Velvet Chains

Chapter Six

Elara



By Thursday morning, the walls of Damian’s empire felt closer, like they were shifting inward while I worked.

The office was the same on the surface: glass gleaming, phones buzzing, assistants scurrying in perfect choreography. Yet something in the air had changed. People moved faster, spoke quieter. I could sense the pressure of some unseen storm.

And at the centre of it, always, was Damian Cross.

He sat in his office with the patience of a predator, calm while everyone else scrambled. His control radiated through the floor like an electrical current. No one questioned him, no one even breathed wrong in his presence. Except me.

I hated that I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Yesterday, I had sworn I’d keep my distance. That I’d remind myself he was nothing but a boss who trapped me in golden chains. But then I’d walked into his office, handed him a report, and for the briefest second, I’d seen something shift in his eyes. A flicker, sharp and unguarded, like he was on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.

And the worst part? I wanted to know what it was.

I pressed a hand to my purse, feeling the outline of the keycard still tucked inside. It wasn’t just access. It was proof. Proof that he wanted me closer, tethered to him, tangled in secrets I couldn’t afford to carry.

But every time I thought about throwing it away, I thought about Julian. About the voice on the phone that had spoken his name like a threat. I hadn’t told him. I couldn’t. If he knew, he’d panic, and panic would make him a target.

So I carried the weight of it alone.

At lunch, I sat in the cafeteria staring at a salad I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Conversations hummed around me, normal, trivial, comforting. Birthdays, deadlines, weekend plans. I envied them their small lives untouched by power and blood and men like Damian.

A shadow fell across the table. He didn’t ask to sit. He simply did, a presence too large to ignore. Heads turned discreetly. Damian Cross never ate here. His world was penthouses and private restaurants, not plastic trays and fluorescent lights.

But here he was, sitting across from me as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough, forcing me to straighten in my chair, to feel the heat of every glance around us.

Finally, I asked if this was another test. He said nothing, only watched me with that unreadable calm. And somehow, that silence was worse than words.

Because in that silence, I felt the truth. He wasn’t here for business. He was here because of me.

And I didn’t know whether that should terrify me more…or thrill me.

I forced myself to pick up my fork, to stab a piece of lettuce just to break the tension. He leaned back, still watching, like he was memorising every twitch of my hands.

I wanted to demand Why me? Why, out of everyone in his empire, was he chosen to bind me to him? But the words caught in my throat. Because I was afraid of the answer.

When he finally stood, it was as abrupt as his arrival. He left without a word, without a glance, as though he hadn’t just unravelled me in silence.

I sat there long after, my pulse still racing, my appetite gone. The cafeteria buzzed on, but I couldn’t shake the weight of his eyes.

Damian Cross had built a prison out of velvet chains. And with every passing day, I was slipping deeper into it, not because he forced me, but because some dark, unspoken part of me no longer wanted to leave.