Elara's POV
London mornings never look innocent.
Even when the sun tries, the light comes out grey — washed through smog, suspicion, and the quiet hangover of secrets the night refused to keep.
I've learned that this city has its own pulse. It beats under pavements, echoes through alleyways, and if you listen long enough, you'll hear it whisper names of the lost.
Today, it's whispering mine.
---
I haven't slept. My laptop is open on the table, dozens of case files cluttered across the screen. Photos. Reports. Notes. Three missing women, all connected to the same place: The Vale Club.
The same place where Damen Vale watched me last night like a man who had never truly let me go.
The thought of his eyes — that cold blue control — lingers like a bruise. I tell myself it's fear. It feels too familiar to be anything else.
But fear used to paralyze me.
Now, it fuels me.
---
I pull my hair back, tie it loosely, and reread the last report on Lila Anders.
"Last seen leaving The Vale. Time: 2:47 a.m. Witnesses: None. Car unidentified. No CCTV access."
Typical London. The one night you need cameras, they're "under maintenance."
I stare at the address one more time — 17 Maddox Street, Soho.
I know the building. I've been there now.
What I don't know is why it feels like I never really left.
---
The kettle hisses from the counter. I pour black coffee into a chipped mug, my hands trembling just enough to spill a drop. The scar across my left wrist catches the light — a reminder that survival isn't the same as safety.
Three years ago, I was found in a warehouse near the Thames — half-conscious, half-alive, with no memory of how I got there.
The police called me a miracle.
But miracles don't come with cigarette smoke and whispers in the dark.
And that night… I still remember one voice.
A low murmur against my ear: "Lie for me, and I'll set you free."
Sometimes I wonder if that was Damen Vale.
Sometimes I wonder if I invented him so I could believe the devil had a reason.
---
By afternoon, the rain returns — soft, steady, relentless. London always weeps when I dig too deep.
I throw on my trench coat, grab my bag, and head toward Southwark Police Station. The detective on call, Inspector Leigh Harding, owes me a favor. Or maybe a few. I've published his mistakes enough times for guilt to grow roots.
When I enter, the station smells of old coffee and cold metal. Harding's office door is half-open. He looks up from a stack of files when he sees me, his brows tightening in weary recognition.
"Quinn," he says. "If it's another one of your theories, make it quick. I've got real cases."
"Three women are missing," I reply, crossing my arms. "They were all last seen at The Vale Club. Doesn't that qualify as 'real' to you?"
He sighs, rubs his temples. "The Vale's owned by someone powerful. The kind of powerful that makes paperwork disappear. You know that."
"Damen Vale," I whisper.
He freezes, just slightly. That's all I need.
"So you do know him."
"I know the name," Harding says too quickly. "And so do you. I saw your face on the CCTV footage last night. What were you doing there, Elara?"
I lean closer, voice low. "The same thing I've always done. Looking for the truth you're too scared to chase."
---
I leave the station with nothing useful except confirmation: they know who Damen is — and they're afraid of him.
Power. Money. Silence. The trifecta of London corruption.
But there's one thing even men like Damen Vale can't control: curiosity.
I head toward the club district, pulling my coat tighter against the rain. The streets hum with life — laughter, car horns, the faint smell of alcohol and perfume. By day, it's charming. By night, it's a hunting ground.
I circle behind The Vale, toward the alley that smells like smoke and secrets. A service door stands half-open. Someone careless — or bait.
I slip inside.
The corridor is narrow, lined with velvet wallpaper and security cameras. My heels click softly on the tile, every sound magnified in the hush. I move like a ghost — quiet, deliberate, pretending not to be terrified.
There's a door labeled Private: Staff Only.
I push it open.
Inside: a dressing room. Perfume bottles scattered, sequined dresses hanging from hooks, a broken glass on the counter. It smells faintly of whiskey and roses.
On the vanity lies a small silver locket.
When I open it, my heart stops.
A photo of Lila Anders — smiling.
On the other side, a symbol carved into the metal: a small V burned into the surface.
Vale.
My fingers shake as I close it.
That's when I hear footsteps.
---
"Looking for something?"
The voice is low, calm, male.
I turn — too quickly — nearly dropping the locket.
A man in a black suit stands in the doorway. Not Damen — younger, leaner, but with the same cold precision in his eyes. Security.
I swallow hard, forcing composure. "Elara Quinn. Forensic Times. I had permission to—"
"No one has permission to be here," he cuts in, stepping closer.
Before I can reply, another voice joins — smooth, commanding, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Let her through."
Damen Vale.
---
He's standing behind the guard now, hands in his pockets, rain still glistening on his hair. His presence changes the air — heavier, thicker, as if the room itself recognizes him.
The guard hesitates, then nods and leaves.
We're alone.
Damen closes the door slowly, eyes fixed on me. "You're getting better at trespassing."
My throat tightens. "And you're getting better at covering crimes."
A faint smirk. "You think I'm behind your missing women?"
"I think wherever you are, people vanish."
He steps closer, each stride precise. My back hits the vanity. The perfume bottles rattle.
He leans down slightly, his breath warm against my ear. "And yet you came back to me anyway."
I freeze. My body betrays me — fear, adrenaline, attraction all tangled together. He sees it, of course. He always does.
"I came for answers," I manage.
His voice lowers. "Then stop lying to yourself, Elara. You came because you missed the way I make your heart race."
I shove him back — but he only laughs, soft and dangerous.
"You still don't understand," he says, turning toward the mirror. "This city hides more devils than you can write about. I'm just the one who told you the truth."
"And what truth is that?"
He meets my eyes through the reflection.
"That you were never saved, Elara. You were chosen."
---
My chest feels tight. The air around us crackles — the kind of tension that burns without touching.
"Stay away from me," I whisper.
His smile fades. "If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn't be standing here."
He moves closer again — slow, deliberate, his hand brushing past my hair as he takes the locket from my fingers. He examines it, then pockets it.
"Lila Anders," he says softly. "You should stop digging. Not every grave needs light."
He turns to leave, but before opening the door, he looks over his shoulder.
"You've always been brave, Ela. But bravery without wisdom…" His eyes darken. "…that's how little girls end up in cages."
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And I realize my hands are shaking.
Not from fear — from recognition.
Because I know that look.
I've seen it before — three years ago, in the dark, when someone whispered, Lie for me and I'll let you live.
The devil I escaped didn't die that night.
He just learned my name.
---
End of Chapter 3 💀