whatever it is you're carrying, you could tell me. You don't always have to keep it to yourself."
Damian sat up, dragging his body upright as though it carried chains heavier than prison had ever placed on him. His eyes, dark with exhaustion, met his father's. "I'm truly fine, Dad. Just… let me rest."
Jacob searched his son's face, trying to pierce the mask he wore. After a moment, he exhaled and stood. "If you say so, I'll let you be." His voice carried a faint trace of disappointment. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. His back stiffened slightly, and his voice grew quieter, almost wistful.
"How I wish sometimes your mother, Mary, was still here with us."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Without waiting for a response, Jacob opened the door and walked away, leaving Damian alone with the shadows of memory.
Damian stared at the door long after it closed. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the elegant mirror that stood against the far wall. The mirror was tall, framed with gold, reflecting not just his figure but the weight of his past.
He looked into his own reflection, and his mind drifted back to the years long gone—to the days when his mother was still alive.
----
Flashback: The Family Dinner
He was seven years old, sulking in this very room, refusing to attend the family dinner his mother had prepared. He had wanted to go watch a movie with his friends, and the thought of sitting at the dinner table felt like punishment.
But his mother, Mary, had walked into the room with her usual grace. Her smile was warm but firm, her presence filling the space like sunlight.
"You know, Damian," she had said as she knelt to straighten his shirt, "being a boss is nice. Most times, it means I have everything under control. But being a mother is more. I would give up everything for our family."
He had pouted, resisting, but she took his hand and led him out anyway. At the dinner table, she taught him a lesson that stuck with him for life—that family was more important than business, more important than pleasure, more important than anything else.
Even after her passing, that lesson had remained engraved in his heart: family is everything.
---
Flashback: The Flight to London
Another memory flooded his mind, this one from when he was eleven. He sat beside his mother in a private jet on their way to London. She had been glued to her laptop, her fingers dancing across the keys with tireless precision, while he played polo on his handheld console.
Hours passed. The attendants served breakfast. Damian turned to her and asked, "Mom, aren't you going to eat?"
"Just after I finish this," she replied without looking up.
By the next morning, she was still working. Damian watched her silently, frustration and sadness rising within him until he could no longer contain it. "Is making money that important, Mom?"
Mary paused, her hands freezing on the keyboard. She turned slowly to face him, her eyes softening. She set the laptop aside, then reached into her bag and pulled out a thick bundle of dollar bills.
"Come here," she said.
Damian walked over, curious. She held up the money. "What is this?"
"Money," he answered.
"Yes. Money. With money, you can buy this—" she pointed at her luxurious handbag, "—and this—" she gestured at her diamond necklace, "—and even this plane we're on. Money is good, Damian. It's powerful. But life is not just about money. It's not just about being the best or winning first honors, though I want you to keep doing that." She took his hand, placing the bundle of cash in it before gently taking it back.
"What matters most," she continued, "is strength. No matter what life throws at you, stand tall. For us Elizurs, giving up is never an option. Our family, our company they're everything. Never forget that."
Her words echoed through time, and now, staring at his reflection, Damian felt them carve into his soul anew.
---
He whispered to himself, his voice breaking. "I will be the man you always wanted me to be, Mom. Love is blind… and life is nothing to me now. But I will not break."
---
Nightfall.
As darkness draped itself across the city, the Elizur mansion came alive with light. Chandeliers blazed from every ceiling, laughter spilled into the halls, and the air buzzed with music and clinking glasses. Guests filled the grand ballroom, nobles, businessmen, and allies gathered to witness the return of Jacob's only son.
The scent of expensive wine mixed with the sweetness of roses that adorned the tables. Servants moved swiftly, ensuring every guest was cared for. At the center of it all stood Mr. Jacob, tall and commanding, his presence impossible to ignore.
When the music softened and the murmurs quieted, Jacob raised a hand. His voice boomed across the room, strong and resolute.
"Tonight is more than a celebration. Tonight, I welcome my son, Damian Elizur, back into this house, back into this family. His absence has been long, but his return marks the beginning of a new era for us."
Polite applause filled the hall, though beneath the surface, whispers swirled. Many guests still remembered Damian's imprisonment. Questions lingered in their eyes, though none dared voice them openly.
Jacob's expression hardened, then softened again with a rare smile. "I also have an announcement to make. One I have waited to share until the day my son returned to us. Tonight, that moment has come. But first—let us drink, let us dance, let us celebrate."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Music swelled once more.
Damian stood at the edge of the room, his posture stiff, his eyes scanning the faces that greeted him with false warmth. He felt the weight of every stare, every whisper. He felt Abigail's gaze from across the hall, her eyes shadowed with emotions she dared not reveal.
And amidst it all, far from the glittering halls of the mansion, in a quiet town in London, another story began to stir.
---
Menalla Harper sat by the window of her small London apartment, the soft light of a lamp illuminating her desk. Her life was simple, quiet, far removed from the grandiosity of the Elizurs. A reporter by profession, she lived alone, her only companions the endless stacks of newspapers, notes, and old journals scattered across her room.
But Menalla was not ordinary. Behind her calm demeanor was a sharp mind and a relentless curiosity that often led her into stories others feared to touch.
That night, as she sipped her tea, her phone buzzed with a message. A name appeared on her screen, the Elizure's
She frowned, setting the cup down. Her reporter's instincts stirred. Something was happening, something bigger than the quiet life she had built.
And though she didn't yet know it, her path was about to cross with Damian's in ways neither could foresee.
The night had only just begun.