Chapter 8: Shadows of the Past
The next morning came quietly, though nothing about the night before had been calm. The rain had washed the streets clean, but inside Damian's mansion, the air was heavy with unspoken words.
Amara woke to the sound of soft footsteps in the hall. For a moment, she thought it was a dream — the faint rhythm of movement, the low murmur of a voice. She sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself as the memory of his kiss came rushing back. Her lips still tingled, her heart still raced.
It hadn't been a mistake. She knew that much.
But love, in Damian's world, was never simple.
She found him in the study, dressed sharply in a black suit, his tie loose, his expression distant. Papers were scattered across his desk, and the faint blue light from the monitor reflected in his eyes. He didn't look up when she entered.
"You didn't sleep," she said quietly.
He answered without turning. "I don't have the luxury of sleep."
"You make it sound like peace is a sin."
He finally looked at her, and for a moment, the walls around his gaze trembled. "In my world, peace doesn't exist. There's only survival."
She stepped closer. "Then let me help you survive."
That broke something in him — a flicker of warmth, quickly buried under the cold. He turned back to the screen, his voice controlled. "You shouldn't have followed me last night."
"I know," she said softly. "But I'm glad I did."
His hand froze on the mouse. Silence stretched between them.
"Ethan won't stop," he said finally. "He's after more than money. He wants my downfall — and he's willing to drag you into it."
"Then let him try," Amara said, her tone sharper than she expected. "I'm not a weakness, Damian. Don't treat me like one."
He turned to her then, something fierce in his gaze. "You think you understand the kind of people I deal with? You don't. These aren't business rivals — they're men who destroy everything they touch."
"Then maybe it's time you stopped facing them alone," she said.
He stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, "You remind me of her."
Her heart skipped. "Her?"
He looked away, his voice distant. "Lydia."
Amara stiffened. She had heard that name before — whispered by the maids, written in old newspaper clippings. Lydia Hale. The woman Damian was supposed to marry. The one who vanished the night his company nearly collapsed.
"What happened to her?" Amara asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. "She betrayed me."
The words were sharp, final — but beneath them was pain that hadn't healed.
"I loved her," he said, his voice low. "I gave her everything. And she sold it — my trust, my secrets, my company — to Ethan."
Amara's chest ached. "You think I'll do the same?"
He met her gaze. "I don't know what to think anymore."
For a long time, neither spoke. The ticking of the clock filled the silence like a heartbeat.
Then Damian sighed, rubbing his temples. "I have a meeting with the board at noon. Stay inside the house today. Don't go anywhere without the driver."
Amara wanted to argue, but his tone left no room for it. She nodded quietly, then turned and left the room.
---
The day stretched long. Amara wandered the halls, her thoughts heavy. Every corner of the mansion seemed to hold a secret — portraits half covered, doors always locked, staff who spoke in whispers.
When she passed the old gallery, something caught her eye. A painting — or rather, the frame where a painting used to hang. Only scraps of canvas remained, torn and burnt at the edges.
Curious, she reached out — and froze when a voice came from behind her.
"You shouldn't be in here."
It was Mrs. Dyer, the housekeeper. Her eyes, kind but cautious, flicked between Amara and the damaged frame.
"What happened to this painting?" Amara asked.
Mrs. Dyer hesitated. "It was destroyed years ago. Mr. Cole ordered it removed, but... it was Lydia's portrait."
Amara's heart sank. "He burned it himself?"
"I think," Mrs. Dyer said softly, "he wanted to forget her. But forgetting doesn't come easy to men like him."
Amara looked at the torn frame again. She didn't need to see the painting to feel its ghost — a woman smiling, a promise broken, a heart turned to ice.
---
By evening, Damian returned. He looked exhausted, his tie undone, his expression colder than usual.
"The board wants answers," he said as he poured himself a drink. "They think someone's leaking information again."
Amara's chest tightened. "Do you think it's Ethan?"
He nodded grimly. "He's inside my walls somehow."
She took a step closer. "Then you need someone who can find out who."
He looked at her sharply. "And you think that's you?"
"I was a journalist before this marriage, remember?" she said quietly. "I know how to dig where people don't want me to. Let me help."
His lips parted as if to argue, then slowly closed again.
Finally, he said, "If you do this, Amara, there's no turning back."
"I stopped turning back the moment I said 'I do.'"
For the first time that day, Damian's lips curved — not quite a smile, but something close. He set his glass down, stepped toward her, and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You're not afraid of anything, are you?"
"I'm afraid of losing you," she whispered.
He exhaled, a sound caught between relief and pain. "Then don't."
She held his gaze. "Then let me fight beside you."
After a long moment, he nodded once. "Fine. But you answer to me. Every step."
"Deal."
Their eyes locked — an unspoken vow forming between them. Two souls bound by circumstance, now tied by choice.
Outside, night fell quietly over the city, but in the shadows of the Cole mansion, the real war was just beginning.
An
d neither of them knew that the ghost of Lydia Hale — the woman who once burned Damian's world — was not as gone as they believed.