She will be mine
968 Words
Damien’s POV
She walked out of that room like she hadn’t just seen proof of my obsession plastered across the walls. Like she could pretend it hadn’t happened. Like she still had power.
And somehow… I let her.
I stood there for a long time after she left, staring at the wall of photos. They weren’t trophies. They were history. Memories she didn’t know we shared. A decade of watching from afar. A decade of calculating every step that led to her standing under my roof.
I should’ve locked the room. I always meant to.
But some part of me wanted her to see it.
Because she needed to understand — this wasn’t just about my revenge.
This was about her.
Layla.
The woman I couldn’t forget.
The woman who had unknowingly carried my name in her shadow for ten years.
And now, she was his.
Ethan.
Even the name sounded offensive. Clean-cut, predictable, boring. The kind of man who holds your bag at brunch and calls himself a feminist but has nothing to protect you from.
I saw them in the photos. Too close. Too casual. Laughing like they had a future.
He didn’t know how easily futures could be stolen.
He would never understand what it meant to lose everything.
But I did.
So when I saw Layla’s face as she looked at his picture on her phone — right before I smashed it — I knew the weight of what I was doing.
And I didn’t stop.
Because I couldn’t afford to.
This isn’t a love story.
It’s war.
And I’m already too far in.
That night, I sat in my study with a glass of whiskey and a gun I hadn’t touched in years. Not to use it — just to remind myself how close I once came to letting go.
Before the plan. Before the obsession. Before her.
I remembered the day I made the deal with Charles Carter. The smugness in his eyes as he offered his daughter like a peace treaty. He never even asked if I was serious. He was just relieved it wasn’t him I wanted.
He thought I’d take her, ruin her, and disappear.
He didn’t realize I was going to keep her. Forever.
The wedding planner was arriving tomorrow. She thought it was a high-profile elopement. We paid her double to ask no questions.
I had the rings already. Hers was custom. Platinum, minimalist, no diamond — because she didn’t like flashy jewelry. I’d watched enough interviews, zoomed into enough photos, listened to enough conversations to know.
I knew her better than Ethan ever could.
I knew how she liked her coffee. How she rubbed the back of her neck when she was stressed. How she whispered “breathe, Layla, breathe” to herself in elevators before presentations.
I had spent years learning her.
He just got lucky.
My phone buzzed. I picked it up, expecting silence.
Instead:
“We’ve found Ethan.”
Of course they had.
I stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
“Is he talking to the police?”
“He’s filed a missing person report. But he’s not a problem. Yet.”
Yet.My chest tightened.
I wasn’t afraid of Ethan.
I was afraid of what he meant to her.
Because no matter how much I had studied Layla, no matter how perfectly I built this web — I hadn’t accounted for love.
Not hers.
Not mine.
I visited her room again. She was by the fireplace, arms crossed, eyes locked on the flames. She didn’t turn when I walked in.
“Come to gloat?” she asked.
“No.” I set the box down on the table between us.
“What’s that?” she snapped.
“A gift.”
She didn’t move.
I opened it myself. A simple bracelet. Thin silver, with a tiny engraved charm. Her initials.
“I don’t want it,” she said coldly.
“You don’t have to.”
She stood up, fists clenched. “Why are you doing this, Damien? Is it revenge? Is it control? What do you want from me?”
I looked at her then — really looked.
She was angry. Grieving. And still so stunning it hurt to breathe.
“I want you to stay,” I said. “Not because I force you. Because you choose to.”
She laughed. It wasn’t soft. It was sharp and bitter and loud.
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t.”
“Then it’s not a choice.”
She walked past me and slammed the door shut behind her as she disappeared into the hallway.
I didn’t stop her.
Because I knew she had nowhere to run.
But later that night, I found her in the back corridor, trying to pry open one of the service doors with a candle holder.
She didn’t see me until I stepped into the light.
Her breath hitched. She froze.
“I could’ve let the guards stop you,” I said. “But I wanted to see if you’d come to me.”
She straightened slowly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’ve been exploring.”
“I’m not your pet,” she snapped.
“No,” I murmured. “You’re the storm I’ve spent years waiting to capture.”
She tried to shove past me, but I caught her wrist — gently.
“Ethan isn’t coming,” I whispered.
Her eyes burned. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“I hate you,” she breathed.
I nodded once. “Good. It means I matter.”
She pulled away from me like my touch burned.
And for the first time, I wondered… how far was too far?
How much could obsession mimic love before one consumed the other?
- Writer
