Damian
The meeting came to an end, chairs scraping back as investors rose one by one. I had barely stood before their hands came at me. Firm shakes, claps on the back, voices tumbling over each other.
"Congratulations, Blackwell."
"Didn't think you had it in you, son."
"You bagged yourself a beautiful woman."
I gave them the same practiced smile, rehearsed and polite. It felt like armor. Each word pressed heavy, not for the company I'd built, but about the lie of an engagement I hadn't planned.
Then came the voice I depised most.
"Well, well," my uncle drawled, sliding out from the group. His smile was all teeth, the kind that never reached the eyes. "Engaged at last. Never thought I'd see the day."
I kept my jaw locked. "Uncle."
He took my hand, grip too long, too tight, like ownership disguised as affection. "You must bring your lovely fiancée to dinner. Tomorrow night. The family should meet her."
"No need," I replied evenly. "Elle isn't fond of the spotlight, and we'll likely be too busy."
His grin sharpened. "Ah. Trouble in paradise already?" He raised his voice just enough for a few nearby heads to turn.
My chest tightened. His smirk cut deep, carrying more venom than words. He'd mastered the art of saying little and wounding more. Never direct, always enough poison to remind me he still saw me as that boy who lost everything. This wasn't congratulations. It was a test. Poking for weakness.
I forced a nod. "Of course not. We'll be there."
His satisfaction was instant. He patted my shoulder like he'd won something, then walked away. I let him go.
The moment I was clear, I pulled out my phone. One number. The only man I trusted.
"Mr. Alfred," I said the second he answered, "tell me the truth. Does this engagement buy me time?"
His voice was steady, the same as it had been twelve years ago when I buried my parents. "It buys you space, Damian. The board and your uncle will move slower now. But not for long."
My grip on the phone tightened. "How much time do I have?"
"Not enough," he said quietly. "An engagement isn't binding. A marriage is."
The words landed heavy.
When the line went dead, I stood in the hall, staring at nothing. Marriage had never been in my plans. Now it was being forced onto the table, a chess move to save everything my father left me.
Back in my office, the quiet was heavier than before. I paced, dragging a hand through my hair, each step harder than the one before.
Elle.
How had she known?
Those words she had thrown at me earlier… about the heir, about losing the company. Words no one outside that meeting could have heard.
Had she overheard something? No. That meeting was sealed tight. Which meant... what? That she guessed? Impossible.
I replayed her face in my mind—those sharp eyes, the defiance in her tone, the way she'd walked out on me without fear. She had fire, but this wasn't fire. This was knowledge she shouldn't have.
The burn in my chest deepened.
She was a problem. And problems demanded answers.
I snatched up the phone again, my voice low, clipped. "Send Camila to my office. Now."
Moments later, there was a knock. Then the door creaked.
Camila stepped in, shoulders tight, eyes down. "You asked for me, sir?"
I didn't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, heavy enough to make her shift on her feet. Finally, I gestured at the chair. "Sit."
She lowered herself onto the edge like it burned. Fingers knotted in her lap, twisting tight.
"You've worked here long enough to know I don't waste words," my voice was flat. "So tell me. Your bestfriend, Elle Morgan. How well do you know her?"
Camila shifted in her seat, eyes flicking away. "Since university. We've been best friends ever since. Roommates." The words tumbled out too quick.
I let the silence sit until she fidgeted.
Her voice wavered. "Sir, if this is about the engagement… I—I'm sure it was just… some kind of mix-up. It doesn't have to mean anything."
"Mix up?" I leaned forward. "Your best friend repeated details from a private board discussion this morning. Details not even the staff in this company should ever have access to. Tell me, Camila... how would Elle know that?"
Her head snapped up. Eyes wide. "She didn't. She couldn't. Elle doesn't care about this. She doesn't even know half of what I do here." Her eyes were pleading now. "She's not... she's not part this world, sir."
I said nothing. Just watched. Her breaths grew shallow under the weight of it.
Finally, I spoke. "Then prove it."
Her head jerked up..
"Camila," I let her name drag slow, "if you want to keep this job, you'll watch her. You'll pay attention. And when you see something you've missed, you'll bring it to me."
She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. "Sir… she's my best friend."
"That's why you'll get answers," I said flatly. "Because she trusts you. Use it."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"That will be all." I pushed back my chair. She stood slowly, unease written on her face.
One last thing, I added as she reached the door. "Tell Elle to be ready by eight tomorrow. There's a function. Tell her not to make me wait."
"Y-yes, sir," she whispered, and slipped out.
The office closed around me. Her steps softened in the hall. I set my jaw and let the question hang in the quiet.
Elle Morgan.
Who are you, really?