CHAPTER FOUR - STRINGS IN THE DARK
416 Words
The next morning, Amara told herself she wouldn’t let him get to her.
She would go to work, do her job, and ignore the suffocating presence of Damien Cross. Simple.
But nothing about Damien was ever simple.
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At her desk, she opened a file meant for auditing. Her eyes widened—her full résumé was inside. Not the one she submitted to HR. This one had details she’d never written down: the address of her hometown, the high school she’d fled, even the date her mother had died.
Her throat went dry. How… how did he know all of this?
“Problem?”
She jumped. Damien leaned against the edge of her desk, his arms folded. The other employees pretended not to stare, though their whispers buzzed like static in the air.
Amara slammed the folder shut. “This isn’t what I—”
Damien plucked the file from her hands, his fingers brushing hers with deliberate slowness. “I make it my business to know everything about my employees.” His eyes glittered. “Especially the ones who matter.”
Heat rushed to her face. She wanted to scream at him, but the intensity in his gaze rooted her to the spot.
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At lunch, she escaped to the rooftop garden to breathe. For a moment, the city noise soothed her. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through messages—none from friends, none from family. She truly was alone here.
“You always liked high places.”
The voice froze her blood. Damien stood behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her like a shadow that never left.
Her lips parted. “How would you know that?”
He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Some things about you aren’t hard to guess.”
But the way he said it—it wasn’t a guess. It was certainty.
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That night, back at her apartment, Amara locked the door twice and curled up on the couch with her laptop. She typed his name into a search engine. Articles, interviews, business awards—Damien Cross was everywhere.
But one article caught her eye.
“Tragic Fire at Cross Estate Ten Years Ago.”
The image showed a ruined mansion, flames licking the night sky. In the background of the photo—so blurred she almost doubted it—was a little girl, standing near the smoke.
Her heart nearly stopped. The girl looked like… her.
Amara slammed the laptop shut, her chest heaving. No. Impossible
- Writer
