THE DEVIL WHO OWNS MY HEART

CHAPTER ONE The rain had been falling for six hours. Not the gentle kind that made people want to curl beneath a blanket with a cup of tea. This rain was angry. It hammered against my apartment windows as though someone outside was desperate to get in. Thunder rolled across the sky, making the glass tremble in its frame, while lightning occasionally turned my dark living room white for half a second. I sat at the dining table without moving. In front of me was a photograph. My father. Victor Vale. He was smiling. That was the first thing I noticed every time I looked at the picture. His smile. It was the kind of smile that made people trust him. The kind that had convinced me, for twenty-two years, that my father could fix anything. When I was a child, I used to believe my father was the strongest man in the world. If a toy broke, he fixed it. If I had a nightmare, he stayed beside my bed until I fell asleep. If I came home crying because someone at school had hurt my feelings, he would sit me on his lap and tell me that nobody had the power to make me feel small unless I allowed them to. He had been my safe place. My hero. My father. And three years ago, he had died. I slowly reached for the photograph. My fingertips brushed over the image. I was seventeen in the picture. My hair had been much shorter then, and I was holding a birthday cake between us. My father had one arm around my shoulders. We were both laughing. I remembered that day. I remembered the cake. I remembered complaining because the icing was too sweet. I remembered my father pretending to be offended because I said his favorite bakery made terrible cakes. I remembered him laughing. I remembered everything. Except the truth. I lowered the photograph. "You lied to me," I whispered. The words barely made it out. I hated myself for saying them. My father had been dead for three years. Yet somehow, I still felt guilty whenever I was angry with him. Maybe because death had a strange way of making people innocent in your memories. You remembered the good things. The hugs. The birthdays. The advice. The laughter. You forgot the arguments. The secrets. The unanswered questions. But lately, I had started remembering the questions. There were too many of them. And tonight, there was one more sitting on my table. An envelope. Black. Completely black. There was no sender's name. No return address. Nothing. Only my name written across the front in silver ink. AMARA VALE. I had stared at that envelope for almost three hours. I had considered throwing it away. I had considered burning it. I had even considered calling the police. But curiosity had won. It always did. I reached for the envelope again. My hands were cold. I turned it over. Nothing. I opened it carefully. Inside was a single sheet of white paper. My heart began beating faster before I even read it. I unfolded the paper. Three sentences were written on it. YOUR FATHER DID NOT DIE IN AN ACCIDENT. I stopped breathing. My eyes moved to the second line. HE WAS MURDERED. I stared at the words. For several seconds, I couldn't understand what I was reading. Then the third line caught my attention. AND THE MAN WHO KNOWS WHY IS DAMIEN CROSS. The room suddenly felt colder. Damien Cross. I knew that name. Everyone knew that name. I had never met him. At least, not officially. But his name had existed in my life for years. Usually in whispers. Usually behind closed doors. Usually followed by silence. Damien Cross was twenty-nine years old and already one of the most powerful businessmen in the country. His companies owned luxury hotels, commercial properties, private security firms, investment groups and several other businesses I couldn't even remember. His face occasionally appeared in business magazines. Always in expensive suits. Always expressionless. Always surrounded by people who looked like they were afraid of saying the wrong thing. There were rumors about him. So many rumors that it was impossible to know which ones were true. Some people called him ruthless. Some called him dangerous. Some said he had inherited his family's fortune. Others claimed he had built most of it himself. But there was one thing everyone seemed to agree on. Damien Cross was not a man you wanted as an enemy. I looked back at the paper. My father's name. Damien's name. Murder. My fingers tightened around the page. "No." I shook my head. "No." My father's death had been ruled an accident. The official story was simple. Three years ago, Victor Vale had been driving home late at night when his vehicle lost control on a wet road. The car had crashed through a barrier. It had gone down a steep embankment. By the time emergency services arrived, he was dead. I had been told there was nothing suspicious about it. I had been told the road was dangerous. I had been told the