BENEATH HIS SHADOW

Episode 4 – Shadows in the Glass

POV: Serena Blake

The moment I stepped outside Damien’s building that night, the air felt heavier than it should have. Not hot—just weighted, like someone had taken the city I knew and draped it in something invisible but dense, a kind of tension you can’t see but can feel pressing against your skin. Maybe it was just the message still glowing on my phone screen.

Unknown: Don’t trust everything he tells you.

It was only seven words, but they carried the weight of a brick dropped in water—heavy enough to sink straight to the bottom of my thoughts. I stood there on the sidewalk, pretending to check something else on my phone so I didn’t look suspicious, but really I was rereading the message over and over. No name. No emojis. Not even a period at the end. Whoever wrote it wasn’t interested in small talk—they wanted me to read and understand, nothing more.

I told myself it could be a prank, maybe some jealous ex-employee of Damien’s who wanted to stir trouble. But the truth was, I didn’t believe that. There was something… calculated about the timing. Whoever sent it knew exactly when I’d be leaving his building, and that meant they were either watching me… or they knew my schedule because they were inside.

The evening crowd pushed past me in waves—heels clicking on pavement, the low hum of conversations blending with the hiss of passing buses—but it all sounded muffled in my head. My instincts, the ones I’d trained over years of listening to people’s secrets in therapy sessions, were telling me that this wasn’t random.

I slid the phone into my bag, forcing myself to start walking. I didn’t want to stand there long enough to give anyone across the street time to watch me too closely. Still, my eyes kept darting to the reflective surfaces around me—glass doors, shop windows, the side of a black SUV parked at the curb. In every reflection, I searched for a shape lingering too long, a shadow that didn’t move with the flow of people.

Nothing. But that didn’t make me feel better.

By the time I reached my apartment, the city had shifted into its night rhythm. Streetlights pooled gold onto the wet sidewalks, and the air carried that faint metallic scent it always had after a light rain. I locked my door, double-checked it out of habit, and leaned against it for a moment. My place was small but clean—warm lighting, books stacked in uneven towers on my desk, a couch that had seen better days but was mine.

It should have felt safe. It didn’t.

I poured a glass of water and sat at the kitchen counter, staring at my phone again. My thumb hovered over the message. Part of me wanted to reply: Who is this? The other part told me that if they wanted me to know, they would have told me already. And maybe—just maybe—I’d be safer not knowing for now.

But my curiosity isn’t the kind you can turn off. It’s the kind that grows teeth if you try to ignore it. So instead of replying, I opened my contacts and scrolled to Rachel—the sharp-eyed assistant Damien had introduced me to earlier. I didn’t have her number, but her email had been in the folder she gave me. I sent a simple message: Could we talk tomorrow before I meet with Damien? Privately.

I didn’t explain why. I didn’t even sign it with my full name. If she was the one who sent the warning, she’d understand. If she wasn’t… well, maybe she’d still know something.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Every time I drifted toward it, my mind replayed the moment Damien had looked at me in his office, the skyline behind him, his voice low as he said, That’s my city. The words had been confident—too confident. Like a man who’d never been told no for long enough to forget what the word even sounded like.

The next morning, the sky was a washed-out blue, the kind that makes the city look softer than it really is. I dressed in neutral colors—soft gray blouse, black trousers, no bright lipstick. Blending in was a habit I’d picked up from years of listening more than speaking. I wasn’t there to dazzle anyone; I was there to observe.

When I arrived at Damien’s building, the lobby was quieter than the day before. Fewer people, softer voices. The kind of morning that feels like a pause before something begins. Rachel was at the front desk on Damien’s floor, typing quickly, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.

She looked up when I approached, and for a fraction of a second, her expression shifted—just slightly. A flicker of recognition? Or maybe suspicion?

“Serena,” she said, her voice warm but measured. “You’re early.”

“I was hoping we could talk,” I said quietly.

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. “Five minutes,” she said, nodding toward the small break room down the hall.

When we stepped inside, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Rachel poured herself a cup but didn’t offer me one. “What’s on your mind?”

I hesitated. “Yesterday, after I left… I got a message.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. “What kind of message?”

“A warning.”

She didn’t ask to see it. She didn’t pretend she didn’t know what I meant. She just stirred cream into her coffee slowly, the spoon tapping against the cup in a steady rhythm. Then she said, “If I were you, I’d take it seriously.”

My pulse quickened. “Was it you?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she took a slow sip of coffee and said, “You have a meeting with Damien in ten minutes. Don’t be late.” Then she walked out, leaving her cup half-full on the counter.

Damien’s office was bright with late-morning sunlight when I stepped inside. He was standing by the window again, but this time his tie was already loosened, his jacket draped over the back of a chair.

“Serena,” he said, his smile easy. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I replied, forcing my voice to stay even.

He gestured for me to sit, then leaned against the edge of his desk instead of taking his chair. “I’ve been thinking about your role here. I want you to be more than just a therapist for my employees.”

I tilted my head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he said, his gaze locking on mine, “I want you to understand me. How I run things. Why I make the choices I do. You can’t help my people if you don’t understand the person they work for.”

The way he said it—it sounded reasonable on the surface, but there was a shadow under it, something about control.

“Then tell me,” I said. “Who are you, Damien?”

He smiled, slow and deliberate. “That depends on who’s asking.”

I didn’t know it then, but that day would be the first time Damien let the mask slip. Just a little. Just enough for me to see the cracks—and wonder if I was walking closer to the truth… or straight into something I couldn’t get out of.