Beneath His Empire

Chapter 4: A Dead Man's Secret

"He's dead."

The words echoed inside my head.

Over and over.

Like a broken record.

Dead.

My source was dead.

The anonymous person who had risked everything to send me those files.

The person who had trusted me with the truth.

Gone.

I couldn't breathe.

The newsroom around me became a blur of faces and voices.

Someone was speaking.

Maybe Marcus.

Maybe Damien.

I couldn't tell.

All I could see was the folder sitting on my desk.

The photographs.

The threats.

The warning messages.

And now a body.

My body swayed slightly.

Before I could lose my balance, a strong hand closed around my elbow.

Damien.

Heat rushed through me despite the horror clawing at my chest.

His grip was firm.

Protective.

Possessive.

"Sit down."

His voice was low.

Controlled.

I hated how easily I obeyed.

The moment I sat, Damien crouched slightly beside my chair.

For the first time, his eyes weren't cold.

They were worried.

Genuinely worried.

"Tell me everything."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"The messages."

His jaw tightened.

"The threats."

A strange anger flickered behind his gaze.

"Everything."

I swallowed.

Then I handed him my phone.

His expression darkened with every message he read.

By the time he reached the last one, his face looked carved from stone.

"When did this start?"

"Yesterday."

His eyes narrowed.

"You should have reported it."

I almost laughed.

"To who?"

"To me."

The answer came instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

As if it were obvious.

As if my safety belonged to him.

The realization made my stomach flutter.

Which was ridiculous.

A man had just died.

This was not the time to notice how attractive Damien Blackwood looked when he was angry.

Unfortunately, my heart hadn't received the memo.

Marcus cleared his throat.

"We should call the police."

Damien stood.

"No."

The word cut through the room.

Marcus frowned.

"No?"

"The police are already involved."

His voice was ice.

"If this is connected to Project Eclipse, they're already three steps behind."

A heavy silence followed.

I slowly stood.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Damien looked away.

That alone answered my question.

There was something.

Something big.

Something he desperately didn't want me to know.

"Damien."

His gaze returned to mine.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Protective.

"What is Project Eclipse?"

The question hung between us.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

For a second, I thought he might actually answer.

Then his expression closed off completely.

"No."

Anger exploded inside me.

"No?"

I stepped toward him.

Ignoring every survival instinct I possessed.

"My source is dead."

Another step.

"Someone is stalking me."

Another.

"People are sending threats."

I was standing directly in front of him now.

Close enough to see the tiny scar above his eyebrow.

Close enough to smell his expensive cologne.

Close enough to notice the exhaustion hiding beneath his perfect appearance.

"You don't get to tell me no."

The newsroom held its breath.

Damien stared down at me.

Unmoving.

Then something unexpected happened.

He smiled.

Not because he found the situation funny.

Because I had challenged him.

And apparently, he liked that.

"You're fearless."

I folded my arms.

"I'm angry."

"That's attractive."

My mouth fell open.

Several reporters nearby nearly choked.

Was he flirting?

Now?

After everything that had happened?

The worst part was that my traitorous heart skipped a beat.

His smile widened slightly.

As if he knew.

As if he could hear every ridiculous thought running through my head.

I hated him.

At least, I desperately wanted to.

His phone rang again.

This time, Damien's expression immediately hardened.

He answered.

"Report."

The person on the other end spoke quickly.

I watched Damien's face change.

First anger.

Then shock.

Then something far worse.

Fear.

Real fear.

The kind powerful men weren't supposed to feel.

My stomach dropped.

"What happened?"

He ignored me.

The caller continued speaking.

Damien listened silently.

When the call ended, he looked directly at me.

Every instinct I possessed screamed danger.

"What?" I whispered.

His jaw clenched.

"They searched your source's apartment."

Cold dread flooded my body.

"And?"

"They found evidence."

Hope sparked briefly.

Evidence meant answers.

Evidence meant proof.

Evidence meant the story wasn't dead.

Then Damien spoke again.

And destroyed that hope instantly.

"They found your name."

The room spun.

My blood turned ice cold.

"What?"

"They found files connected to you."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

"How?"

"I don't know."

For the first time, Damien looked genuinely frustrated.

As if not knowing bothered him.

As if losing control wasn't something he tolerated.

Marcus looked horrified.

"What kind of files?"

Damien's eyes never left mine.

"Personal files."

My stomach twisted.

Personal?

That didn't make sense.

The source didn't know me.

Not personally.

We had only communicated through encrypted emails.

Nothing more.

Unless...

A terrible realization hit me.

"What else did they find?"

Damien didn't answer immediately.

That hesitation terrified me.

"Damien."

His expression darkened.

"They found photographs."

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too hot.

Too dangerous.

"What kind of photographs?"

Silence.

Then—

"You."

My heart stopped.

The same answer.

Again.

Photographs.

Surveillance.

Watching.

Tracking.

Following.

This wasn't about journalism anymore.

This wasn't about a story.

Someone had been focused on me long before I ever met Damien Blackwood.

Long before the threats.

Long before the investigation.

The realization sent fear racing through my veins.

Because it meant one thing.

I wasn't being targeted because of the story.

I was the target.

A loud crash suddenly echoed from outside.

Everyone jumped.

The newsroom windows rattled violently.

Several people screamed.

Instinctively, Damien moved.

One second he was standing across from me.

The next, he was in front of me.

Shielding me.

Protecting me.

The gesture was automatic.

Unthinking.

Possessive.

As if his body had made the decision before his brain could.

Another crash followed.

Then shouting.

People rushed toward the windows.

My pulse pounded.

"What happened?"

A security guard ran into the newsroom.

His face was pale.

Terrified.

"Mr. Blackwood—"

Damien turned.

"What?"

The guard swallowed hard.

Then delivered the words that made the entire room freeze.

"A bomb just exploded in the parking garage."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then the guard looked directly at me.

And everything inside me went cold.

"It was under Miss Bennett's car."