Episode4
1437 Words
The silence between them was no longer comfortable.
It was electric.
Threatening.
Fragile.
Elira stood in the hallway, her back against the door to her temporary bedroom, heart hammering in her chest. Damian had barely spoken after she whispered their son’s name. Cassian. As if that one syllable unraveled every wall he had built between rage and remorse.
And yet, he hadn’t followed her.
Not when she turned.
Not when she walked away.
But his presence chased her all night.
She lay awake, trying not to think of him. Of the way his fingers had felt when they traced her knuckles, as if memorizing something sacred. Of how easily he still slipped under her skin, despite the years and the betrayal.
And then—
A knock at the door.
She didn’t answer.
He knocked again. Quiet. Measured.
“Elira,” he said.
She hated the way her name sounded from his lips.
Hated more that she missed it.
“Go away,” she said.
“I have something to show you.”
“I’m not in the mood for more threats.”
“It’s not a threat.”
The silence stretched. She thought he might leave.
But then—
“It’s a letter,” he said, his voice lower now. “From my mother.”
That made her still.
Damian never spoke of his mother. Never. In all their time together, the only thing she knew was that the woman had walked out on him and his father when Damian was a child. She had never returned.
Elira opened the door slowly.
He stood there, barefoot, dressed in a soft gray sweater and black lounge pants that made him look almost human.
He handed her a thin envelope. Old. Yellowed around the edges.
Elira stepped back into the room, allowing him to follow, then sat at the edge of the bed.
She opened it.
The handwriting was delicate. Faded ink, soft curves.
She read aloud:
Damian,
I know you hate me. You’re allowed to. I hated myself long before you ever could.
But if you ever become a father, I hope you choose love over pride.
Don’t push them away to protect them. That’s a lie we tell ourselves to stay comfortable.
Love will ruin you. But it will also save you.
Don’t be your father.
Be better.
*Love,
Your mother.*
Elira looked up, eyes burning.
Damian wasn’t watching her.
He was watching the floor. His jaw tight. His hands clenched at his sides.
“I found it two weeks ago,” he said. “Hidden in my father’s study after the funeral.”
“You never told me he died.”
“He was already dead to me,” he muttered.
She hesitated. Then asked, “Why did you bring it to me?”
His eyes finally lifted. “Because it matters now.”
Silence.
And then—gently—he sat beside her.
“I was raised by a man who believed showing affection was weakness. That control was the only thing that mattered. He taught me that winning meant power. That people were currency. Even love.”
“You didn’t have to become him,” she said quietly.
“No,” he admitted. “But I did. I became cold. Calculating. Obsessed with success. And the night you left me…”
He paused.
“I thought I could just move on. Work more. F*** more. Drink more.”
“And did you?”
“I tried,” he said. “But the silence you left behind was louder than anything I could drown it with.”
Elira didn’t move.
Damian reached into his sweater and pulled out a thin silver chain from beneath it.
A ring hung from it.
Her ring.
The delicate band he’d given her the night he’d whispered, marry me, but let’s keep it ours.
Her breath caught.
“You kept it?” she whispered.
“I never took it off.”
Her hand moved before her mind could stop it—fingers brushing against the cool metal. Her chest ached with old memories.
“You left me,” she said, voice thick. “Not just physically. You left me, Damian. Emotionally. Mentally. You chose your ego over the truth.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of needing you too much.”
That stunned her.
Elira looked away, blinking hard.
“I hate you for what you did,” she said softly.
“I hate myself more,” he whispered.
And then his hand touched hers—tentative, not demanding.
She didn’t pull away.
But she didn’t forgive him either.
The next morning, everything changed.
Damian disappeared for hours.
Elira roamed the penthouse, anxious. Waiting. Wondering what game he was playing now.
But when he returned, it wasn’t alone.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a woman Elira hadn’t seen in years.
Tall. Slender. Red lips, expensive heels.
Mireille.
Damian’s former assistant—and the woman Elira had suspected for months before she ever found the lipstick on his collar.
“Good morning,” Mireille said with a saccharine smile.
Elira’s blood ran cold.
“What is she doing here?” she asked Damian, voice steel.
“I asked her to come,” Damian replied.
“I don’t care.” Elira stepped forward. “You brought her here?”
“Relax, darling,” Mireille said smoothly. “I’m not here to steal him back. I’m here because I already know your secret.”
Elira’s breath caught.
Damian stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Mireille smirked, her gaze sharp. “You didn’t tell him, did you, sweetheart?”
Elira’s stomach twisted. “You don’t know anything.”
“Oh, I know more than you think. I knew you were pregnant before you left. I saw the test in your bathroom. I didn’t tell Damian.”
Damian turned slowly, his expression dark. “You what?”
Mireille rolled her eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I loved you once too, Damian. But I knew you weren’t mine. Not really. So I made sure Elira was gone. I thought if she left, maybe… maybe I’d have a chance.”
“You manipulated me,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“I protected you—from getting tied down.”
Elira stared at her. “You’re psychotic.”
“No,” Mireille said. “I was in love.”
Damian stepped toward her, his presence suffocating. “Get out.”
“I’m not finished,” she said, brushing past him. “I know where your son is.”
Everything froze.
Elira’s heart dropped.
“What?” Damian demanded.
Mireille turned to Elira with a smile like a knife. “You really should be more careful who you trust. I have friends, Elira. I know who’s watching your boy.”
Elira lunged, grabbing Mireille’s wrist. “If you go near him—”
“I won’t,” she said. “But others might.”
Damian grabbed her arm, hard. “If anything happens to him, Mireille—anything at all—I’ll bury you.”
She paled, pulling away.
“I just came to say goodbye,” she said. “And to tell you, Elira… that the game isn’t over.”
She left without another word.
Elira turned to Damian, her breath ragged. “She knows about Cassian.”
“I’ll handle her,” he said.
“She’s not the threat. You are. You brought her here. You let her back in.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t trust you, Damian.”
He closed the distance between them. “Then let me earn it.”
She shoved him. Hard. “I can’t protect him if you keep pulling me into your past.”
“Then stop running,” he said, gripping her shoulders. “Stay. Stay here. Let me protect both of you.”
Her eyes blazed. “And if I say no?”
He didn’t flinch.
“I’ll never stop coming for him.”
That night, Elira called her best friend—the only person who knew where Cassian really was.
“Change locations,” she whispered into the phone. “Now.”
“Are you safe?” her friend asked.
“I’m not the one they want.”
After she hung up, Elira went to the rooftop. The sky stretched above her like ink. Cold wind wrapped around her.
She needed a plan.
Damian couldn’t be trusted. But she couldn’t fight him unprepared.
She had a week.
One week to decide if she’d run again—
—or destroy him from inside his own empire.
- Writer
