Episode5
1222 Words
Elira didn’t sleep.
She watched the skyline burn from Damian’s penthouse window, heart still thudding in the echo of Mireille’s warning. The city glittered below her like a thousand promises—none of them trustworthy.
In the dark, her fingers danced across the burner phone she’d hidden in her shoe. It was the only device not tracked, not touched by Damian’s empire.
One message.
A code word.
And Cassian would be gone.
But gone didn’t mean safe. Not anymore.
She had underestimated the depth of Damian’s web—and the rot within it.
By morning, she had made her decision.
She wouldn’t run.
She would stay.
She would lie.
And when the moment was right, she’d burn it all down from the inside.
Damian’s office was a cold cathedral of power.
Glass, steel, shadows. An empire built on intimidation. The staff barely made eye contact as Elira walked in. Every glance was coated in suspicion, curiosity—or fear.
She wore red.
A tailored silk dress that clung to her waist and flared just above the knee. Her lips matched it—bold, sharp, daring. A statement. A warning.
She knocked once and stepped into his private suite.
Damian stood behind his desk, dark suit immaculate, hands in his pockets. He turned, eyes dragging over her slowly.
“Is that what you wear when declaring war?” he asked, voice velvet over iron.
“I thought it might distract you while I take your kingdom.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “You’re welcome to try.”
She crossed the room. “Let’s make a deal.”
He raised a brow. “You don’t make deals. You issue ultimatums.”
“Fine,” she said coolly. “Here’s my offer: I stay. You keep me close. Let your staff and the media think we’ve reconciled.”
“Why?”
“Because it keeps my child safer. And I want access—to your board, to your files, to your foundation. Everything.”
He studied her carefully.
“You want a seat at my table?”
“I want my claws in your empire.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“I’m already in danger.”
Damian circled the desk. Stopped inches from her.
“And what do I get?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Me. In public. By your side.”
His jaw tightened. “You’d pretend to be mine again?”
“I’ll play your fiancée. I’ll smile for the cameras. I’ll be the perfect storybook partner—just long enough for me to bury the skeletons your assistant tried to drag up.”
He said nothing.
But she saw the war waging behind his eyes. He wanted this. He needed this. The shareholders were nervous. The media had caught wind of his father’s shady dealings. A united front would buy him time—and silence.
“You’ll stay here?” he asked at last.
“I already am.”
His voice dropped. “In my bed?”
She tilted her head. “Are you offering, or demanding?”
He stepped back. “Your terms are accepted.”
“Good.” She turned. “We’ll announce it tonight.”
Damian watched her leave.
And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like he was in control.
The gala was hosted at the Easton Hotel—a landmark soaked in old money and new ambition.
Red carpet. Champagne flutes. Diamond-clad vultures circling for gossip and weakness.
Elira walked in on Damian’s arm, poised and silent. Their public appearance as a couple had been dormant for years, but the whispers that erupted as soon as they stepped into the ballroom confirmed one thing:
They were still everyone’s favorite scandal.
Her ring sparkled—deliberately. It had never left Damian’s possession, and now it sat like a vow on her finger, gleaming in gold under the chandeliers.
“They’re eating it up,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“They’ve missed you.”
She smiled at a group of socialites. “They’ve missed the illusion of us.”
“You were never an illusion.”
“No,” she whispered. “Just a disappointment.”
They moved through the crowd, greeting executives, dodging journalists. Elira’s smile never faltered, but her eyes caught every detail—every whispered rumor, every lingering look toward Damian. Especially from one man.
Calder Langston.
The CFO of Damian’s parent company.
Tall. Too polished. Too smooth. A smile like venom.
He approached, eyes flicking from Damian to Elira. “Well, if it isn’t the queen herself.”
“Mr. Langston,” Elira said warmly, offering her hand. “Still bleeding cash in Singapore?”
He chuckled, but his eyes narrowed. “Only a little. You always did have a sharp tongue.”
“She has sharp instincts too,” Damian said flatly.
“Shame those instincts didn’t warn her about the lipstick on your collar,” Calder said with a grin.
Elira didn’t blink. “Funny. I thought the CFO was supposed to stay out of personal affairs.”
Calder leaned in. “You’d be surprised what I know about personal affairs.”
Damian stepped between them, blocking Calder’s view. “You’ve had enough to drink.”
“Have I?” Calder asked, eyes glinting. “Because if I were you, I’d watch my back. That foundation you’re pouring millions into? Not everyone on the board agrees with your… strategy.”
Damian’s voice went cold. “Walk away.”
Calder bowed mockingly. “As you wish, CEO.”
When he was gone, Elira said quietly, “He’s the threat.”
“I know.”
“Then why haven’t you cut him loose?”
“Because he’s too connected. We do it wrong, and the whole board turns on me.”
“Then we do it right,” she said. “We expose him.”
Damian studied her. “You really want to help me?”
“No,” Elira said. “I want to hurt the people who tried to hurt my son.”
Later that night, after the penthouse door shut behind them, Elira peeled the ring from her finger and placed it on the table.
Damian watched from the window. The city glowed behind him.
“You played the part well,” he said.
“I meant every word.”
He turned. “Even the threats?”
“Especially those.”
She moved toward him.
“This fake engagement, this partnership,” she said, voice low, “I’ll play along. But don’t mistake it for forgiveness. You will earn that, Damian. You’ll bleed for it.”
He reached for her, fingers brushing her jaw.
“Then I’ll bleed.”
Her breath hitched.
She should’ve pulled away.
She didn’t.
Their mouths met—not gentle, not tender.
A clash of history, hunger, fury.
She kissed him like she hated him.
He kissed her like he still owned every inch of her.
But when they broke apart, she didn’t fall into his arms.
She stepped back.
“I’m going to find out what else you’ve been hiding,” she said. “And when I do… I’ll decide if I want to keep pretending.”
She left him standing there.
And Damian knew—this was no longer his game.
It was hers.
- Writer
