Elara had grown used to shadows.
The penthouse was filled with them—long streaks cast by cold lamps, the endless dark stretch of the city at night. But nothing prepared her for the kind of shadows Damian led her into that evening.
It began with a command, simple and curt.
"Get dressed," he said, stepping into her room just after sunset. He didn't bother to knock, didn't ask. He simply stood there in a dark suit that looked as though it had been tailored around his very bones, a black tie knotted at his throat. His presence filled the doorway like an executioner.
She clutched the book she'd been reading tighter. "For what?"
His eyes scanned her once—her bare feet, the soft T-shirt she'd slept in—and lingered just long enough to make heat crawl up her neck. Then he looked away.
"You're coming with me."
"To where?"
"Out."
Her laugh was bitter. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
She wanted to refuse. She wanted to dig in her heels, demand he leave her alone. But some part of her, the reckless part that had screamed at the cameras and dared him to come closer, flared again. If there was even the smallest chance of escape…
"What do I wear?" she asked tightly.
He gave her a long look, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he stepped closer, opened the wardrobe she'd hardly touched since arriving, and slid out a black dress she hadn't even noticed before. Sleek, fitted, elegant, with thin straps that promised no place to hide.
"Wear this," he said.
It felt like another command. Another leash. But she took it, biting back the words on her tongue.
The car was black, sleek, and silent. Two men in suits held the doors open like statues. Damian guided her in with a touch at her back—barely there, but enough to burn.
She sat rigid as the city blurred past, neon lights flashing against tinted windows. The dress clung to her skin, each movement a reminder of how exposed she was. Damian sat beside her, silent, his hand resting casually against his thigh, a study in control.
She wanted to ask where they were going, but the question tasted like surrender. So she stayed quiet, watching reflections slide across the glass.
When the car finally stopped, she thought she'd stepped into another world.
It wasn't a nightclub, though the bass of music pulsed faintly from somewhere inside. It wasn't a restaurant either, though valet attendants whisked cars away with polished efficiency. The building was a fortress dressed as elegance—columns, dark marble, golden lights dripping like liquid fire.
Inside, it was worse.
The air was thick with perfume and smoke, with laughter that sounded too sharp, like knives sliding against glass. Men in suits, women in glittering gowns, jewels at their throats and danger in their smiles. The kind of people who didn't just own the world—they devoured it.
And they all looked at Damian.
Not with casual glances, but with recognition. Fear. Respect. A space opened around him as he entered, like shadows bending around flame.
Elara felt it instantly: the shift, the weight of eyes sliding over her. Curiosity. Judgment. Hunger.
Her skin prickled.
Damian's hand brushed her lower back again, guiding her forward. To everyone watching, it looked like a possessive gesture. To her, it felt like both a warning and a shield.
The room they entered next was worse than the lobby—darker, louder, filled with men smoking cigars, women perched on laps, deals whispered over glasses of whiskey. It smelled of power and danger.
"Elara," Damian said smoothly, his voice low near her ear. "Look straight ahead. Don't speak unless spoken to. And if anyone touches you…" His pause was deliberate. His hand curled slightly against her spine. "…they won't have fingers left."
A chill ran through her, equal parts dread and something else she refused to name.
He led her to a private table tucked into one corner. Men rose to greet him, their smiles sharp as blades.
"Moretti," one said, his accent thick, his grin wide. "We thought you'd keep us waiting all night."
"Business doesn't wait," Damian replied coolly, shaking his hand.
The man's gaze slid to Elara. "And who is this lovely thing?"
Elara stiffened. Damian's arm curved, subtle but firm, pulling her fractionally closer.
"She's mine," he said simply.
Heat shot up her spine at the possessive word. The man laughed, raising his glass.
"Lucky man."
Elara wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at the table, shout that she wasn't his, that she was no one's. But Damian's calm weight beside her held her tongue. She could feel the warning in his posture: don't.
So she sat, her hands curled tightly in her lap, as conversations swirled around her—about money, shipments, betrayals, names she didn't know but recognized as dangerous. Each word was a glimpse into the underworld her father had gambled them into.
And she understood then why Damian had brought her.
Not to free her. Not to tempt her with the outside.
To show her.
To carve into her mind the truth: this was his world. A world of wolves, of vultures. And she was safer in his cage than out there.
At some point, Damian leaned closer, his lips brushing just near her ear as though whispering something tender. To anyone watching, it must have looked intimate. To her, his words were a blade.
"Do you see now, Elara? Do you see what waits if you run?"
Her breath caught. She stared at the glass in front of her, refusing to nod, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
But she couldn't deny it.
Every glance she'd caught that night—hungry, assessing, cruel—told her the truth. Alone, she would be prey.
She hated him for showing her.
She hated herself for believing him.
The night stretched, heavy and suffocating. At last, when the business had shifted to matters too sharp for her ears, Damian rose, pulling her with him.
The car ride back was silent, save for the hum of tires against asphalt.
When they reached the penthouse, she all but fled to her room, slamming the door, pressing her back against it as though to block out the night.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye. The dress. The painted lips. The wary look in her eyes. She didn't look like herself anymore.
She looked like something being remade.
A pawn on his chessboard.
Or worse—his queen.
The thought made her stomach twist.
And yet, somewhere deep, hidden beneath the anger and fear, something else whispered.
She had survived his world tonight.
Maybe she could survive him.