Damien's POV
I just killed my wife's father.
The police are taking statements. The ambulance is loading Richard Sinclair's body. Blood is still on my hands—literal blood, not just metaphorical.
And all I can think about is Elara.
She's sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing. She hasn't cried. Hasn't spoken. Just sits there like a statue while Marcus handles the police and I try not to fall apart.
"Mr. Cross?" A detective approaches me. "We're done here. Clear case of self-defense. Mr. Sinclair broke in, threatened your pregnant wife with a weapon, you defended your family. You're free to go."
Free. That's a funny word. I don't feel free. I feel like I'm drowning.
"Thank you," I manage to say.
The detective leaves. Slowly, the apartment empties until it's just me, Elara, and Marcus.
"You two should get out of here," Marcus says quietly. "Go somewhere the press can't find you. I'll handle everything else."
"Where would we even go?" I ask.
"I have a place. A cabin upstate. Nobody knows about it. You can hide there until this blows over."
"Will it blow over?" I look at Elara. "I killed her father."
"You saved her life," Marcus corrects firmly. "There's a difference. Now go. I'll deal with the media circus."
I kneel in front of Elara. "Hey. We need to leave."
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are empty. "He tried to kill our baby."
"I know."
"My own father pointed a gun at my stomach and pulled the trigger."
"I know, Elara. I know." I take her cold hands in mine. "But he's gone now. He can't hurt you anymore."
"What did he mean?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "About my mother? What was he going to say?"
"I don't know. But we'll find out. I promise."
She nods slowly. Lets me pull her to her feet. We pack a small bag and leave through the service entrance, avoiding the reporters camped outside.
Marcus's cabin is two hours north of the city. It's remote, hidden by trees, with no neighbors for miles. Perfect for disappearing.
Inside, it's simple but comfortable. One bedroom. A fireplace. A kitchen stocked with basics.
Elara walks to the window and stares out at the dark forest. "I should feel something," she says. "Grief. Relief. Anger. Something. But I just feel... empty."
I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My hands rest gently on her stomach where our baby grows. "You're in shock. It's normal."
"Normal? Nothing about this is normal!" She spins to face me. "My husband killed my father. My father tried to kill me. My ex-fiancé is in jail. My stepsister is probably planning her next move. And I'm pregnant with a baby who's going to grow up with the most messed-up family history ever. What part of that is NORMAL?"
"The part where you survived," I say quietly. "The part where you're still fighting. The part where you're the strongest person I've ever met."
She laughs—sharp and bitter. "Strong? I'm falling apart."
"No. You're breaking down walls. There's a difference." I cup her face. "You spent your whole life being perfect for people who didn't deserve you. Your father. Trevor. Even me, at first. But tonight, you let yourself be human. You let yourself be scared and angry and real. That's not weakness. That's strength."
Tears finally spill down her cheeks. "I wanted him to love me. Even after everything, some stupid part of me wanted my daddy to love me."
"I know."
"He never did. Not once. Not ever."
"I know."
"And now he's dead, and I'll never get the chance to—" Her voice breaks. "To what? Make him proud? Make him sorry? I don't even know what I wanted anymore."
I pull her against my chest and let her cry. Really cry. The kind of crying that comes from losing something you never actually had.
"He said something about my mother," she sobs. "Right before he died. He said she knew about your family. That she tried to stop him. What does that mean?"
"We'll figure it out. Tomorrow. Tonight, you just need to rest."
"I can't rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. See the gun. See the blood."
I pick her up—she weighs almost nothing—and carry her to the bedroom. She doesn't protest, just curls against me like a child.
I lay her on the bed and lie down beside her, pulling her into my arms. "I'm right here. You're safe. I promise."
"Don't leave," she whispers.
"Never."
She falls asleep like that, exhausted and broken. I stay awake, watching her breathe, counting every heartbeat like it's precious.
Because it is. She's precious. This life we're building is precious.
And I'll kill anyone who tries to take it away.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus: Grandmother wants to see you both. Says she has information about Elara's mother. Important.
I stare at the message. Margaret Sinclair knows something. Something Richard was trying to confess before he died.
I should wake Elara. Tell her.
But she's finally sleeping peacefully, and I can't bring myself to shatter that peace. Not yet.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we'll face whatever new secrets Margaret has to reveal.
Tonight, I just hold my wife and pray that love is enough to heal the wounds our families have inflicted on each other.
Elara's POV
I wake up to sunshine and the smell of coffee.
For one beautiful second, I forget everything. Then reality crashes back: my father is dead. My husband killed him. My life is a disaster.
I get out of bed and find Damien in the kitchen making breakfast. He looks tired. Haunted. Like he didn't sleep at all.
"Morning," he says quietly.
"Morning." I sit at the small table. "How long did I sleep?"
"Twelve hours. I was starting to worry."
"The baby needed rest."
"The baby's mother needed rest." He slides a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. "Eat. Please."
I pick at the food. My stomach feels hollow, but not from hunger. "What happens now?"
"Now? We figure out what your grandmother knows. She texted Marcus last night. She wants to see us."
My heart skips. "Grandma? Is she okay?"
"She's fine. But she says she has information about your mother. About what Richard was going to confess before he died."
I set down my fork. "When do we go?"
"Whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now."
