Chapter5
1055 Words
Chapter 5 – First Cracks
The whisper still rang in her ears.
“Help me.”
Elara’s hand trembled as she reached toward the panel. Her breath caught. Was it the house creaking? Her imagination? The tail-end of a nightmare?
But no—there it was again.
A soft tap-tap from inside the wall.
She pressed her palm to the panel. Cool. Solid.
But the corner had a slight give.
She wedged her fingers into the gap and pulled.
The panel popped free, revealing a narrow crawlspace between the walls—no more than two feet wide, dark and lined with pipes and wires.
And in that narrow space, just out of reach, were two shining eyes.
Elara gasped and dropped to her knees. “Hey—are you hurt? Are you alone?”
Silence.
Then: “Don’t tell him.”
Her skin prickled. “Tell who? Damian?”
The child flinched.
“I’m not supposed to talk. He said it’s safer.”
Elara’s throat closed. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
The little face retreated into the shadows.
“I have to go. If the alarms beep, he knows.”
Then she was gone.
Just like that.
The whisper. The eyes. The crawling fear.
Gone.
The next morning, Elara didn’t say a word to Damian.
She showered. Dressed. Ate breakfast with his assistant like nothing had changed.
But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.
Who was that child? Why was there a hidden passage in the walls? And why did Damian—a man obsessed with control—have no record of another soul in this place?
Unless he did.
And just didn’t care.
That afternoon, she called Vivienne.
“I need to reschedule the interview.”
A pause. “Why?”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Try again.”
Elara clenched her jaw. “Tell the magazine I’m pregnant and bleeding. That usually scares them.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re bolder than I expected,” Vivienne said. “I like it. But don’t push too far, too fast. The press loves a scandal.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She hung up before Vivienne could respond.
She had other things to investigate.
After lunch, she wandered the halls again—carefully retracing the footsteps from the night before.
The panel was still loose. Still unlocked.
But this time, it was empty.
She slipped inside.
Claustrophobia clutched at her as she crawled forward, past pipes and vents, until she found another opening—this one behind a bookcase in Damian’s study.
She held her breath.
Carefully, she pressed her ear to the wall.
Voices. Two men. Heated, sharp.
One was Damian. The other, deeper—older. Rougher.
“…You shouldn’t have brought her here,” the older voice growled. “You know what happened the last time.”
“She’s not like the others,” Damian replied.
“Others?” Elara mouthed.
“She’s smarter. Less entitled. She’s not asking for love.”
“Still. You think hiding her will solve this?”
“I’m not hiding her. I’m testing her.”
Elara’s blood ran cold.
Testing me?
Then the older man laughed. “You sound like your father.”
“I’m not him,” Damian said tightly.
“No. You’re worse.”
A door slammed.
Then silence.
Elara scrambled backward through the crawlspace, heart hammering. She emerged near the guest wing, covered in dust, and went straight to the hallway bathroom to clean up.
As she splashed cold water on her face, she stared into the mirror.
What the hell had she stepped into?
Marriage. Money. Control.
But now? Now there were secret rooms. Hidden children. And Damian’s cryptic “testing.”
What was this really about?
And who was the man who called Damian worse than his father?
That evening, Damian returned from wherever he disappeared during the day.
Elara sat on the terrace, legs crossed, arms folded. She didn’t bother pretending to be the perfect wife anymore.
He poured himself a glass of scotch and joined her. “You skipped your publicist debrief.”
“I wasn’t in the mood for fake romance.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Your job is to sell the illusion.”
“No. My job is to survive you.”
He sipped his drink, unbothered. “Dramatic.”
“Who was that man in your study?” she asked suddenly.
Damian’s grip on the glass tightened.
“I heard him. Older. Gruff voice. He said you were worse than your father.”
Silence.
“That was my uncle. He’s on the board.”
“And the ‘last time’? What did that mean?”
Damian stood, his voice clipped. “You’re digging in places you don’t belong.”
“I live here. You made me your wife.”
He looked down at her, expression blank. “Then act like it.”
She stood, stepping into his space. “Tell me what you’re hiding.”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Her voice dropped. “Then who’s the child in the walls?”
The silence exploded between them.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
But his jaw clenched. Just once.
“You’re seeing things.”
“No, Damian. I heard them. I saw them.”
He said nothing.
Elara pushed harder. “Who is that child? Why are they afraid of you?”
“You’re exhausted. And pregnant. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Don’t gaslight me. Not tonight.”
Still, he didn’t speak.
That was worse than lying.
“You knew I’d find them eventually,” she whispered. “Did you plan that too?”
He walked away without another word.
And that was when Elara knew.
Whatever she had just stepped into—
It went deeper than money.
Deeper than contracts.
This wasn’t just a marriage of convenience.
It was a test. A trap.
And someone else had already failed it.
That night, a package arrived at the penthouse.
No name. No return address.
Elara opened it in secret, heart pounding.
Inside was a worn children’s book. The title: “The Girl in the Wall.”
Tucked inside was a photo.
A little girl.
Big eyes.
Terrified.
And scrawled on the back of the photo in red ink:
“She found the truth. He made her disappear.”
- Writer