rain had made it worse. I had been told accidents happened. I had believed them. Because I had needed to. Grief had been easier when there was nobody to blame. But murder was different. Murder meant someone had wanted my father dead. Someone had planned it. Someone had watched him die. Someone had walked away afterward. And now someone was telling me that Damien Cross knew who that person was. I stood so quickly that the chair scraped violently against the floor. I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen. I opened my father's old contact. DAD ❤️ The name had been there for three years. I had never deleted it. I knew it was stupid. But deleting it felt like admitting that I would never hear his voice again. I pressed the contact. The screen displayed his old number. Inactive. Of course. I stared at it. Then I laughed bitterly. "Why am I doing this?" I dropped the phone onto the table. My eyes returned to the paper. There was something familiar about the handwriting. I couldn't place it. I studied the letters. The sharp edges. The slant. The pressure of the pen. Then a memory surfaced. My father's study. I was seventeen again. Standing outside his office. It was late. I had gone downstairs to get water. The door to his study had been slightly open. I had heard voices. My father's voice. And another man's. A deep voice. Calm. Cold. I couldn't remember the words. But I remembered my father's expression. He had looked frightened. My father had never looked frightened. I had never understood why. When he noticed me, the conversation stopped immediately. "Amara." His voice had sounded different. "What are you doing awake?" "I heard voices." "There was nobody here." I had looked behind him. "Who were you talking to?" "No one." "You were talking to someone." His jaw had tightened. "Go upstairs." "But—" "Amara." I had never heard him use that tone with me. I had gone. Now, sitting alone in my apartment three years later, I wondered if that voice had belonged to Damien Cross. My stomach twisted. I looked toward the window. Lightning flashed. For a second, I saw my reflection. Pale face. Wide eyes. Messy hair. I looked afraid. I hated that. I wasn't supposed to be afraid. My father had always told me fear was useful only when you listened to it. So I listened. And my fear was screaming. Throw the paper away. Lock the doors. Forget the name. Forget your father. Forget everything. I reached for the paper. Then there was a knock. I froze. One knock. Slow. Heavy. I looked toward the front door. My heart began pounding. Another knock. Three seconds later. Then another. I didn't move. "Who is it?" Silence. I swallowed. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe the delivery man. Maybe someone had the wrong apartment. I took one step toward the door. Another knock. This one harder. "Who is it?" Still nothing. I checked the time. 12:14 a.m. Nobody visited me this late. Nobody who mattered, anyway. I picked up my phone. My fingers shook slightly. I opened the security camera app. The screen loaded. The hallway appeared. Empty. I frowned. Whoever was outside wasn't standing directly in front of the camera. I moved closer to the door. "Hello?" No answer. Then I heard footsteps. Slow footsteps. Moving away. I waited. One. Two. Three. Five seconds. I looked through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I unlocked the chain. Then stopped. Something felt wrong. I don't know how else to explain it. Sometimes your body knows something before your mind catches up. Every instinct told me not to open that door. But I did. I pulled it open. Nobody was there. The hallway lights flickered. I looked left. Nothing. Right. Nothing. Then I looked down. A black rose lay on the floor. My heart sank. I didn't touch it. There was a small silver card tied around the stem. I crouched carefully. The message was short. YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED. I stopped breathing. I looked down the hallway. Nothing. "Who are you?" My voice echoed. No response. I grabbed the rose with two fingers and stood. Then I noticed something else. A small red stain on the floor. Blood. My stomach turned. I dropped the rose. I backed into my apartment. Then I slammed the door. Lock. Chain. Deadbolt. I checked them twice. Then a third time. My breathing became shallow. Someone had been outside my apartment. Someone had left me a warning. And somehow, they knew about the letter. I turned toward the table. The black envelope was gone. My blood ran cold. "No." I rushed over. I searched beneath the table. Nothing. Under the chair. Nothing. The floor. Nothing. I checked the trash. Nothing. The envelope had disappeared. So had the letter. I stood frozen. Someone had entered my apartment. But how? The door had been locked. The windows were closed. I ran through the apartment. