Episode2
1670 Words
The silence between them was suffocating.
Damian stood over her, his breath ragged, eyes burning with something she couldn’t name—rage, disbelief, desire. Maybe all three.
“You’re lying,” he finally said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Elira tilted her chin, a quiet defiance radiating from her even with her wrists still bound. “I never lie, Damian. You just never listened.”
He stared at her for several seconds longer, the silence thickening until she thought she might choke on it.
And then he turned away, like he couldn’t stand to look at her.
She was fine with that. She couldn’t stand to look at him either.
He poured himself another drink. This time, the ice clinked loudly against the glass, the only sound between them. The tension vibrated in the room, sharp and dangerous.
“I want proof,” he said finally, his back still to her. “DNA, photos, a birth certificate—something. Anything.”
“You think I carry that in my clutch?” she snapped. “You kidnapped me, Damian. I was leaving a gala, not preparing for a courtroom hearing.”
He turned sharply, stalking toward her with terrifying precision.
“You showed up to my event. You dragged yourself back into my life. You opened this door, Elira.”
She didn’t blink. “I showed up for me. To remind myself of everything I escaped.”
His jaw clenched. “Where is the child?”
Elira smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “You don’t get to ask that.”
“I have a right.”
“You lost every right the day you slept with her.”
His fists curled at his sides. “You think this is about some cheap affair?”
“You think I care what it was?” she bit back. “You broke me, Damian. I loved you. I trusted you. I carried your child while you destroyed everything we built.”
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe. Regret. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold mask he wore so well.
“I’ll find the child, Elira,” he said calmly. “With or without your help.”
She leaned back against the sofa, exhausted but still unbowed. “You can try.”
“I already have people looking.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” he said, stepping closer. “You know what I’m capable of. You think five years changed me?”
“No,” she whispered. “That’s the problem.”
He crouched in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the bourbon on his breath.
“You think I’m the villain in your story, Elira. But you disappeared with my child.”
Her voice cracked as she whispered, “You were never ready to be a father.”
He tilted his head. “But I am now.”
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because Damian Thorne with purpose was unstoppable.
And now he had a reason to burn the world down.
Her.
And the child he never knew existed.
Flashback – Five years ago
Elira sat in the small, sterile clinic, the smell of antiseptic burning her nose.
The test was positive. She hadn’t been surprised, not really. The nausea, the fatigue, the way her body felt different. But hearing it from the nurse made it real.
Eight weeks. His child.
She’d stared at the ceiling, her fingers tight around the pregnancy pamphlet they handed her.
Damian would never understand.
He would’ve insisted on keeping it—on raising the child under his terms, in his world. A world of control, deals, power.
She wanted more.
She wanted love.
And he had taken that from her the moment she saw him in that bed with another woman.
So she ran.
She changed her name.
Left her career behind.
Started over in San Francisco, alone and terrified—but free.
And when her son was born, she looked into his eyes and knew she’d done the right thing.
Because Damian’s world would’ve crushed them both.
Present day – Damian’s penthouse
Elira didn’t sleep.
Not even when the sun began to bleed into the skyline, casting the glass walls in a golden glow.
She sat on the sofa, still tied, her dress rumpled, her body aching—but her mind sharp. Watching. Waiting.
When Damian finally returned—his jacket off, his sleeves rolled, and phone glued to his ear—he looked like he hadn’t slept either.
“She’s here. Secure the perimeter. No one in or out.”
He hung up and met her gaze without flinching.
“You’re not leaving until I get answers.”
She scoffed. “You think tying me up and playing jailer will get you anything?”
“It’s worked before.”
“Not on me.”
“You’re not exactly free to negotiate, Elira.”
“And you’re not exactly a father yet.”
His eyes flashed. “How old is the child?”
“Old enough to hate you if she ever meets you.”
His whole body went still. “She?”
Her heart slammed in her chest, realizing her mistake.
Damian smiled, slow and lethal. “Thank you.”
She turned away, cursing herself.
“So it’s a girl,” he said softly. “My daughter .”
“You don’t deserve to say that.”
He stepped in front of her. “You think keeping him from me was noble? You think you did the right thing?”
“I know I did,” she snapped. “You were a manipulative, cheating bastard. You would’ve destroyed us.”
His smile vanished. “And what are you now, Elira? A liar? A thief?”
“I took nothing that wasn’t mine.”
He grabbed her face again, not rough, but firm. “She's mine.”
“No,” she whispered, eyes blazing. “She's mine. Because I was the one up at 3 a.m. because she was crying. I was the one who worked two jobs just to afford her preschool. I was the one who kissed her bruises, read her stories, and held her when she asked about her father.”
Damian’s hand dropped.
He looked… human for a second. Like her words had peeled something raw inside him.
“Why didn’t you come back?” he asked. “Even once.”
“Because I didn’t trust myself,” she said honestly. “Because even after everything, part of me still loved you. And I knew if I came back, you’d pull me back in.”
He looked at her like she was a stranger. Like she was something holy and cursed all at once.
“Let me see her.”
She laughed, bitter and broken. “You don’t even know her name.”
“I’ll learn.”
“She doesn’t know you exist.”
“Then let me fix that.”
She stared at him. “What’s the catch?”
He smirked. “There’s always a catch, sweetheart.”
Later that day
Elira had been unbound—but not released.
Damian’s penthouse became her golden cage.
Security guards stood outside the elevator. Her phone was confiscated. But she had clothes, food, and space.
The only thing missing was freedom.
And her daughter .
She stood on the balcony, staring down at the glittering city, when Damian appeared beside her, two glasses of wine in hand.
“You always did like heights,” he said.
She didn’t take the glass.
“You think this is going to charm me?”
“No,” he said. “But I think you’re tired. And wine helps with tired.”
She finally took it, because the ache in her legs was spreading through her bones.
“Where is she?” he asked again.
“I’ll tell you,” she said, sipping. “When you prove I can trust you.”
He looked at her, quiet and unreadable. “You think I won’t force it out of you?”
“You could try,” she said. “But you won’t. Because you want me to give him to you willingly. You want to rewrite the story, Damian.”
“Maybe I do,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Maybe I want to fix what I broke.”
She looked up at him, her body humming with the tension only he could bring. That damn pull between them that had never gone away.
“Or maybe you’re just trying to own the one thing you never had control over.”
His hand brushed her arm, fingers lingering. “You always knew how to cut deep.”
“I learned from the best.”
There was silence. Long. Charged.
Then he said, “I want to meet her.”
“And I want my freedom.”
“Then let’s make a deal.”
She laughed darkly. “Still doing contracts, Thorne?”
He leaned in, voice brushing her ear. “Only the binding kind.”
She turned her face slightly, their lips nearly touching.
“I won’t give her to you, Damian.”
“I’m not asking. I’m offering you a choice.”
“What kind of choice?”
His eyes held hers.
“Stay. Negotiate. Let me earn my way in.”
“Or?”
“Or I find him on my own. And you won’t like the way I do it.”
Elira’s heart thundered. He meant every word. This was war. And he was ready to play dirty.
But so was she.
“Then we negotiate,” she whispered, voice full of steel and secrets.
“Good,” he said, taking her glass. “Because I don’t plan on letting you leave again.”
And just like that, the game began.
Not of love. Not yet.
But of power. Control.
And the fire they’d never truly extinguished.
- Writer
