Chapter Eight
768 Words
Elara
The sound of my name in Kasparov’s voice didn’t fade when the call ended. It echoed, again and again, until it was all I could hear. He hadn’t just spoken it, he had savoured it. Rolled it over his tongue like a promise.
That was the moment it became real.
Before, it had been smoke and shadows. Hints of violence, a body in the lobby, whispered warnings I could almost convince myself were paranoia. But hearing Kasparov say Elara was like a spotlight searing my skin. I wasn’t a bystander anymore. I was a piece on the board.
I barely registered when Damian told me I couldn’t go anywhere alone. His voice was steady, commanding, but my mind was already spinning. Every ordinary detail of my life, my commute, my apartment, Julian’s late-night library sessions, suddenly looked like traps waiting to be sprung.
Julian.
The thought of him made bile rise in my throat. Kasparov knew my name. How long before he knew my brother’s?
That night, I didn’t go home. Damian insisted on sending a car, black and unmarked, and when I tried to argue, he only said I was safer where he could see me. He didn’t phrase it as a question.
The car delivered me to one of his high-rise apartments overlooking the city. Glass walls, sharp furniture, a view that stretched forever. It felt like another kind of prison. Too quiet, too still, the kind of place where you could hear your thoughts echo back at you.
I sat on the couch, staring out at the lights below, trying to steady my breathing. The city looked almost beautiful from up here, glittering and untouchable. But I knew better. Beneath that shine were fires, both the kind you could see and the kind you couldn’t.
I thought about calling Julian. Just to hear his voice. Just to reassure myself he was fine. But what could I say? Hey, a crime lord said my name today, so maybe don’t stay out late? No. The less he knew, the safer he was.
Still, I sent him a text. Something small. Don’t forget your inhaler. And eat something that isn’t from the vending machine. He replied almost instantly with a laughing emoji, promising he would. I stared at that single blue bubble longer than I should have, clutching the phone like it was a lifeline.
When I finally looked up, Damian was standing in the doorway. Silent, watching.
He didn’t ask if I was comfortable. He didn’t apologise for dragging me into his world. He simply poured a drink, set it on the table near me, and said I’d be staying here until further notice.
I wanted to tell him no. To argue that he couldn’t dictate my life, that I wouldn’t be caged by his protection. But the truth was, I didn’t have the strength. Not tonight.
So I asked the one question that had been clawing at me since Kasparov’s voice slithered through the phone. Why me? Out of everyone in Damian’s empire, why had Kasparov singled me out?
Damian didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes unreadable. Finally, he said that Kasparov knew what mattered most to his enemies. That sometimes the easiest way to break a man wasn’t to attack his empire, but to touch what stood closest to him.
The words landed like a weight in my chest. Closest to him. Did that mean me? Did Kasparov believe that about me, or worse, was it true?
I wanted to deny it, to laugh in Damian’s face, to remind him that I was just an assistant, just another cog in his machine. But the memory of Kasparov’s voice wouldn’t let me. He had said my name like it meant something.
Later, when I lay in the guest room staring at the ceiling, sleep wouldn’t come. My thoughts spun in endless circles: Julian, the fire at the docks, the way Damian’s gaze lingered on me too long, the way he said I was safer here.
For the first time in my life, I wished for ordinary. For boredom, for deadlines and grocery lists and rent payments. Anything but this.
But ordinary was gone. Kasparov had seen to that.
And Damian Cross… he wasn’t just protecting me. He was binding me tighter, link by link, until I couldn’t tell where survival ended and captivity began.
As the city hummed below, I closed my eyes and admitted what I hadn’t wanted to face until now.
I wasn’t just afraid of Kasparov.
I was afraid of what Damian was turning me into.
- Writer
