The private elevator rose in silence, its glass walls reflecting Elena's pale face. Damian stood beside her, hands tucked into his pockets, calm as if he hadn't just shackled her life to his.
She wanted to scream at him, demand answers, tear up the contract she had just signed. But her throat felt tight, her fury locked behind clenched teeth. Rage and fear battled inside her, but neither changed the fact that she was following him deeper into his world.
The doors opened onto an entire floor drenched in luxury. Polished marble stretched across wide hallways, walls lined with dark wood and discreet security cameras. The air smelled faintly of leather and power.
"This is where you'll work," Damian said, his voice low, measured, carrying the weight of inevitability.
He led her through a glass corridor into a secluded office suite. A single room, expansive but windowless, waited with a sleek desk, dual monitors, and a locked filing cabinet. It was pristine, too pristine, as if waiting for someone to fill it.
Her.
"You've given me a prison cell," she said coldly.
His lips curved slightly. "A gilded one."
Elena turned on him, fire sparking in her chest. "You don't get to cage me."
"Yet you're still here," he countered smoothly. "Don't confuse defiance with freedom."
Damian moved behind her, brushing past to place a slim laptop on the desk. His nearness unsettled her—his cologne, crisp and dark, the warmth of his presence too close.
"This machine is clean," he said. "No outside networks, no unsecured connections. Everything you access will route through me."
"So you'll watch everything I do?"
"Of course."
Her nails dug into her palm. "You don't trust me."
"I don't trust anyone," he corrected. Then, softer, "But I expect results."
He tapped the laptop's lid. "Open it. Your first assignment is inside."
Elena slid into the chair, unwilling to show hesitation. The laptop came alive with a muted chime, revealing a folder already waiting on the desktop. Labeled in stark, bold font: Orion Holdings.
She clicked. Spreadsheets filled the screen, rows of numbers dancing before her eyes—transfer logs, coded payments, offshore accounts buried behind shell corporations.
At first glance, they looked clean, too clean. But as Elena's trained eyes skimmed the columns, anomalies whispered at her. Numbers that should have rounded off neatly trailed into jagged decimals. Transfers between shell companies doubled back on themselves, looping like smoke rings.
Hidden trails. Someone had tried to bury something here.
"You want me to audit this?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the screen.
"I want you to tell me what no one else could see," Damian said. His voice had edged closer; she realized he was leaning against the desk, watching her study the files.
She kept her gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge how his nearness quickened her pulse. "And what if I find something?"
"You will."
"And then what?"
His silence was heavy, deliberate. When she finally glanced up, he was looking at her with the calm certainty of a man who never doubted his control.
"Then," he said quietly, "you'll understand why I needed you."
Hours slipped by as she worked. Damian left her once, and the air eased. Alone, she lost herself in the data, tracing hidden patterns, uncovering anomalies carefully stitched into the financial web. The deeper she went, the colder her blood ran.
One name surfaced again and again, tied to dummy corporations, coded accounts: Marcus Hale.
Her fingers froze above the keyboard. The name was familiar—she'd seen it whispered in articles, tied to Damian's company. Rumors about a board member who had vanished after a heated meeting last year.
Hale was missing. Presumed dead.
And here his name was, ghosting through hidden accounts like a signature that refused to fade.
The room had grown darker by the time the door opened again. Damian entered, jacket draped over his arm, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His presence filled the space, carrying with it a sharp edge of midnight danger.
"You're still here," he observed.
"I found something," Elena said, her voice low, tight. She gestured at the screen. "Marcus Hale. These transfers… they point to him."
For the first time, Damian's composure cracked—just slightly. A flicker in his eyes, quickly masked.
"Careful," he said.
Her pulse spiked. "Careful of what? Of asking why your missing partner's name is written all over these accounts?"
Damian stepped closer, his shadow spilling over her. "Careful," he repeated, "of assuming you know more than you do."
Before Elena could answer, the laptop chimed. A new message appeared, overlaying the spreadsheets.
Anonymous sender. No subject line. Only one sentence, glowing like a threat in the dim light:
Walk away. Or disappear like the last one.
Her breath hitched. "What the hell—"
Damian leaned over her shoulder, his hand gripping the back of her chair, reading the words with icy calm. His proximity sent a confusing jolt through her—half fear, half something far more dangerous.
"They're watching me," she whispered.
"No." His voice was quiet, lethal. "They're watching us."
Elena's skin prickled as the reality sank in. Whatever she had stepped into wasn't just dangerous—it was deadly.
And Damian Voss had just chained her to the center of it.