The glass of red wine trembled in Isabel's hand as she paced her suite, heels clicking against polished marble like a ticking clock.
"You're telling me," Isabel repeated slowly, her eyes narrowing to slits, "that after all this time, after the money I've paid you, you have found nothing about her?"
The man on the other end cleared his throat nervously. "Ma'am, I traced every public record, every registration. It's as if the girl doesn't exist. Clean. Too clean.
Either someone erased her trail, or…" He hesitated. "…she's under powerful protection."
The words struck like acid. Isabel set the glass down sharply, crimson wine spilling across the white tablecloth like blood. Protection. Of course. Damian.
Her jaw clenched, and her perfectly manicured nails dug crescent moons into her palm. "That bastard," she hissed under her breath.
All this time, she thought the girl was just a fling, a passing plaything. But if Damian was shielding her—hiding her in plain sight—that meant something more.
That meant Elena wasn't just a distraction. She was becoming dangerous.
Dangerous to Isabel.
Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye: flawless, beautiful, untouchable. She forced a smile at herself, but it felt brittle.
No one steals what belongs to me. No one replaces Isabel.
"Keep digging," . "I don't care what it takes. Everyone has a past, everyone has a weakness. Find hers."
Hunger clawed at her—not for food, not for comfort, but for Damian. For the man who once looked at her as though she ruled the room.
Now? He barely glanced her way.
A slow, cruel smile curved her lips. "Fine, Damian," she whispered to the empty suite.
"If you think she can take my place, I'll remind you of everything you're trying to forget. I'll make you crave me again
***
They were bare bodied under the duvet, she wanted standing up but Damian's hand was still on her waist.
"Let's stay this way" he whispered.
"Can i ask you something Damian?" She finally spoke.
What?
Why did you fight with your uncle?
For a while, he said nothing.
His chest rose and fell, heavy with breaths that sounded more like growls.
But then… slowly… his voice broke through the silence, low and hoarse.
"My father…" He stopped, exhaling sharply. His throat bobbed, his jaw tightening. "He was killed.
"Leonid knows more than he says. And today… when he spat those words about my father, it—"
He clenched his fists, knuckles white. "It felt like I was losing him all over again."
Elena's chest tightened. She'd never heard him speak like this.
His power, his cold control — all stripped away, leaving only raw pain.
He looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes weren't sharp steel — they were glass, dark and heavy with grief.
"I'm sorry, cupcake." The words came suddenly, almost strangled, as if dragged out of a man who had forgotten how to say them.
His gaze held hers, intense, vulnerable, searching for something he didn't even know he wanted.
"For… For the things I said.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Elena's lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
Her throat tightened. She stood abruptly using the duvet to cover her body as she changed,.
His eyes followed her, confusion flickering there, as though her silence hurt more than any rejection.
"You don't get to say sorry like that, Damian," she whispered, her voice fragile but sharp, trembling with unshed emotion.
He stiffened, his breath catching, but she didn't stop.
"You can't just bleed on me one moment and own me the next. You can't make me your cage, and then your comfort. I… I don't know how to answer you."
She turned, her silk dress whispering as she moved toward the stairs, her steps quick, almost frantic.
"Elena." His voice was low, commanding, but with an edge of desperation he rarely allowed.
She froze at the bottom step, her hand gripping the railing. But she didn't look back.
"Goodnight, Damian."
---
Damian gets angry and leaves the mansion, his car stopped at the most expensive club.
He got in the demeaning music thundered.
He sat in the VIP section, his jacket discarded carelessly on the leather booth, his shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, his glass already forgotten as he drank straight from the neck.
The burn in his throat was sharp, but it wasn't enough to drown the memory of Elena.
That sentence alone kept replaying in his mind.
He tilted his head back, drinking again, until amber liquid spilled against his lips and down his neck.
A woman laughed somewhere nearby, heels clicking toward him. He didn't even bother looking up.
Another bottle appeared at the table, compliments of the owner who was too terrified to ever let Damian Volkov feel unwelcome.
By midnight, his usual control — that cold, terrifying command of himself — was gone.
His eyes were hooded, his tie loose, his movements unsteady. For once, he didn't fight it. He wanted to feel nothing.
And then… she appeared.
"Damian." Isabel's voice was honey-sweet, smugly soft as she leaned into the booth.
She wore a dress so short it barely deserved the name, shimmering under the lights.
He lifted his eyes slowly, a haze clouding them. His expression was blank at first, then darkened when he recognized her.
"Isabel."
"You look like hell," she said, sliding into the booth beside him uninvited.
"Drinking alone? That's unlike you."
"Maybe I like the silence," he muttered, though the bass was pounding too hard for silence to exist.
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that reminded him of years ago — when they were younger, when he thought love was something real and permanent.
She reached for his glass, sipping it boldly.
"Or maybe you just needed the right company."
Damian should have shoved her away. Should have walked out. But his head was swimming, his chest aching.
He growled low, dragging the bottle to his lips again.
Isabel leaned closer, pressing her hand against his thigh, whispering things in his ear that he didn't even register fully. He was too far gone.
By the time the night bled into the early morning, Isabel had her arm looped through his, half-carrying, half-guiding him out of the club.
Whispers spread regardless — Damian Volkov drunk, Damian Volkov with Isabel.
At her penthouse, she led him inside. He stumbled, dropped against the couch, his head tipping back.
His vision blurred, his chest heavy with alcohol and grief. Isabel curled beside him, whispering his name again and again, pressing her lips to his jaw, his neck.
He didn't resist. He didn't stop her.
The next morning the room smelled of expensive perfume and stale alcohol. Damian groaned, his head pounding like a war drum.
He dragged a hand across his face, his mouth dry, his body heavy.
He blinked, adjusting to the brightness, realizing he wasn't in his villa — not in his bed.
He looked down, the sheets tangled around him, his shirt, pants, his belt discarded on the floor.
Isabel emerged from the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel, still smug even in the morning. "Good, you're awake."
His eyes narrowed immediately. "What the hell happened?"
She smirked, leaning against the doorframe.
"What do you think happened, Damian? You were all over me last night. Couldn't keep your hands to yourself."
His jaw clenched. His stomach twisted, not from alcohol, but from the gnawing sense that he had betrayed himself.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it quickly, his eyes landing on the screen —he had a missed call from Elena.
His throat closed.
Isabel's voice dripped behind him, taunting. "Why don't you stay? We can have breakfast together, like old times."
But Damian was already on his feet, pulling on his jacket, ignoring the way his head swayed from the alcohol still in his system.
"Last night… was a mistake," he bit out, his voice sharp, ice-cold again.
"Don't lie to yourself," Isabel purred. "You still want me."
He didn't even answer. He stormed past her, slamming the penthouse door so hard the frame rattled.