Married Strangers

His Return

Chapter Seven

The shower poured relentlessly, its cold stream, calm, almost meditative.

Water slid over Damian’s body in perfect lines, seeping into muscle and bone as he tilted his head back, as though the chill might reach his soul.

“Grgh…”

He ground his teeth and shut off the tap.

Bare feet crossed the marble floor as he reached for a towel, wrapping it loosely around his waist. Moments later, he stepped into the bedroom.

The room smelled cold and dangerous, sharp alcohol oils lingering in the air, clinging to the walls like a warning. It was a space built for control, not comfort.

Damian moved to the bed and picked up his phone.

It rang instantly.

He didn’t need to look at the screen.

“Mr. Damian,” the voice on the other end said.

That was enough.

His jaw tightened.

“Tell Grandfather,” Damian cut in coldly, “I won’t show my presence in that house until that woman is out.”

“The old man’s orders,” Nathan interrupted quietly.

“Leave the Vandash family and become a stranger… or return home before tomorrow.”

The line went dead.

Calmly, Damian stared at the phone for a moment before tossing it onto the bed.

The silence that followed was sharp, suffocating.

Annoyed but controlled, he strode onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and inhaled slowly.

Smoke curled into the night air as his eyes darkened.

So.

The game had changed.

Coldly, he struck the table – a silent permission.

Marcus stepped onto the balcony immediately, posture straight, head lowered, ready for orders.

“Red House 7,” Damian said, turning his face toward the city lights. “Unfinished business.”

A cold moment of silence passed between them.

Lieutenant Marcus nodded once, then withdrew with quiet dignity.

The car paused.

Tires screeched as it came to a reckless stop, leaving less than a foot between steel and concrete between control and collision.

The night was alive, calm yet restless.

Muted music thudded through the walls, thick with secrecy, while guards marched forward in synchronized rhythm, boots striking the ground with disciplined precision.

RED HOUSE 7.

The name loomed above the entrance, carved like a warning from hell, unbothered by the chaos around it.

The rear door of the car opened.

Damian stepped out.

Conversations faltered. Bystanders withdrew.

Laughter near the entrance dimmed, as though the building itself had sensed him. Guards straightened instantly, heads lowering, not in fear, but in recognition.

No one announced his arrival.

They didn’t need to.

The doors opened before he reached them.

Inside, red light washed over polished floors and silent faces. The music dropped a fraction, just enough to remind everyone who owned the night.

Mr. Damian didn’t slow his pace. His face was well covered, the color of his eyes impossible to discern.

Marcus fell into step behind him as they moved past the crowd, through corridors the public never saw, toward a door marked only by a single number: 7.

Inside, the room was waiting.

Calm.

Dangerous.

Mr. Damian took his seat without a word, his eyes tracking every edge of the room.

“Bring him in,” he said calmly.

Marcus nodded once.

He lifted a hand.

The guards responded immediately. No words. No hesitation. They stepped forward in unison, gripping the handles of a heavy black leather bag. The weight inside shifted as they dragged it across the floor and dropped it directly in front of Damian’s chair.

The thud echoed.

Both guards halted in perfect sync.

“Sir.”

They turned and walked away.

Marcus stepped forward and crouched. He unzipped the bag slowly.

A man lay inside.

Beaten.

Swollen.

Blood dried in uneven streaks across his face and shirt.

One eye was nearly sealed shut, the other wide and frantic. His wrists were bound behind him, skin raw where the restraints had bitten deep. Black tape sealed his mouth.

The man trembled when he saw Damian.

Damian didn’t move.

Didn’t lean forward.

Didn’t ask a question.

Didn’t acknowledge the man at all.

His gaze remained fixed ahead, calm and unreadable, as if the bag contained nothing more than misplaced luggage.

Marcus straightened.

“He works night security at the military hospital. Third-floor access.”

Damian’s fingers tapped the arm of the chair once.

Marcus continued, “He altered the medication himself. Dosage records. Inventory logs. Quiet. Precise.”

A pause.

