Episode1
918 Words
Five years ago – New York City
The sound of laughter echoed from behind the penthouse door.
Elira’s hand trembled around the keycard. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had left work early, excited to surprise her fiancé. A new dress, his favorite wine, and her doctor’s words still ringing in her ears.
“You’re eight weeks pregnant, Miss Wren.”
But now, as she stood frozen outside Damian Thorne’s luxury suite, the kind of laughter she heard didn’t belong to a man alone.
There was a woman inside.
And that woman was moaning his name.
“No—Damian—please—”
The sound that came next made Elira’s stomach turn. The kind of breathless, primal sound she never made with him. The dress she wore suddenly felt like a costume. The wine bottle slipped from her hand, shattering into crimson shards against the hallway’s marble floor.
She pushed open the door.
And there he was.
Damian, half-naked, tangled in silk sheets, gripping another woman’s thighs like they belonged to him.
Elira didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She simply… stopped breathing.
Damian’s gaze locked with hers, his expression unreadable. The woman—some brunette with expensive hair extensions—let out a sharp gasp and yanked a sheet over herself.
“Elira—” Damian sat up, the chill in his eyes nothing like the man she’d loved.
She blinked at him. “You told me you were flying to Paris.”
He rose slowly from the bed, completely unashamed, like this was nothing but a business negotiation.
“Elira, I can explain.”
She shook her head. “You can’t. Because I’m not stupid.”
She turned and walked out. Not a single tear fell until she was in the elevator, holding her stomach with both hands.
Her child would never know him. Never know the kind of man who could destroy everything without flinching.
Not if she could help it.
Five years later – San Francisco
The gala was full of masks and secrets.
Elira Wren walked through the glass doors of the Thornstone Foundation with her head high and her identity carefully buried beneath layers of satin and anonymity.
She was no longer the woman who cried over billionaires.
She was a mother. A businesswoman. A ghost in her former lover’s world.
And tonight, she had come back to haunt him.
“Miss Wren.” A familiar voice slid against her skin like icewater.
She turned.
Damian Thorne stood by the bar in a midnight-black suit, his sharp features even colder than she remembered. Older. Meaner. More beautiful, somehow. He looked like the devil dressed by Tom Ford.
He hadn’t changed.
But she had.
“Mr. Thorne.” Her voice didn’t shake. Not even a little.
His gaze swept over her — slow, precise, hungry. She wondered if he recognized her yet. Five years and a changed name had done her some favors. She no longer looked like the sweet assistant he kept on his arm and under his control.
No. Tonight, she looked like power dipped in lipstick.
“You’re not on the guest list,” he said flatly.
She smiled. “Neither was your mistress that night.”
His jaw tensed, and for a fraction of a second, he faltered.
Then something dangerous lit in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Elira stepped closer, deliberately brushing past him. Her perfume—jasmine and honey—lingered like a challenge.
“Neither should you have cheated.”
Before he could respond, she vanished into the crowd, leaving him with nothing but ghosts and rage.
Later that night – Outside
The streets of San Francisco were colder than she remembered. Elira hailed a car, still vibrating from the confrontation.
Then she felt it.
A presence behind her.
She turned—and a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
The world spun.
A sharp scent—chloroform—burned her nose, and everything went black.
She woke up to velvet darkness.
Her wrists were tied in front of her. Her dress was torn at the hem. Her heels were gone.
The room smelled like money.
And betrayal.
Dim light filtered through tinted windows. It wasn’t a basement. It was a penthouse. Somewhere high above the city. And he was there.
Damian.
He stood near the window, holding a glass of bourbon like nothing had happened.
“You had no right to show up tonight.”
Elira forced herself to sit up, blinking away the fog in her mind. “You kidnapped me.”
“You disappeared,” he said, voice calm and cold. “For five years. I thought you died.”
“You slept with someone else two weeks after you proposed,” she spat. “And I was pregnant.”
That made him turn.
“What did you just say?”
She stared at him. Daring. Trembling. Defiant.
“I was pregnant. And I left. Because I couldn’t let you ruin a child too.”
Damian’s glass shattered against the floor.
He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing her chin.
“Where is the child?”
Elira smiled, cruel and soft. “Safe from you.”
His fingers tightened. But his voice dropped to something unholy.
“I’m going to find my child, Elira. And when I do, you’ll regret everything you’ve ever hidden from me.”
Her heart beat wildly, but she didn’t flinch.
“Too late,” she whispered. “I already do.”
- Writer
