Chapter Seven
The city blurred past the tinted car windows, its neon glow washing over Celine's face like war paint.
She sat alone in the backseat of the black car Julian had sent, the invitation card still clutched between her fingers. Her pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. She should've been afraid — but fear had dulled into something colder.
Resolve.
Damian had tried to stop her. His voice still rang in her ears: "You don't know what they'll do to you in there."
But she was done being protected, locked away like a porcelain doll under glass. She needed answers — about her father, about the contract, about why Julian had looked at her like she was both a weapon and inheritance.
The car slowed.
They'd arrived.
Club Silhouette stood nestled between two nondescript towers, its sleek black exterior void of signage — just a single crimson light above the door. No line. No noise. Just silence.
Two guards in matte suits opened the car door for her. Neither spoke.
Inside, the world changed.
Dim lighting. Velvet walls. Shadows that whispered. And elegance laced with danger.
A woman in a crimson dress stepped forward — tall, with silver-blonde hair pinned back like a crown and lips the color of blood. Her eyes were icy blue, emotionless.
"Miss Celine Marlowe," she said in a crisp accent. "We've been expecting you."
Celine nodded once. "I'm here to see Julian."
The woman tilted her head. "Julian only opens doors. What you find behind them… is yours to carry."
Before Celine could respond, the woman turned, heels silent on the plush carpet, leading her down a dim hallway that curved like a serpent. Each door they passed was closed, guarded, and humming with secrets.
They reached a black double door.
The woman paused.
"One rule," she said. "You ask your questions. You hear the truth. But once you leave, you cannot pretend you never came."
Celine's stomach turned — but she nodded.
The woman opened the door.
And Celine stepped into another world.
It wasn't a club.
It was a masquerade of power.
Men and women in suits and gowns lounged in velvet chairs, swirling dark drinks in crystal glasses, half their faces covered in masks of gold, silver, and onyx. A jazz quartet played something low and sinful in the corner.
Julian stood at the center, no mask, no fear — like the devil in his own house.
"Ah," he drawled, raising his glass. "The princess has come to claim her crown."
Celine walked to him, head held high.
"I didn't come for theatrics."
He smiled. "No. You came for the truth. And you're going to wish you hadn't."
He gestured to a secluded booth wrapped in red drapes. She followed him inside, where sound from the outside dulled.
He slid the flash drive across the table.
Celine eyed it. "What's on it?"
Julian's eyes sharpened. "The original contract between your father and Damian Blackwood. The one that handed you over… years ago."
Her breath caught. "What do you mean 'handed me over'?"
Julian leaned back, fingers steepled. "Your father was brilliant, brutal — and drowning in debt. Damian bailed him out. In return, your father promised him the one thing he had left of value."
Celine shook her head, blood rushing in her ears. "Me."
Julian nodded. "You were only sixteen when the deal was inked. But your father signed the terms in blood."
Her voice cracked. "What were they?"
Julian tapped the table. "That you would belong to Damian — by marriage or by contract — before your twenty-fifth birthday. If not… Damian would take control of every Marlowe asset."
Celine's mind reeled.
The engagement. The arrangement. The timing. All of it.
Damian hadn't just accepted her into his life.
He'd been waiting for her.
Julian slid a second document across the table — aged, creased, and unmistakably signed by Stephen Marlowe and Damian Blackwood.
"But here's the real twist," Julian said quietly. "Damian didn't come to your father. Your father went to him."
Celine stared at him, throat dry. "Why?"
Julian leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Because Damian already had something your father feared."
Celine's chest tightened. "What?"
Julian smiled like a man holding a blade behind his back.
"That's the part Damian never wanted you to find out."
Celine's nails dug into the plush leather seat as her eyes burned over the contract in front of her. Her father's signature was unmistakable — that neat, slanted scrawl she'd memorized from birthday cards and forged excuses on school absence forms. But beside it, bold and deliberate, was another signature.
Damian Blackwood.
The man who haunted her days with silence and her nights with dreams she hated herself for having.