“After that, he handled the footage. Cleared the corridor feeds and let someone else in. Off the books.”

Silence.

The man in the bag let out a muffled sound, panic pressing uselessly against the tape.

Damian finally looked down.

Just once.

The man froze.

Damian raised two fingers.

Marcus understood immediately. He reached down and peeled the tape off in one sharp motion.

The scream never came.

The man swallowed hard instead, breath shaking as he rushed to speak.

“I—I was paid. I swear. I didn’t know who they were. I was just following orders. They said it was just a delay, just a loop. I only needed to delete the footage.”

Damian stood.

The room stilled.

He stepped closer, stopping just short of the bag. His voice was low, calmly measured, almost bored.

“Who gave the order?”

The man shook his head violently.

“I don’t know names. I don’t. They used intermediaries. Burner phones.”

Damian turned slightly.

“Marcus.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Break his left hand. No theatrics.”

The order landed without emotion.

Marcus crouched.

The man screamed.

Damian didn’t flinch.

When the sound stopped, Damian spoke again.

“Ask him once more.”

Marcus nodded.

“Who gave the order?”

The man sobbed now, eyes darkening with something unhinged. Then he laughed.

“It’s ten o’clock,” he gasped. “The deal is already done.”

Damian checked his watch.

Without another glance, he turned and walked out of the room.

Marcus followed after ensuring the man was returned to the guards’ control.

Deep down, Damian knew.

Nothing was over.

Rather, the game had just begun.

The engine came alive with a low growl.

Marcus pulled the car out smoothly, hands steady on the wheel as the city lights slipped past them in blurred streaks. Damian sat in silence beside him, face still masked, body composed despite the tension humming beneath his skin.

No words were exchanged.

The air inside the car was heavily anticipatory.

They crossed into the military zone just minutes later.

Floodlights towered above steel fencing, washing the area in harsh white light. Armed personnel moved in disciplined patterns, boots striking the ground in controlled rhythm.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

As the car slowed, voices suddenly rose from the darkness.

“Lieutenant!” “Lieutenant, wait!”

Marcus stiffened.

Damian turned his head slightly, eyes hidden behind the mask. A cluster of figures emerged ahead, too disorganized to be protocol, too desperate to be routine.

Damian’s voice came calm, unmistakable.

“Deal with them.”

Before Marcus could respond, Damian opened the door and stepped out.

“Sir” Marcus began.

It was too late.

Damian had already taken a few steps forward.

The night split open.

BANG.

The gunshot tore through the darkness like lightning.

Damian’s body jolted as the bullet slammed into his chest, heat exploding through him in a violent rush. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze.

Then chaos erupted.

Gunfire cracked from every direction. Shots screamed through the air, ricocheting off metal, shattering the calm into screaming panic. Soldiers shouted. People scattered. Floodlights flickered as bodies moved in frantic confusion.

Damian staggered, breath knocked from his lungs.

Blood bloomed across his chest, dark and spreading fast.

Marcus spun around.

“DAMIAN!”

More shots rang out.

But something was wrong.

The bullets weren’t wild.

They weren’t aimed at the guards.

Not at Marcus.

Every shot was meant for him.

Damian dropped to one knee, one hand pressed hard against the wound. His fingers came away slick with blood. Pain burned through him, but clarity burned brighter.

This wasn’t an ambush.

It was an execution attempt.

On the Vandash heir.

Damian lifted his head sharply, eyes blazing beneath the mask.

“RETREAT!” he shouted.

Another bullet struck the ground inches from him, sparks flying.

“ALL OF YOU, FALL BACK!”

Marcus hesitated, torn.

“Sir, we can hold them”

“That’s an order!” Damian snapped.

Reluctantly, Marcus signaled the men.

The guards began pulling back under cover

fire, retreating from the zone as Damian struggled to stay upright. Blood soaked through his clothes, his breathing shallow, but his spine never bent.

Still standing.

Still commanding.

Marcus rushed forward, gripping Damian under the arm and dragging him back into the car. The door slammed shut as Marcus floored the accelerator.

