Bound by Fate, Torn by Secrets

Chapter 3: The First Warning

Lena stared at the text on her phone, the words Curiosity killed the cat, Ms. Carter glowing like a neon warning sign in the dim light of her apartment. Her breath hitched, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and fear. She dropped onto the couch, her hands trembling as she set the recorder and camera on the coffee table. The photo of Damian at the warehouse stared back at her, his silhouette a shadow of secrets. Someone knew her name. Someone had followed her from the gala, blade in hand, and now this. Her gut twisted—this wasn’t just a story anymore. It was a hunt, and she was the prey.

She forced herself to move, grabbing her laptop to trace the number. A dead end—burned SIM, untraceable. Her editor’s voice echoed in her memory: Watch your back. She hadn’t listened then, and it had cost her source his life. This time, she wouldn’t be careless. She uploaded the warehouse photo and audio to her secure cloud, encrypting them with a password only she knew. Evidence was her shield, but it wouldn’t stop a knife.

Morning came too soon, the sunlight slicing through the blinds like a blade itself. Lena dragged herself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, the scar on her wrist a stark reminder of her past mistake. She dressed—jeans, a leather jacket, nothing to draw attention—and headed out, her senses on high alert. The city buzzed around her, oblivious to the danger shadowing her steps. She needed coffee, a clear head, and a plan.

The café on 5th was her haven, a place where she could think amid the clatter of cups and murmured conversations. She ordered a black coffee, her fingers drumming the table as she reviewed her notes. The shell company, the missing heiress, Damian’s cryptic phone call—pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t yet assemble. Her phone buzzed, a local number this time. She hesitated, then answered. “Carter.”

“Lena, it’s me.” Damian’s voice, smooth and unexpected, sent a jolt through her. She straightened, her grip tightening on the phone. “Meet me. Alone. One hour. The park by the fountain.” The line went dead before she could respond.

Her mind raced. A trap? A chance? She couldn’t ignore it—not with the threat hanging over her. She finished her coffee, the bitter taste lingering, and made her way to the park. The fountain’s spray misted the air, a cool contrast to the heat building in her chest. Damian stood by the water, his back to her, his black coat fluttering in the breeze. He turned as she approached, his gray eyes locking onto hers with that same piercing intensity.

“You shouldn’t have followed me last night,” he said, his voice low, a reprimand wrapped in velvet. He stepped closer, the scent of cedar and spice enveloping her, stirring memories of the gala’s charged encounter.

“I’m a journalist,” she replied, lifting her chin. “It’s what I do.” Her pulse quickened, but she held her ground, refusing to let him see her unease.

His laugh was dark, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. “You’re digging your own grave, Lena.” He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm where the jacket sleeve had ridden up, revealing the scar. His touch was light, but it burned, igniting a heat she couldn’t ignore. “Who did that to you?” he asked, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment.

She pulled back, her defenses snapping into place. “None of your business.” The scar was hers, a reminder of her failure, and she wouldn’t share it with him—not yet. “Why am I here, Damian? To be warned off again?”

His expression hardened, the softness gone. “Because you’re in danger, and you don’t even know it.” He glanced around, his posture tense, as if expecting shadows to move. “Last night wasn’t a coincidence. Someone’s watching you—because of me.”

Her breath caught. The figure with the blade, the text—it all clicked. “Who?” she demanded, stepping closer despite herself, her voice a whisper. “What are you hiding?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he’d walk away. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “More than you can handle,” he murmured, his lips grazing her skin just enough to send a shiver through her. “Walk away, Lena. Before it’s too late.”

She should have. Every instinct screamed to run, to protect herself. But the journalist in her—the part that had survived blood and betrayal—refused to back down. “Not until I have the truth,” she said, meeting his gaze, her defiance a shield.

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths. “Stubborn,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then he stepped back, breaking the spell. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned, his coat swirling, and walked away, leaving her by the fountain, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and something dangerously close to desire.

She stood there, the mist cooling her flushed skin, until her phone buzzed again. Another text, this time with a photo—her apartment window, shattered, a brick lying on the floor inside. The message beneath it read: Walk away, or you won’t walk at all.

Lena’s blood ran cold. She sprinted back, dodging pedestrians, her mind racing. The door was ajar when she arrived, the lock forced. Inside, chaos greeted her—her notes shredded, her laptop smashed, a knife pinning a photo of her to the wall. Her knees buckled, but she forced herself to move, grabbing her backup drive from its hidden compartment. The photo was new, taken recently, her face circled in red.

She sank onto the couch, the knife’s handle glinting in the dim light. Damian’s warning echoed in her mind, but so did his touch, his voice. Was he protecting her—or setting her up? Her phone buzzed again, a call this time. She answered, her voice shaky. “Who is this?”

Silence, then a laugh—low, menacing, unfamiliar. “You’re out of your depth, Carter. Next time, we won’t miss.” The line went dead, leaving her in a silence that pressed against her ears like a physical weight.

She stared at the wreckage, her resolve hardening. They’d come for her, and she’d survive. But the question burned: Was Damian the hunter, or the hunted?