He hesitates. "Elara, you just went through something traumatic. You can take time to—"
"I don't want time. I want answers." I stand up. "My whole life has been built on lies. My father's lies. Trevor's lies. Even your lies, at first. I'm done with secrets. I want the truth, no matter how much it hurts."
He studies my face. Then nods. "Okay. Let's go get the truth."
We drive back to the city in silence. The radio is full of news about Richard Sinclair's death—"Disgraced Lawyer Killed in Home Invasion," "Billionaire Defends Pregnant Wife in Deadly Shootout." They're treating Damien like a hero.
They don't know he was executing his revenge.
Or maybe they do, and they just don't care. Dead villains make good stories.
We arrive at Grandmother's townhouse. She's waiting in her favorite chair, looking older and frailer than I remember. But her eyes are still sharp.
"Elara, darling." She holds out her arms.
I run to her and collapse into her embrace, crying again. "Grandma, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Hush, child. You have nothing to apologize for."
"But Dad—"
"Was a monster who tried to murder you and your baby. Don't you dare mourn him." She pulls back, wiping my tears. "I should have stopped him years ago. Should have spoken up. But I was a coward."
"You were protecting yourself," Damien says from the doorway.
Grandmother looks at him. "Sit down, young man. What I'm about to tell you will change everything you think you know about your family and mine."
We sit. I hold Damien's hand so tight my knuckles turn white.
"Twenty-eight years ago," Grandmother begins, "your mother and I were friends, Damien. Before she married your father. Before everything went wrong."
Damien's eyes widen. "You knew my mother?"
"Katherine and I were roommates in college. Best friends. When she fell in love with your father and they started their hotel business, I was the one who helped them get their first loan." She smiles sadly. "I was there when you were born. Held you in my arms when you were just hours old."
"I don't understand," I say. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Because Richard made me promise never to speak of it. When the Ashfords came after the Cross family, Katherine called me. Begged me to help. She knew something was wrong with the legal case, knew someone was setting them up. She asked me to investigate."
"And did you?" Damien asks, his voice tight.
"Yes. I discovered Richard was the one filing the fraudulent documents. I confronted him. Told him I'd expose him if he didn't stop." Her voice breaks. "He threatened to kill me. Said if I told anyone, he'd make sure I had an 'accident.' I was terrified. So I kept quiet."
"But my mother died," Damien says. "She killed herself."
"No." Grandmother looks him straight in the eye. "She didn't. Katherine was murdered. And I can prove it."
The room goes silent.
"What?" I whisper.
"Your mother didn't kill herself, Damien. She was killed to keep her quiet. Because she discovered something bigger than just one hotel fraud. She discovered that the Ashfords weren't just destroying your family—they were running a massive money laundering operation through hotel acquisitions. Your family's hotel was just one piece of a much larger crime."
Damien's hand is shaking in mine. "Who killed her?"
"I don't know for certain. But I have Katherine's journal. The one she kept documenting everything she found. She mailed it to me the day before she died, with a note saying if anything happened to her, I should give it to you." Grandmother pulls out a leather-bound book from beside her chair. "I've kept it hidden for seventeen years. Waiting for the right moment."
She hands it to Damien. He holds it like it's made of glass.
"There's something else," Grandmother says, looking at me now. "Your mother—Elara's mother—helped Katherine. They were investigating the Ashfords together. That's why Richard was so cold to her. Why he punished her. And why—" She takes a shaky breath. "Why she didn't die from illness. She was poisoned. Slowly. Over the course of two years."
I can't breathe. "What?"
"Richard killed your mother to keep her from exposing him. Just like someone killed Katherine to keep her quiet." Grandmother's face is wet with tears. "I should have stopped him. Should have been braver. But I was weak and scared, and two women died because of my silence."
"That's why he said what he did," I realize. "Before he died. He said Mom knew about the Cross family. Tried to stop him. He was confessing."
"Confessing to murdering your mother," Damien says, his voice hollow. "And mine."
We sit in stunned silence. The weight of this new truth crushing us.
Finally, Damien opens the journal. Starts reading his mother's handwriting from seventeen years ago.
I watch his face change—grief, rage, determination cycling through like a storm.
Then he stops on a page. His face goes white.
"What is it?" I ask.
He shows me the entry. My mother's handwriting is there too, a note scrawled in the margin:
If anything happens to me, please tell my daughter the truth. Tell Elara that her father is a killer. And tell her that she has a half-brother. Richard's son from another woman. Trevor Ashford.
The world stops.
"No," I breathe. "That's not possible."
But Grandmother nods. "Trevor is your half-brother, Elara. Richard had an affair with Trevor's mother twenty years ago. The Ashfords paid Richard to keep it quiet, and in exchange, he became their personal lawyer. That's why the relationship between your families runs so deep. That's why Richard was so invested in your engagement to Trevor."
"He was going to let me marry my half-brother?" I'm going to be sick.
"He didn't care. All Richard cared about was money and power. Family meant nothing to him."
Damien stands abruptly, the journal clutched in his fist. "Trevor knows. He has to know. That's why he's been so obsessed with destroying us. It's not just about the hotels or the revenge. It's about—"
His phone rings. Unknown number.
He answers, putting it on speaker.
"Hello, big brother," Trevor's voice purrs through the line. "Surprise. Did Daddy tell you the truth before he died, or did you have to figure it out the hard way?"