The car shot forward, tires screaming against the asphalt.

Behind them, the gunfire faded.

Too quickly.

Marcus glanced in the mirror.

The attackers were already gone, disappearing into the night as cleanly as they had come.

Marcus clenched his jaw.

“They’re gone.”

Damian leaned back against the seat, chest rising unevenly. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the leather. His head tipped slightly as he exhaled slowly.

“They weren’t after Red House 7,” Damian said quietly.

Marcus tightened his grip on the wheel.

“They wanted Vandash blood.”

Silence filled the car as they sped away.

In the distance, older military vehicles pulled out of the zone, retreating from the scene. Sirens began to rise, too late to matter.

Damian closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them again, there was no pain in his gaze.

Only understanding.

A faint, dangerous smile curved beneath the mask.

Nothing was over.

The game hadn’t merely changed.

It had declared war.

Meanwhile, in Hill City, calm reigned where chaos had not yet arrived.

Isabella lay resting on the bed in the Vandash manor, the heavy curtains drawn halfway as warm lamplight softened the room.

Phyn sat beside her, swinging her legs playfully and telling jokes in a low voice, her laughter light and unburdened. An effort to keep Isabella awake and smiling.

Isabella smiled often, though her body was still weak.

A gentle knock came at the door.

Sarah stepped inside and bowed slightly.

“The old master requests your presence, Miss Isabella.”

Phyn was on her feet instantly.

“I’ll help you,” she said, already reaching out.

With Phyn’s careful support, Isabella rose and followed her through the quiet corridors of the manor.

The walls carried the weight of legacy, power and secrets, but tonight, the house felt unusually peaceful.

They arrived at the old master’s chamber.

Mr. Samson sat calmly behind his desk, the glow of the lamp casting gentle shadows across his aged but commanding face. He gestured toward the chair before him.

“Sit, my dear.”

Isabella obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

The old master poured tea himself and placed the cup before her. His eyes studied her kindly as he spoke.

“It’s almost late into the night,” he said softly. “Why are you still awake? Is Phyn disturbing you?”

“Grandpa !” Phyn protested immediately, her voice turning childlike as she crossed her arms. “You’re making it sound like I’m troublesome.”

Before she could continue, Isabella gently interrupted, shaking her head.

“No, Grandpa,” she said warmly. “Phyn is really nice. She’s been keeping me company.”

The old man’s sternness melted.

A smile touched his lips, slow, satisfied.

“Good,” he said. “That makes me happy.”

He leaned back slightly, his hand resting on the arm of his chair.

“Then,” he continued calmly, “it is time for good news.”

Isabella’s heart stilled.

“My dear,” the old master said, reaching out to take her hand, “Damian, your husband will return tomorrow.”

He smiled more openly now.

“You will see your husband tomorrow.”

For a moment, Isabella forgot how to breathe.

Her eyes widened, shining with disbelief before joy rushed in all at once. She turned to Phyn instinctively and hugged her tightly, laughter breaking free as relief and happiness spilled over.

Phyn laughed with her, clapping softly.

“I told you! He’s coming back!”

The room felt lighter, hopeful.

Then

The door opened.

Nathan stepped inside quietly, bowing his head in respect. His expression was careful, unreadable. He approached the old master and extended a phone.

“Sir,” he said, low and respectful. “A call from Mr. Damian.”

The old master’s smile deepened.

He accepted the phone gladly, lifting it to his ear.

But before he could speak-

Damian’s voice came through first.

Calm. Controlled.

And distant.

“Grandfather,” Damian said, “my apologies, but I won’t be coming home anytime soon.”

The air shifted.

“There are enemies targeting the family here,” Damian continued evenly. “I need to deal with them first.”

Silence fell over the room.

The old master’s smile slowly faded.

Isabella’s joy froze mid-breath, her fingers tightening unconsciously around Phyn’s sleeve as unease crept into her chest, an instinct she didn’t yet understand.

Outside, the manor remained peaceful.

Inside, the storm had just announced itself.