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. Closet. Nothing. No one. I returned to the living room. My phone began ringing. I jumped. Unknown number. The screen glowed in my hand. I stared at it. It stopped. Then started again. I should have ignored it. Instead, I answered. "Hello?" Silence. I swallowed. "Who is this?" Nothing. I could hear breathing. Slow. Controlled. Male. My stomach tightened. "Who are you?" Finally, the man spoke. "You've been asking questions." His voice was deep. Calm. Almost disturbingly calm. I knew that voice. Or at least, I knew something about it. "Who are you?" "You already know." My heart pounded. "What do you want?" A quiet laugh. "You should be asking what I want from you." I stepped backward. "I don't understand." "You will." "Who are you?" Silence. Then: "Damien Cross." The call ended. I stared at my phone. My hands were shaking. Damien Cross. It was him. I didn't know how I knew. But I knew. The man whose name had appeared on the letter. The man connected to my father's death. The man whose voice I remembered from that night three years ago. I sat down slowly. My mind raced. How did he know I had the letter? Why had he called? Why had someone left the rose? And why did he sound like a man who already knew exactly how this night would end? I didn't sleep. Not really. I sat on the couch until dawn. Every sound made me turn toward the door. Every passing car made me look through the curtains. At some point, I must have closed my eyes. Because when I opened them, sunlight was coming through the windows. My neck hurt. My phone was on the floor. I picked it up. Six missed calls. Three unknown numbers. One message. I opened it. LEAVE IT ALONE. I stared at the screen. Then another message appeared. OR YOU WILL DIE LIKE YOUR FATHER. My heart stopped. I immediately called the number. It was unavailable. I tried again. Unavailable. I threw the phone onto the couch. I needed help. I needed someone I could trust. There was only one person who came to mind. My father's former business partner, Mr. Anderson. He had known my father for more than twenty years. If anyone knew what had happened, it would be him. I showered quickly, changed clothes and left the apartment. I didn't bother with makeup. I barely brushed my hair. I only wanted answers. The city looked washed clean after the rain. Cars moved along the wet streets. People hurried to work. Everything looked normal. That almost made it worse. How could the world look normal when mine had just cracked open? I reached Mr. Anderson's office forty minutes later. His secretary looked surprised to see me. "Amara?" "Is he here?" She hesitated. "Mr. Anderson isn't available." "I need to see him." "I'm sorry." "When will he be back?" Another pause. "I don't know." Something about her expression made me uneasy. "Did he say where he was going?" "No." "Did he say when he would return?" "No." I stared at her. She looked away. "Has someone else been here asking about my father?" Her eyes snapped back to mine. "What?" "You heard me." "No." "You're lying." She looked uncomfortable. "Amara, I really don't know anything." I stepped closer. "Please." Her expression softened. "I'm sorry." I left. Outside the building, I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the passing traffic. Something was happening. I could feel it. And everyone seemed to know something except me. I called my father's old lawyer. No answer. His assistant told me he was out of the country. I called another former employee. Number disconnected. Another. No response. By noon, I had discovered something terrifying. Everyone who had been close to my father had suddenly become unavailable. Or afraid. I returned home exhausted. I didn't notice the black car until I had already reached the entrance. It was parked across the street. A long, expensive vehicle. Black. Tinted windows. Engine running. I stopped. The car didn't move. My pulse quickened. I looked around. Nobody appeared to be watching. I entered my building. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. When I reached my floor, I paused. My apartment door was closed. I had locked it before leaving. I walked closer. The lock was still in place. I unlocked it. Nothing seemed disturbed. I entered. Then I saw it. A photograph sitting on my table. My father. But this wasn't the photograph I had been looking at the night before. This one was older. Much older. My father stood beside three men. One was Mr. Anderson. The second man was someone I didn't recognize. The third— My heart stopped. Damien Cross. He was younger. Maybe twenty-five. But it was unmistakably him. I picked up the photograph. On the back was a date. FOUR YEARS AGO. Four years. That meant my father had been meeting Damien one year before he died. I turned the photograph over. There was writing on the back. THE DEBT MUST BE PAID. I