SHADOWS IN THE DARK
1047 Words
Aria’s breath caught as the lights went out, plunging the penthouse into suffocating darkness. The smart system’s voice echoed like a ghost through the space:
“Manual override engaged.”
Damien reacted instantly.
“Stay behind me,” he said sharply, already moving with the precision of someone used to danger.
He crossed the room in three strides and opened a concealed panel under the bar. A black pistol gleamed under emergency red lighting. He loaded it with a smooth snap, the metallic sound far too loud in the silence.
Aria’s pulse roared in her ears. She crouched low behind the marble island, arms wrapped around herself, trying to stay calm.
How did someone get in? We’re on the top floor…
The penthouse was a fortress. Damien had said that himself.
Then how had someone breached it?
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. Slow. Deliberate. Closer.
“Don’t move,” Damien said again. “No matter what you hear.”
She nodded, throat too dry to speak.
And then he was gone — swallowed by shadows as he disappeared down the hallway, gun raised, shoulders squared. A man made for war.
She strained to hear through the heavy silence.
A door creaked.
A sudden thump.
A sharp grunt of pain.
Then—
Gunfire.
Two shots. Loud and final.
Aria flinched violently, hands flying to her ears. Her stomach twisted. Was Damien—?
A beat of silence.
Then, footsteps returning. Uneven. Dragging.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Aria.”
His voice. Raspy, low, but unmistakably him.
She bolted up from her hiding place and rushed into the hallway—stopping short when she saw him.
Damien stood tall, but blood soaked through the white fabric of his shirt at the shoulder. His gun dangled at his side, his jaw clenched against pain.
“Oh my God—Damien!”
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “It’s a graze. Nothing vital.”
He winced as she reached for him, but didn’t pull away. She took his free arm and helped guide him back into the main room.
On the floor behind them, half-hidden in the shadows, lay a crumpled figure in black — masked, unmoving.
“Who was he?” Aria whispered.
“No ID,” Damien said, dropping onto a leather chair. “No fingerprints. Just a silent transmitter in his pocket. Military-grade tech. This wasn’t a robbery.”
She stared at him. “Then what was it?”
“A message. Or a test.”
“A test?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “What kind of people send assassins to test you?”
“The kind I’ve dealt with before.”
That didn’t help.
She knelt beside him, tearing a strip from the blanket she still wore to press against his wound. Her hands trembled. “Why would anyone want me dead?”
“They don’t,” Damien said flatly. “Not yet, at least. That shot wasn’t meant to kill. Not like this. It was a warning. First the sniper. Now this. They’re watching. Waiting.”
Her hands stilled. “You think they’re planning something bigger.”
He met her gaze. “I know they are.”
Her stomach twisted. “And who’s ‘they’?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and made a call.
“This is Blackwood. Initiate Protocol Seven. Lock down the building. Nobody leaves. Nobody enters. Freeze all Langford-linked assets—yes, personal and corporate. And sweep the internal system. I want to know how they overrode security.”
He ended the call and looked at her.
“You’re not safe here anymore.”
“I thought this place was impenetrable.”
“It was,” he said grimly. “Until tonight.”
She stood, arms wrapped around herself. “And Juliette? Her name keeps coming up. Are you sure this isn’t her?”
Damien’s lips thinned. “Juliette’s vindictive, but she wouldn’t go this far without help. If she’s involved, she’s just the front. Someone else is pulling strings.”
“You make enemies easily, don’t you?” she said quietly.
He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “The price of being powerful is having what others want—and being willing to take what they don’t want to lose.”
Her heart pounded. “So what happens now? We hide in here until whoever they are try again?”
“No.” His voice hardened. “We strike first.”
She stepped back. “You mean… retaliate?”
“I mean take control.” He stood, slowly. “They think you’re my weakness. Let them think that. It makes you the perfect weapon.”
“I'm not a weapon, Damien. I'm your wife. Even if it’s just for show.”
He stared at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “You’re more than that. And right now, you’re the only leverage I have that they don’t understand.”
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed again. He looked down—then cursed under his breath.
“What now?” she asked.
“They sent a message.”
He turned the screen toward her.
It was a photo.
Her. On the balcony. The red dress. Earlier that night. The image was grainy — taken from far away, through a scope.
Crosshairs marked her head.
Beneath the image, a message:
“Next time, we don’t miss.”
Her breath left her lungs in a rush.
“Someone took this tonight? During the gala?”
“No,” Damien said darkly. “After. When you came back to the penthouse.”
Her blood ran cold. “That means they were still watching. Even after the shot. Even after the lockdown.”
“They were always one step ahead,” he said. “Not anymore.”
She swallowed. “What are you going to do?”
He looked out the shattered glass doors toward the city skyline. Lights blinked in distant towers. Somewhere out there, someone had marked her life like a target.
“I’m going to find out who sent that message,” he said. “And then I’m going to send one of my own.”
End of Chapter six
- Writer
