Elara learned quickly that silence in Damian's penthouse was never safe.
It was heavy, expectant, like the stillness before a storm. Every quiet moment seemed to belong to him — even when he wasn't in the room.
That morning, she woke to the sound of voices beyond her door. Low, masculine, urgent. Not the hushed movements of staff, but something sharper, faster, like the rumble of men carrying secrets.
She slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, pressing her ear against the wood.
"… shipment was late," one voice said. "The docks are crawling tonight. Too much heat."
A pause. Then Damian's voice, calm, deep, unshakable. "I don't care about excuses. Fix it."
Elara's pulse jumped. He was right there. Close.
Another man muttered something she couldn't catch. Then the sound of footsteps retreating, the low hum of the elevator.
She barely had time to dart back before the knock came.
"Elara," Damian's voice called. "Get dressed."
Her chest tightened. She hesitated, just long enough for defiance to spark. "Why?"
"Because," he said, quieter now, "I'm done letting you rot in your room."
Her fingers curled into the blanket. Rot? That's what he thought she'd been doing? Maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Still, the way he said it—like she was a pet left in a cage too long—lit fire in her veins.
But when she cracked the door open, his eyes caught hers, steel-gray and waiting, and she knew refusal wasn't an option.
The suit he wore that day was charcoal, the jacket cut sharp, his watch glinting against his wrist. He looked like he'd been born in it.
"You're coming with me," he said simply.
She folded her arms. "Another… party?"
The corner of his mouth lifted—mockery, not amusement. "Not tonight. Business."
Her brows knitted. "And I'm supposed to just… what? Sit quietly while you threaten people?"
"Observe." His gaze sharpened. "Learn."
She scoffed. "Learn what?"
"That this world doesn't forgive weakness."
Something inside her recoiled. He wanted her to see. To understand his world so thoroughly she'd never dream of leaving.
"Get ready," he said, his voice final, before turning away.
The drive was long, weaving through parts of the city she'd never dared to walk alone. The skyline gave way to industrial skeletons—warehouses, docks, looming cranes that swung over black water.
The car pulled up beside a warehouse with corrugated steel walls, its windows glowing faintly yellow. Two men waited outside, both armed, both stiffening the moment Damian stepped out.
Elara followed reluctantly, the wind whipping her hair. Salt stung her nose, mingled with the bitter tang of oil and rust.
Inside, the warehouse felt like a stage. Harsh lights swung overhead, illuminating stacks of crates, forklifts, and the hunched figures of men who straightened quickly at Damian's approach.
Conversations stopped. Cigarettes were crushed out.
He owned the room without a word.
Elara stayed close to the wall, pulse thundering. She felt their eyes on her—the workers, the guards, all wondering who she was. Some looked curious, others hungry. She wanted to vanish.
Damian didn't introduce her. He didn't have to. His hand brushed her back once, barely there, but the message was clear: she was his shadow.
Business began.
Men brought reports, speaking quickly, nervously. Shipments, routes, numbers. Elara didn't understand half of it, but she understood the tone: they feared him.
When one man stumbled over an excuse—"Customs has been tighter, we couldn't—" —Damian's voice cut through the air.
"You had options. You chose wrong."
The man swallowed, nodding frantically.
"Fix it," Damian said coldly. "Or you're done."
No yelling. No threats. Just certainty. And somehow, that was worse.
Elara's stomach twisted. This was power. Not loud, not messy. Cold. Efficient.
At one point, Damian stepped away with two lieutenants, voices low. Left alone, Elara felt eyes crawl over her again.
One man leaned against a crate, smirking. "Didn't think Moretti kept pets."
Her throat tightened. She opened her mouth, but before words could escape, a shadow fell over her.
Damian.
He hadn't heard what was said—she was sure of it—but the look he gave the man was enough.
The smirk vanished. The man paled.
Elara felt her lungs fill again.
And hated herself for it.
After hours that felt like days, Damian finally signaled her toward the exit.
Outside, the air was colder, sharper, laced with the stink of sea and diesel. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shake the warehouse off her skin.
The car door shut behind them, sealing her in the leather-scented dark.
"You hate me more now," Damian said. Not a question. A statement.
She stared out the window. "You enjoy that, don't you? Showing me how… ruthless you are. Making me watch."
His gaze burned into the side of her face. "You think this is about enjoyment?"
"Isn't it?" she snapped, finally turning to him. "Dragging me there, parading me in front of your men, making sure I see how untouchable you are—"
His hand moved fast. Not to strike, not to grab, but to catch her chin, forcing her eyes to his. His fingers were firm, not cruel, his gaze sharp enough to cut.
"I brought you because you need to understand," he said quietly. "If you want to survive me, survive this, you can't close your eyes to it."
Her chest heaved. "I don't want to survive you."
His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw—barely there, almost tender, yet terrifying in its control.
"Liar," he whispered.
Her heart thrashed against her ribs. She wanted to deny it, to spit in his face, but the word stuck in her throat.
Because deep down, survival was all she wanted.
Even if it meant surviving him.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
When they reached the penthouse, Damian didn't follow her in. He lingered by the door, speaking quietly with a guard, his back turned.
Elara slipped away to her room, shutting the door behind her, sliding down until she was curled against it.
Her hands shook.
Not from fear of him—not only that—but from the way his words had lodged themselves in her chest.
If you want to survive me, you can't close your eyes.
And she hated that some part of her believed him.
She hated it almost as much as she hated him.