stared at the words. "What debt?" A voice answered from behind me. "Your father's." I screamed. I spun around. Damien Cross stood inside my apartment. I couldn't breathe. For a moment, neither of us moved. He was taller than I expected. Much taller. He wore a black suit beneath a dark overcoat. His hair was neatly styled. His face was calm. Too calm. His eyes were the darkest thing about him. They weren't simply brown. They were almost black. And they were fixed on me. "You—" My voice broke. He took one step forward. I stepped backward. "How did you get in?" He didn't answer. "How did you get into my apartment?" Still nothing. I reached for my phone. His eyes dropped to my hand. "Don't." It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. I stopped. "You need to leave." "No." "You can't just walk into my apartment." "I can." "You have no right." His expression remained unreadable. "You're right." "Then leave." He looked at me for a long moment. Then his gaze moved to the photograph in my hand. "You found it." "What is this?" "A warning." "From you?" "No." "Then who?" "That doesn't matter." "It matters to me." He walked closer. I refused to move. Even though every nerve in my body was telling me to run. "Who killed my father?" His jaw tightened. "I don't know." "You're lying." "Probably." The answer shocked me. "What?" He looked directly into my eyes. "I said I don't know." "You knew him." "Yes." "You worked with him." "Sometimes." "You were with him before he died." "Yes." "You knew he was in danger." A pause. "Yes." My chest tightened. "Then why didn't you save him?" Something changed in his expression. Just for a second. Pain? Anger? Regret? I couldn't tell. "Because your father made a choice." "What choice?" "He chose his secrets over his family." I shook my head. "That doesn't answer me." "It wasn't supposed to." I hated how calm he was. I hated how every word sounded carefully chosen. Most of all, I hated how close he was. He stopped a few feet away. I could smell his cologne. Something dark. Expensive. Clean. It shouldn't have affected me. It did. I hated that too. "You need to leave," I whispered. He looked at me. "Someone tried to enter your apartment last night." My blood went cold. "How do you know?" "Because I stopped them." I stared at him. "You?" "Yes." "Why?" His eyes lowered briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. "Because you're not ready to die." The way he said it made my stomach twist. "Who were they?" "I don't know." "You expect me to believe that?" "No." "Then what do you expect?" He reached into his coat. I stiffened. He pulled out a small black envelope. My envelope. The one that had disappeared. He placed it on the table. "You left this." I stared at it. "You took it." "I removed it." "Why?" "Because whoever sent it wanted you to find me." I frowned. "What?" He leaned slightly toward me. "Think about it, Amara." The way he said my name sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. "The person who sent you that letter knew about your father's death." He continued. "They knew about me." "They knew where you lived." "And they knew exactly how curious you are." I swallowed. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying the letter wasn't meant to give you the truth." "Then what was it meant to do?" His eyes hardened. "Bring you to me." Silence filled the room. I stared at him. "Why?" He didn't answer. "Damien." He looked away. For the first time since entering my apartment, he seemed almost human. Then he looked back at me. "Because your father left something behind." My heart started racing. "What?" "I don't know." "Then why are you here?" "Because someone believes you have it." "I don't." "Maybe." "I don't know what you're talking about." "I believe you." I blinked. That was the first thing he'd said that sounded sincere. "Then why are you still here?" He stepped closer. "Because whether you have it or not, the people looking for it believe you do." I felt a chill. "Who are these people?" "People you don't want to meet." "Are they the ones who killed my father?" "I don't know." "Stop saying you don't know!" My voice cracked. I hadn't realized I was crying until a tear slipped down my cheek. Damien watched it. Something in his expression shifted. He reached toward me. I immediately stepped back. His hand stopped in the air. For a moment, we simply stared at each other. Then he lowered his hand. "You should be angry." I wiped my cheek. "I am." "Good." "Why?" "Because anger keeps people alive." I laughed bitterly. "You sound like my father." His eyes darkened. "I knew your father." "You keep saying that." "Because you need to understand something." "What?" "Your father wasn't the man you thought he was." The words hurt more than I expected. "Don't talk about him like that." "He lied to you." "You don't know what he me