Her voice was a whisper. "Why didn't he tell me?"
Julian leaned forward, face suddenly devoid of amusement. "Because Damian plays the long game, Celine. He's the kind of man who only reveals what he has to — and only when it benefits him."
"But I thought—" Her throat closed. "I thought he was protecting me."
Julian's smile turned razor-sharp. "Maybe he is. Or maybe he's protecting what he already owns."
The air around them thickened.
Celine reached for the flash drive, but Julian placed his hand on top of it.
"I'll give it to you," he said. "But there's something you should know before you decide what to do with it."
She narrowed her eyes. "What?"
Julian pulled a thin, leather-bound file from inside his suit jacket and opened it slowly — revealing a photograph.
Celine's blood froze.
It was of her mother. Beautiful, smiling, standing beside her father… and another man.
Not Damian. Not Julian.
Someone else.
"You recognize her, of course," Julian said. "But this man?" He tapped the corner of the photo. "This is who your father feared. And this man is why Damian had leverage over him."
Celine swallowed. "Who is he?"
Julian looked at her, almost gently.
"Her lover."
Her pulse screamed in her ears.
"You're lying."
"I don't need to lie," Julian said. "Your mother was going to leave your father. That man — Rafael Moreau — was one of the most dangerous names in European finance. Ruthless. Obsessive. And when your father found out about their affair, he tried to destroy him."
"But Damian—"
"Was the only one who could stop your father's plan from spiraling into bloodshed." Julian's voice was low. "In exchange, he wanted something of equal value. A way to ensure your father never tried to cross him again."
Celine felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
"That something," Julian said quietly, "was you."
Tears prickled behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
She stood abruptly. "You're enjoying this."
Julian leaned back with a smirk. "Of course I am. You're the daughter of the man who ruined everything I built. But don't mistake my pleasure for cruelty — if I truly wanted revenge, I wouldn't be offering you the truth."
He slid the flash drive across the table.
"You want to know what Damian's hiding? Take it. But remember, knowledge comes with a cost. And sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do… is finally see the whole board."
Celine snatched the drive and turned without another word, pushing through the red drapes and into the muted hum of the main room.
As she walked toward the exit, she felt eyes follow her — some masked, some not. Every whispered conversation sounded like it was about her. Every step felt like a betrayal.
When she reached the doors, she wasn't surprised to see Damian standing there.
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes molten with fury.
His tailored black coat hugged his broad shoulders like armor. His hair, always neat, was tousled — like he'd run his hand through it a dozen times. And his jaw was tight enough to crack.
"I told you not to come here," he said, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
"And yet," she replied, holding up the flash drive, "I'm very glad I did."
He stepped forward. "You have no idea what you're playing with."
"No, Damian. You don't. You've been playing with me."
His eyes flicked to the drive in her hand. "Julian doesn't give anything without twisting the knife."
Celine's voice broke. "Then maybe you should've been the one to tell me the truth. About my father. About my mother. About you."
Damian looked at her for a long, heavy moment.
Then he said quietly, "There are things I've done, Celine, that would make you walk away and never look back. Things I've kept from you not because I wanted to lie, but because I wanted to give you the choice to stay."
She stared at him, heart racing. "Then tell me now. Right here."
Silence.
He took a slow step toward her. "If I tell you the truth, there's no going back."
"I'm already past the point of return," she said.
Another step. Now he was inches away, and his voice dropped.
"Your mother didn't die in a car accident."
The breath whooshed out of her lungs.
"What?"
"She was murdered," Damian said. "And I've spent the last four years trying to find out who did it — and why your father covered it up."
Celine staggered back. "You knew?"
"I suspected. But I couldn't protect you if I revealed it too soon."
Her knees trembled. "Why now?"
He reached out slowly, brushing a hand along her arm — not possessive, but grounding.
"Because now they know you're looking. And they'll come for you."
Celine's eyes burned as she whispered, "Who are they?"
Damian's expression turned grim.
"The people who still believe you're the key to unlocking your mother's last secret. The one she died to protect."