Bound by the Devil's Cure

Chapter 2 Threads That Never Broke

Present time, three years later. There were two constants in Chloe Pierce’s life.

Clara Wilson, and the missing necklace.

Every morning, before she brushed her teeth, before she checked her phone, before she even fully opened her eyes to the world, Chloe’s fingers reached instinctively to her collarbone.

Empty.

Still empty.

The absence hurt in a way she couldn’t explain — like phantom pain from a limb that no longer existed. She would sit up slowly, heart sinking all over again, then begin the ritual. Check the bedside drawer, check her bag, check old boxes, check coat pockets she hadn’t worn in months. Even though she knew it was gone.

Lost the night everything changed. The night she saved a dying stranger, the night her life collapsed and rebuilt itself at the same time.

Years Earlier — the Wilson House

Clara and Chloe had met in a government foster home when they were both eight years old.

Clara was sunshine.

Chloe was thunderclouds.

Clara talked easily, laughed loudly, made friends within hours.

Chloe observed quietly, thinking more than speaking, always noticing things adults didn’t realize children could see.

They bonded over loneliness. Two abandoned girls trying to make sense of a world that hadn’t chosen them. When the Wilson family arrived looking to adopt, everyone assumed Clara would be chosen.

She was charming, sociable, effortlessly lovable, and what nobody expected was that the Wilsons chose both girls.

For a brief moment, Chloe believed in miracles. Mrs Wilson called them her daughters. Mr Wilson bought them matching dresses.

They had birthday cakes with candles instead of shared bread with other foster children.

For two years, Chloe experienced what family felt like. Then reality returned.

Clara thrived in the Wilson household. Chloe didn’t, she was too serious. Too analytical, too blunt. Teachers praised her intelligence, but relatives whispered she was “strange.”

Mrs Wilson began favouring Clara openly.

Clara received affection.

Chloe received expectations.

Then came the decision that shattered everything.

“She doesn’t fit into our family,” Mrs Wilson had said coldly.

Clara screamed, cried, and begged. But she was eleven and powerless.

Chloe was sent back to the foster system.

The day she left, Clara clung to her like a lifeline.

“I’ll find you,” Clara sobbed. “I promise. You’re my sister. That won’t change.”

Chloe didn’t cry.

She just nodded.

But that promise became the only warm thing she carried for years.

Clara kept her word.

The moment she turned eighteen and gained independence from the Wilsons’ control, she searched for Chloe relentlessly.

It took months.

When they finally reunited, they hugged for nearly ten minutes without speaking. From that day forward, they were family again — not by law, but by choice. Clara never stopped feeling guilty. Chloe never blamed her. Their bond only deepened.

-

Chloe’s Struggled, her intelligence was undeniable.

Top grades.

Research awards.

Academic recognition.

But intelligence didn’t pay bills. Scholarships carried her through medical school — merit grants, research stipends, charity foundations. Without them, she would never have made it.

Graduation should have been the start of stability. Instead, it became another battlefield. Hospitals wanted connections. Clinics wanted experience she couldn’t afford to gain. Private institutions preferred candidates with family names.

Chloe had none.

She worked temporary medical assistant roles, volunteer clinics, research support jobs — anything to survive.

Money was always tight. Stability always just out of reach. Even with her brilliance. Even with her dedication.

Present Day — Clara’s Apartment

Clara’s apartment overlooked the busy city skyline, sunlight spilling through tall windows onto polished floors.

It was a world away from the foster homes they grew up in.

Clara had done well for herself.

Working at High H Pharmaceuticals gave her a stable income and strong professional networks.

Chloe stood in the living room mirror adjusting the collar of her blouse, eyes tired from another sleepless night.

“You searched again, didn’t you?” Clara’s voice came from the kitchen doorway.

Chloe didn’t deny it.

“I dreamed about it,” she admitted quietly. “I felt like it was close.”

Clara’s expression softened with concern.

“Chloe… it’s been three years.”

“I know.”

“You’ve checked everywhere.”

“I know.”

Clara walked closer.

“It might be gone.”

The words hit harder than expected.

Chloe’s jaw tightened.

“It’s not just jewellery,” she said softly. “You know that.”

Clara nodded. She did know. The necklace wasn’t ordinary. It was ancient — silver woven with symbols that looked almost alive under certain light.

Chloe’s parents had given it to her before they died. It was the last physical connection to her bloodline. To the strange healing abilities she carried. To the history she barely understood.

And since the night she lost it, her instincts felt incomplete. Like something inside her was dimmed.

“I just…” Chloe swallowed. “I feel like something important is waiting for me. And I can’t reach it without that necklace.”

Clara pulled her into a hug.

“You will,” she said gently. “We’ll find it someday.”

Chloe nodded against her shoulder, though doubt lingered.

What she didn’t know—

Was that the necklace wasn’t lost. It had been taken.

And at that very moment…

A powerful man across the city was holding it in his hand, staring at it with the same unanswered question that had haunted him for three years.

Who saved my life?

The office was silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock mounted on the far wall.

Dark curtains swallowed most of the afternoon light, leaving the room in a permanent twilight that matched the man sitting behind the desk.

