Damien's POV
The hospital corridors blurred past me as I ran. My mother. My dying mother had collapsed, and I wasn't there.
I burst through the ICU doors, and Dr. Matthews grabbed my arm. "Mr. Cross, she's stable now, but—"
"But what?" I snarled.
"Her heart stopped for forty-three seconds. We got her back, but Damien—" He never used my first name unless it was bad. "Days. Maybe a week. You need to prepare yourself."
Prepare myself. How do you prepare to lose the only person who ever loved you?
I sat beside her bed for three hours, holding her frail hand, listening to machines beep and hiss. She didn't wake up. The doctor said she might not wake up at all.
"I'm sorry, Mama," I whispered. "I'm sorry I became the monster you were afraid I'd become."
Her heart monitor beeped steadily. No response. No forgiveness.
Finally, I forced myself to leave. I had business to handle. Including the blind girl currently locked in my penthouse—the girl I'd forgotten about in my panic.
The girl Owen Harris sold me like livestock.
I drove back to Crown Towers, my mind spinning. What was I supposed to do with her? I'd taken her to teach Harris a lesson about debts and consequences. But Harris was already dead—beaten to death by Marcus Steele's crew two hours after he delivered the girl.
Which meant Elena was now my problem. A problem I didn't need while my mother was dying.
I rode the elevator to the penthouse, each floor making me angrier. At Harris for creating this mess. At myself for accepting his disgusting deal. At the universe for taking my mother while I was becoming exactly what she'd begged me not to be.
I unlocked the door.
Silence.
The girl—Elena—was still in the bedroom. I could hear her breathing, fast and scared. She was awake.
Good. We needed to talk.
Elena's POV
The lock clicked. The door opened.
He was back.
I'd been sitting on this bed for hours, my mind racing with impossible thoughts. Pregnant. I might be pregnant. With a stranger's baby. A stranger who bought me like property.
"You're awake," Damien Cross said. His voice was different now—tired instead of cold. Human instead of monster.
"Did you think I'd sleep?" I asked bitterly. "After being kidnapped and locked in a stranger's bedroom?"
"You weren't kidnapped. You were delivered. There's a difference."
"Not to me!"
His footsteps entered the room. I pressed myself against the headboard, tracking his movement by sound. He was circling the bed slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator studying prey.
"Let me explain something," he said. "Six months ago, Owen Harris walked into one of my casinos. He gambled. He lost. He kept gambling. He kept losing. Within three months, he owed me two hundred thousand dollars."
Two hundred thousand. The number was so huge I couldn't even imagine it.
"I gave him chances to pay," Damien continued. "I'm not unreasonable. I offered payment plans. Extra time. But Harris kept gambling, kept losing, and started avoiding my calls. So I sent people to collect."
His footsteps stopped at the foot of the bed. I felt him standing there, watching me with eyes I couldn't see.
"Harris begged for mercy. Said he had something valuable—something worth clearing his entire debt. A girl. Young. Beautiful. Virgin. And blind, which made her helpless. Easy to control."
Each word was a knife. Owen had described me like a product. Like meat at a market.
"I should have refused," Damien said quietly. "I should have just killed Harris and moved on. But I was curious. What kind of man sells a woman to save himself? What kind of woman gets sold?"
"So you agreed," I whispered. "You agreed to buy me."
"I agreed to take payment for Harris's debt. Yes."
"That's the same thing!"
"Is it?" Damien moved around the bed. His footsteps were slow. Measured. "Did I drug you? Did I lie to you for five years? Did I pretend to care about you while planning to sell you?"
"You bought me!"
"And Harris sold you. Which one of us is worse?"
I wanted to scream that he was worse, but the words stuck in my throat. Because he was right. Owen had betrayed me. Damien was just... collecting what Owen promised.
No. That was wrong too. They were both monsters.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Then decide!" I shouted. "Either hurt me or let me go, but stop playing these games! I can't take it anymore!"
Silence. Long and heavy.
Then Damien's phone rang.
He answered immediately. "What is it, Gabe?"
I heard a man's voice on the other end—urgent and worried. I couldn't make out words, just the tone. Something was wrong.
"When?" Damien asked sharply.
More talking.
"How did the press find out?"
My ears perked up. Press?
"Handle it. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Damien hung up and swore under his breath.
"What happened?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"That's none of your concern."
"Everything about my life is suddenly someone else's concern," I shot back. "So you might as well tell me."
Another long silence. Then: "Owen Harris is dead. Beaten to death in an alley last night. And his mother—your precious Mrs. Harris—just filed a missing person report."
My blood froze. "What?"
"For Elena Carter. The missing heiress who disappeared five years ago after her parents' car accident. Ring any bells?"
The room spun. "That's... that's not possible. We lost everything. I'm nobody—"
"You're Elena Carter, daughter of Richard Carter, business magnate worth five hundred million dollars when he died. Your father's estate has been in legal limbo for five years because the sole heir—you—vanished."
No. No, this was crazy.
"Mrs. Harris lied to you," Damien continued. "She's been hiding you, keeping you isolated, probably stealing from your family's accounts. And now that Owen's dead, she's panicking. Filing reports. Drawing attention."
My head pounded. "You're lying."
"Am I? Or have you been too blind to see the truth?" He paused. "Bad choice of words. But accurate."
"Why would she lie? Why would she keep me hidden?"
"Money. Why else?" Damien's footsteps came closer. "Think about it, Elena. Five years living in a cottage, dependent on their charity. Did they ever take you to doctors? Lawyers? Your father's business associates? Or did they keep you isolated, helpless, and grateful?"
Oh God. He was right. They never took me anywhere. Never let me meet anyone new. Said it was to protect me, keep me safe.
They were hiding me.
"This changes things," Damien said quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"It means you're not worthless anymore. You're one of the richest women in this city—if we can prove your identity. You're also now the target of every fortune hunter, criminal, and opportunist who wants a piece of five hundred million dollars."
My hands shook. "I don't want it. I don't want any of it. Just let me go—"
"Go where?" Damien interrupted. "Back to Mrs. Harris, who's been stealing from you? Out on the street where my enemies will find you within hours? You're blind, Elena. You can't protect yourself."
"And you can?"
"I'm the most dangerous man in this city. Yes, I can protect you. The question is—why should I?"
I had no answer. What could I possibly offer him?
Then Damien's phone rang again. He answered, listened, and his breath caught.
"I'm on my way." He hung up and moved toward the door fast.
"What's happening?" I called out.
He stopped. When he spoke, his voice was raw. Broken. "My mother is dying. Right now. And I'm wasting time with you when I should be with her."
"Then go!" I said. "Go to her!"
"And leave you here? Helpless? Vulnerable?"
"I don't care! Your mother is dying—nothing else matters!"
Something in my voice made him pause. "You really mean that."
"Of course I mean it! I lost my parents. I know what it feels like. Don't lose these last moments because of me. Please. Just go."
Damien made a sound—half laugh, half sob. "Who are you?"
"Someone who knows what grief feels like," I whispered. "Now go."
His footsteps rushed out. The door slammed.
I was alone again. But this time, something had shifted. Damien Cross had shown me his weakness—his dying mother. The one person who made the monster human.
And I'd shown him mine—my empathy. My kindness. Even after everything he'd done.
I pressed my hand to my stomach again, feeling that strange flutter that might be life growing inside me.
If I was pregnant—if this nightmare was real—then Damien Cross wasn't just the man who bought me.
He was the father of my child.
And I had no idea what that meant for either of us.