Velvet Chains

Chapter Twelve

Elara

The warning came on a Thursday evening.

I was in Damian’s penthouse again, perched on the couch with my laptop open, trying to force myself into the rhythm of normalcy. Numbers, emails, schedules. The kind of work I used to complain about before all this. The kind of work that now felt like safety because it didn’t bleed.

But my thoughts kept slipping, circling back to Julian. I’d texted him twice that day, little things, reminders to eat, to take his inhaler before basketball practice. He responded with thumbs-ups and memes, his usual way of brushing me off while assuring me he was fine.

He wasn’t fine. Not really. I knew it.

The shadows Damian promised to place around him weren’t reassurance; they were reminders. If Kasparov’s men were close enough to watch, they were close enough to act.

I told myself I was overreacting. That Julian was safe, that Damian was right, that no one would touch him while Kasparov and Damian waged their silent war.

Then the phone rang.

Not my personal one, the landline on the console table near the window. I hesitated before answering. Hardly anyone called here.

A pause, then a voice I didn’t know. Calm. Male. Soft in the way that felt rehearsed.

He said my brother’s name.

Julian.

My grip tightened around the receiver, my pulse hammering. The man told me Julian had left the library a few minutes ago. He said he walked quickly, distracted by his phone, unaware of the two men following him.

I asked who he was. He ignored me.

He described Julian’s red hoodie, his lopsided backpack, and the way he adjusted his glasses when they slipped. Details too sharp to be a coincidence. My chest constricted with every word.

Then the voice lowered, almost amused. He told me Damian couldn’t protect everyone. That I should tell my boss the city belonged to Kasparov. That sometimes pawns had to bleed so kings could fall.

The line went dead.

My knees buckled. I dropped onto the nearest chair, breath coming in ragged bursts.

Julian. They had Julian in their sights.

Panic clawed up my throat. I wanted to run. To throw on shoes, storm out, and find him myself. But the rational part of me, the small voice Damian had drilled into me with every cold order, knew that was exactly what they wanted. To flush me out. To expose me.

Still, my body shook with the urge. He was my brother. My responsibility. I had raised him, fought for him, carried him through every hardship after our parents died. If anything happened to him because of me, because of this war, I would never forgive myself.

Footsteps. Damian entered the room, phone still in his hand, eyes sharp and unreadable. He saw my face, saw the way I clutched the receiver, and didn’t bother asking.

He already knew.

I told him what the voice had said, each word tumbling out fast, frantic. His expression didn’t change, but the air around him thickened, colder, heavier.

He told me Julian was being watched, that his men were on him, that nothing would happen. His voice was calm, absolute, but I heard the steel beneath it.

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But fear drowned logic. My hands shook, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall.

I accused him anyway. Said this was his fault. That Kasparov wouldn’t even know my name if not for him. That Julian’s life was only in danger because I worked for Damian Cross.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it.

He said Kasparov had drawn me into this the second he chose me as a weapon. That there was no undoing it. That was the only way to keep Julian safe was to trust him.

Trust him. The words felt like ash in my mouth.

I asked what if he failed. What if his empire cracked? What if Kasparov slipped through his iron grip? What if Julian became collateral damage in a game I never agreed to play?

His gaze locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding. He said he didn’t fail.

The conviction in his tone was terrifying. Because I didn’t know if it was confidence or delusion.

I turned away, pressing my fists into my eyes. The city glittered outside the window, oblivious. Somewhere down there, Julian walked under neon lights, hunted by men who saw him as nothing more than leverage.

I hated Kasparov for using him.

I hated Damian for making him a target.

And I hated myself for standing here, trapped between them, powerless to protect the one person who mattered most.

The hours crawled. Damian made calls, gave orders, paced with the controlled fury of a man already sharpening his knife. I sat frozen on the couch, staring at my phone, waiting for Julian to text, to call, to prove he was still safe.

Finally, near midnight, a message buzzed. Back in my dorm. You worry too much.

Relief crashed through me so hard my hands went numb.

I exhaled shakily, clutching the phone like a lifeline. He was safe. For now.

But the truth was undeniable: this wouldn’t be the last call. Kasparov wasn’t finished. He was circling closer, daring Damian to flinch. And sooner or later, he would strike harder.

When I looked up, Damian was watching me. Not the empire-builder, not the untouchable CEO. A man. Cold, furious, dangerous, but a man who had just seen my world tremble and hadn’t looked away.

And in that moment, as much as I wanted to scream, to rage, to hate him… I also wanted to believe him.

Because if he failed, Julian was gone. And I couldn’t survive that.

So I clutched the phone, forced myself to meet his gaze, and whispered the words I never thought I’d say.

Do whatever you have to. Just keep him safe.

His eyes darkened. He nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if sealing a pact.

And I knew then that whatever came next, I had just stepped deeper into Damian Cross’s world.

There was no going back.