Damon Heights leaned back in his chair, long fingers wrapped tightly around the silver-laced necklace. The metal was cool against his skin. Familiar.

Three years, and he still hadn’t let it out of his possession for more than a few hours at a time. His thumb brushed across the intricate engravings, eyes unfocused, mind drifting back to fragments of memory, blood choking his throat.

A voice.

Soft. Urgent. Calm despite the danger. Hands on his chest. A warmth spreading through his body that medicine alone could not explain. Whoever saved him that night had done more than keep him alive.

They had changed his fate. And Damon Heights never forgot debts.

For three years now, his search for his mysterious saviour had been fruitless. The poor fractured home has been abandoned, like no one had lived there for centuries.

A sharp knock broke the silence. Before he could respond, the office doors opened. Two of his men dragged someone inside.

The man’s polished shoes scraped against the marble floor as they forced him forward until his knees hit the ground with a dull crack.

He wore an expensive suit. His hair was neatly styled, his watch alone probably cost more than most people’s yearly income.

Yet none of that dignity remained now.

Sweat soaked his collar. Fear hollowed his eyes.

“Boss,” one of the goons said respectfully. “We found him trying to leave the country.”

Damon didn’t look up immediately. He stared at the necklace a moment longer. Then, with deliberate care, he placed it inside a velvet-lined box on his desk. He opened the drawer, set the box inside.

Closed it.

Locked it.

The small metallic click echoed loudly in the quiet room. Only then did he rise. At six-foot-three, Damon’s presence alone was enough to suffocate the air.

Broad shoulders strained against his black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible beneath tan skin marked faintly by old scars.

His expression was calm.

Too calm.

He walked slowly around the desk toward the kneeling man. Each step sounded deliberate.

Controlled.

Predatory.

The man began shaking before Damon even reached him.

“Mr Heights… please,” he stammered. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I would never—”

Damon stopped directly in front of him. Silence stretched heavy, oppressive. Then Damon crouched slightly so their eyes met. His voice, when he spoke, was low and smooth.

“Do you know what I hate the most?”

The man swallowed hard.

“N-no…”

“Disloyalty,” Damon said simply.

His gaze flicked to one of his men. A folder was handed to him immediately. Damon opened it, flipping through pages without hurry.

“Three shipments rerouted without authorization,” he continued conversationally. “Funds missing. Communications with my competitors. Unrecognized illegal drugs at My Pharma Company. And 45 ounce of cocaine gone missing.” He tilted his head slightly. “24 million dollars, 24 f*****g million dollar! That was the cost I paid in total to escape trouble.”

“I was forced!” the man cried. “They threatened my family— I had no choice—”

Damon closed the folder.

“Forced,” he repeated softly. Then he stood to his full height again. “You had a choice,” he said. “You chose wrong.”

The man’s composure shattered completely.

“Please! I have children! I’ll fix everything! I swear—”

Damon studied him for a long moment. There was no anger in his face. No rage. Just cold certainty.

“Your children will be provided for,” Damon said.

Relief flooded the man’s expression instantly.

“Thank you— thank you, Mr Heights—”

“But you,” Damon finished quietly, “are still accountable.”

The relief died. Horror replaced it.

Damon extended his hand slightly. One of his men placed a gun into his palm, the office grew unbearably still.

The man collapsed forward, sobbing now.

“Please— please— I’ll do anything—”

Damon’s voice remained steady.

“You already did.”

A single shot rang out.

Then silence returned.

One of the goons dragged the body away efficiently, as if this were routine. Because it was.

Damon handed the gun back without a second glance and walked to the window, staring out over the city skyline.

Power, fear, and control.

He had built all of it with his own hands. Yet none of it filled the one unanswered question that still lingered.

Behind him, his right-hand man, most trusted ally and secretary, Alex, spoke cautiously.

“Boss… there’s new information about the museum artifact you asked us to track.”

Damon’s eyes darkened slightly. The necklace, the only clue to his saviour.

“Speak.”

“They believe it belongs to an old bloodline connected to… religious healers. Rare lineage. Possibly extinct.”

Damon’s jaw tightened.

Not extinct.

Somewhere out there that person existed, and he would find them. No matter what it took. Because Damon Heights always claimed what was his. Including debts.

“But sir?” Alex spoke, “How or why do you believe that artifact has something related with the necklace in your possession.”

“I searched online desperately. The carvings and writings in the necklace and the treasure at the museum vault are both similar. The sacred treasure is called The Reliquary of Aethelis. I have no idea about what this necklace is all about, but something tells me it is very important.”

“Well,” Alex continues, “If that be the case, you should know that the museum director confirmed the artifact exhibition soon, and it would be up for auction afterwards, date hasn’t be confirmed. Security is extremely tight”

“Good,” he said quietly.

“They also mentioned… there are rumours about a religious faction showing interest in the same collection.”

That got his attention. Damon lifted his eyes slowly, dark and calculating.

“Find out who,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Alex turned around and left.

Silence returned. Damon stood, his reflection stared back at him from the dark window – powerful, feared, untouchable.

Yet somewhere in the city, the person who had once held his life in their hands was breathing the same night air. Unaware, unprotected and unclaimed. Damon’s expression hardened with quiet certainty.

“Soon,” he said to himself.