Damian
The meeting comes to an end, chairs scraping back as investors rise one by one. I have barely stood before their hands reach for me. Firm shakes, claps on the back, voices tumbling over each other.
"Congratulations, Blackwell."
"Didn't think you had it in you, son."
"You bagged yourself a beautiful woman."
I give them the same practiced smile, rehearsed and polite. It feels like an armor. Each word lands heavy, not for the company I've built, but for the lie of an engagement I never planned.
Then comes the voice I depise most.
"Well, well," my uncle drawls, sliding out from the group. His smile is all teeth, never reaching his eyes. "Engaged at last. Never thought I'd see the day."
I keep my jaw locked. "Uncle."
He takes my hand, his grip too long and firm, like ownership disguised as affection. "You must bring your lovely fiancée to dinner. Tomorrow night. The family should meet her."
"No need," I reply immediately. "Elle isn't fond of the spotlight, and we'll likely be too busy."
His grin sharpens. "Ah. Trouble in paradise already?" He raises his voice just enough for a few nearby heads to turn.
My chest tightens. His smirk cut deep, carrying more venom than words. He's mastered the art of saying little and wounding more. Never direct, always calculated. Enough poison to remind me he still sees me as that boy who lost everything. This isn't a conversation. It's a test, one meant to find cracks.
I force a nod. "Of course not. We'll be there."
His satisfaction is instant. He pats my shoulder like he's won something, then walks away. I let him go.
The moment I'm clear, I pull out my phone and dial the only man I trust.
"Mr. Alfred," I say the second he answers, "tell me the truth. Does this engagement buy me time?"
His voice is steady, the same as it was twelve years ago when I buried my parents. "It buys you space, Damian. The board and your uncle will move slower now. But not for long."
My grip tightens on the phone. "How much time do I have?"
"Not enough," he says quietly. "An engagement isn't binding. A marriage is."
The words lands heavy.
When the line goes dead, I stand in the hall, staring at nothing. Marriage has never been in my plans, but now it's being forced onto the table, a chess move to save everything my father left me.
Back in my office, the quiet feels heavier than before. I pace, dragging a hand through my hair, each step harder than the last.
Elle.
How did she know?
The words she threw at me earlier… about the heir, about losing the company, weren't guesses. Those details were locked inside that meeting. No one else could have heard them.
Had she overheard something? No. That meeting was sealed tight. Which means she guessed... or she knows more than she should.
I replay her face in my mind. Sharp eyes. Defiant tone. The way she walked without fear. She has fire, but this isn't fire. It's knowledge she shouldn't have.
The burn in my chest deepens.
She's a problem. And problems demand answers.
I grab my phone again, voice low and clipped. "Send Camila to my office. Now."
Moments later, a knock sounds at the door. It creaks open.
Camila steps in, shoulders tight, eyes down. "You asked for me, sir?"
I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch until she shifts on her feet. Finally, I gesture at the chair. "Sit."
She lowers herself onto the edge like it burns. Her fingers twist together in her lap.
"You've worked here long enough to know I don't waste words," I say flatly. "So tell me. Your bestfriend, Elle Morgan. How well do you know her?"
Camila shifts in her seat, eyes flicking away. "Since university. We've been best friends ever since. Roommates." The words tumble out too fast.
I let the silence linger until she fidgets.
Her voice tremble when she speaks again. "Sir, if this is about the engagement, I'm sure it was just… some kind of mix-up. It doesn't have to mean anything."
"Mix up?" I lean forward. "Your best friend repeated details from a private board discussion this morning. Details no one outside this room should ever have access to. Tell me, Camila... how would Elle know that?"
Her head snaps up. Eyes wide. "She didn't. She couldn't. Elle doesn't care about this. She doesn't even know half of what I do here." Her voice softens, pleading. "She's not... she's not part this world, sir."
I say nothing. Just watch. Her breathing grows shallow under the weight of it.
Finally, I speak. "Then prove it."
Her head jerks up.
"Camila," I let her name drag slowly, "if you want to keep this job, you'll watch her. Pay attention. And when you see something you've missed, you'll bring it to me."
She swallows hard. "She's my best friend!"
"That's why you'll get answers, because she trusts you. Use it."
Her lips parts, but no words comes out.
"That will be all." I push back my chair. She stands slowly, unease written on her face.
One last thing, I add as she reaches for the door. "Tell her to be ready by eight tomorrow. There's a function. Tell her not to make me wait."
"Y-yes, sir," she whispers, and slips out.
The office closes around me. Her footsteps fade down the hall. I set my jaw and let the question hang in the air.
Elle Morgan.
Who are you, really?