Veiled Obsession

The Split in the Armor

LILA

The days that followed were a blur of paint and silence. Damien avoided me, his absence a palpable weight in the penthouse. I threw myself into my work, finishing the portrait of him in secret, determined to capture the fractured soul I’d glimpsed during our last session.

But the painting wasn’t enough.

I needed answers.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the city skyline, I found myself standing outside Damien’s study. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear the clink of ice in a glass, the low hum of a jazz record.

“Come in, Lila,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

I hesitated, my heart pounding, before pushing open the door.

He sat behind his desk, a whiskey glass in one hand, his eyes fixed on me with a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of smoke and regret.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I accused, my voice steady despite the tremble in my hands.

“I’ve been busy,” he lied, his gaze drifting to the portrait leaning against the wall behind me.

I’d left it there intentionally, a provocation.

“Look at it,” I said, stepping closer. “Look at what you’re hiding.”

He sighed, setting his drink down, and rose from his chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if every step cost him something.

When he reached the portrait, he froze.

The painting was raw, unflinching. It showed him not as the polished CEO but as a man fractured—shadows clawing at his face, his eyes haunted by ghosts.

“You see too much,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Then tell me,” I pressed, my voice softer now. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

He turned to me, his expression a mask of pain. “You don’t want to know, Lila. Trust me.”

But I did. I wanted to know everything.

DAMIEN

She stood there, her eyes blazing with defiance, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the desk. For a moment, I forgot who I was—the man who controlled empires, who crushed rivals with a single glance.

All I saw was her.

The portrait had unsettled me. It was too honest, too raw. She’d captured the cracks in my armor, the parts of me I’d buried beneath layers of power and control.

“Leave it alone, Lila,” I warned, my voice sharper than I intended.

But she didn’t back down. She stepped closer, her breath warm against my skin. “You’re scared,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You’re scared of what I’ll find out.”

I laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “You think you’re the first person to try to unravel me? I’ve been broken before, Lila. I’ve been shattered into a million pieces.”

“And rebuilt,” she countered, her fingers brushing against mine. “But by who?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge.

“By myself,” I lied.

She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes—the spark of curiosity, the hunger to uncover the truth.

And in that moment, I knew I was in trouble.

LILA

The next day, I found the folder.

It was tucked away in Damien’s study, hidden behind a row of leather-bound books. I’d been searching for answers, digging through his files, his emails, anything that might explain the shadows in his eyes.

The folder was labeled “Eleanor Rhodes.”

My mother.

My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside, there were news clippings, police reports, and a single photograph.

The photo showed Damien standing beside a woman who looked eerily like me—same fiery hair, same defiant gaze. She was smiling, her arm slung casually over his shoulders.

But it was the date stamped on the corner that made my blood run cold.

“March 15, 2008.”

The year my mother died.

DAMIEN

I knew she’d find it eventually.

I’d left the folder there on purpose, testing her, pushing her to confront the truth. But as I watched her from the shadows, her face pale and her hands shaking, I realized I’d underestimated her.

She wasn’t just curious—she was determined.

And determination was dangerous.

“Lila,” I said, stepping into the room.

She turned to me, the folder clutched in her hands like a weapon. “You knew her,” she accused, her voice trembling. “You knew my mother.”

I nodded, my jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“And her death?”

I sighed, the weight of the past crushing me. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” she repeated, her laughter bitter. “You’re the one who’s been lying to me this entire time. You’re the reason she’s dead, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

But she knew. She saw it in my eyes.

And in that moment, I lost her.

LILA

I ran.

I grabbed my keys and fled the penthouse, the folder clutched in my hand. The city blurred around me as I hailed a taxi, my mind racing with questions.

Why had Damien lied? What had he done to my mother?

And why did I still want him?

The taxi dropped me off at Claire’s studio. She answered the door, her expression softening as she took in my tear-stained face.

“Lila, what’s wrong?”

“He knew her,” I said, my voice breaking. “He knew my mother.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “Oh, God. The rumors…”

“Rumors?” I pressed, my grip on the folder tightening.

“About Eleanor’s death,” Claire said slowly. “People said it wasn’t an accident. That she was investigating something big before she died.”

I felt the world tilt.

“Something big?”

Claire nodded. “A corporate scandal. One that could’ve brought down empires.”

My mind reeled. Damien’s empire.