The underground operation was alive — men testing weapons, the sound of ammunition clinking, the metallic click of rifles being reassembled.
Damian stood at the far end of the concrete room, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his expression cut from stone.
Viktor was beside him, flipping through a black folder filled with shipment manifests and weapon blueprints.
"The new shipment from Prague arrived this morning," he said. "Modified rifles, stronger recoil, and the silencers we ordered last month.
Our contact says the buyers in Berlin want double next month."
Damian nodded slowly, his mind elsewhere. "Approve it," he said quietly. "And make sure no names are attached this time. I don't want another leak."
One of the men — a tall one with tattoos creeping up his neck — approached nervously.
"Boss, the new pistols came in too. Want to test them?"
Damian looked up, his eyes cold. "Show me."
The man led him to a smaller section of the bunker. A thick metal door opened with a hiss, revealing a crate full of compact grenades and high-caliber pistols.
Damian picked up one of the pistols, inspecting it under the fluorescent light. It was sleek, black, custom-designed — the kind of weapon that killed cleanly.
He loaded a bullet, aimed at a steel dummy across the room, and fired. The shot cracked through the space like thunder, echoing off the walls. The bullet hit dead center.
Perfect aim.
He set the weapon down carefully and wiped his hands. "Send half of these to the eastern branch. The rest stay here."
Viktor leaned against a table, watching him. ""Let me guess… woman trouble?"
Damian's glare could have frozen fire.."
Damian's jaw flexed. His eyes flickered briefly —
Elena's face flashed through his mind, her frightened eyes, the way she looked at him that morning.
His heart twisted painfully, and he clenched his fist. He wanted to stop thinking of her, stop feeling anything.
But the more he tried, the more her face came back.
Her voice. Her trembling lips.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Nothing," he said at last.
Viktor raised a brow, sensing the tension. "Nothing, huh? Must be one hell of a 'nothing' for you to look like you're about to start a war."
When Damian didn't answer, Viktor chuckled, taking a cigarette from his pocket.
Viktor grinned wider. "I knew it. You've got that look — the kind of look men get when a woman crawls under their skin and starts making a home there.
Trust me, brother, I've been there."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. "You should've seen the girl I was with last week. Blonde, long legs, couldn't stop screaming my name—"
"Enough," Damian cut him off, voice low but sharp as a blade.
Viktor raised his hands in surrender, still smirking. "You act like laughter is a crime."
"I don't your words funny,I find it disgusting " Damian said flatly.
"Exactly my point," Viktor muttered, rolling his eyes. "You're gonna die of stress before someone even shoots you."
But Damian wasn't listening anymore. His thoughts had gone dark again — to the night he nearly shot Alex, to the look on Elena's face before she fainted. He felt the guilt twist inside him, but he buried it beneath anger.
Anger was easier.
Anger didn't make him weak.
He turned to his men. "Finish up. I'm leaving."
"Yes, boss."
His driver was already waiting upstairs, the black car idling near the exit.
Viktor called after him, half-joking, half-serious. "Try to smile for once, Damian. The world won't collapse if you do."
Damian didn't turn around. "It already has," he said coldly, sliding into the back seat.
The driver shut the door and pulled onto the road.
He loosened his tie, his mind still haunted. Why can't I stop thinking about her? he asked himself. He gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, "She's nothing… just a distraction. Just a weakness I can't afford."
But even as he said it, his chest ached, and his thoughts betrayed him — going back to her again and again.
When Damian's car pulled into the long driveway of his mansion, As he stepped out of the car running a hand through his hair, his expression blank but his mind storming.
He walked inside, the sound of his footsteps echoing across the vast hall.
The mansion was quiet — too quiet — until he heard the faint shuffle of heels against the staircase. His eyes lifted instantly.
He wanted to act so cold to her.
Elena!
He called and she turned facing him.
"To my room now" he ordered.
"Please I'm tired already" she said with her soft voice but he had already decided how to be with her.
"Tired! He said letting out a chuckle. "I don't care, I need your service now or I guess you are forgetting your place here"
"And I must say, you look beautiful and ready to please your master" he said in a low but icy tone.
"Pleas.." she cried.
He ignored her tears, walking past her. "Wipe those stupid tears and don't make me wait for you"
She wiped her tears but they still kept rolling down her eyes, she followed behind him.
They both had their intimacy, and after it Damian still gave her the pill repeating those same words to her.
--
The next morning, She got up quietly in her room, her body still aching from restless sleep.
She went downstairs and was told that Damian had left for work alread, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Her feet carried her down the long corridor, past the butler who bowed slightly, until she stopped at the entrance of the kitchen.
The maids who were preparing breakfast froze in place when they saw her.
"Miss Elena," one of them stammered, setting down a tray quickly. "You shouldn't be in here."
Elena smiled faintly, shaking her head. "I just wanted to bake something," she said softly. "I used to make pie with my aunt and my mom. It… helps me feel better."
Another maid whispered nervously, "The master will be mad that we let you…"
Before Elena could reply, the butler, entered. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his expression calm but firm. He looked at Elena, then at the trembling maids.
"It's alright," he said finally. "The master didn't punish us the last time Miss Elena used the kitchen. Let her be."
The maids nodded hesitantly, bowing before stepping aside. Elena whispered a quiet "thank you" and rolled up her sleeves.
She took out the flour, the butter, the apples — her hands moving slowly, tenderly, as if afraid of breaking the memory she was trying to recreate.
The sound of the rolling pin against the counter, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filling the air — it all pulled her back to simpler times.
She could almost hear her mother's laughter echoing behind her.
Her aunt's gentle voice telling her, "Too much sugar, sweetheart — I won't like that."
And her own laughter — light and carefree — before her world became dark and heavy.
By the time the pie was out of the oven, the kitchen smelled like home. Warm, sweet, comforting.
She cut a small piece and carried it to the maids and the butler.
"Please," she said softly, her eyes shining with a small smile. "You all work so hard. Just taste it."
They refused at first, shaking their heads. "We can't, Miss Elena," one said quickly. "The master—"
"He isn't here," she interrupted gently. "And I want you to have it. Please."
The butler met her eyes — there was kindness there, the kind that came from pity — then gave a small nod.
"Thank you, Miss Elena," he said, accepting the plate at last.
She smiled a little, turning away before they could see the sadness creeping into her face.
When she returned to her room, she took the last slice of pie with her. She sat on the edge of her bed, the warm plate in her hands.
At first, she just looked at it. Then, as she took a small bite, tears welled up in her eyes.
The taste — sweet, buttery, nostalgic — hit her like a wave. It tasted like her childhood, like everything she had lost.
Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, whispering between soft sobs,
"Mama… Papa…" Her voice cracked. "He calls me his playtoy."
The word burned in her chest.
"I hate him," she whispered again, the tears falling freely now. "I hate him so much."
She leaned against the pillow, the pie forgotten on her lap, and closed her eyes tightly. "I'm so tired," she whispered weakly. "So tired of everything."
The room stayed silent, her quiet sobs the only sound.