Elle
The clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation fill the room as I sit at a dining table big enough to host a peace summit. The chandelier above throws warm light over polished glass and perfect smiles.
I try not to fidget. Damian sits beside me; calm, straight-backed, impossible to read. Across from us, a row of family members who look like they just stepped out of a finance magazine. At the head of the table sits the man I recognize from the moment I walk in.
Uncle Harrison.
Damian had already warned me about him during the drive.
"The sharp one," he'd said. "Knows exactly where to hit."
He wasn't kidding. The man looks like he was born in a boardroom, with eyes that study me like he's pricing a stock. And though the detail of my earlier vision, the one about him trying to take over the company from Damian, wasn't clear because of the lack of context, I can still feel the echo of it crawling under my skin.
The tension here is thick. Hidden under polite smiles and careful words.
I force a small smile, resting my fingers on the edge of my wine glass.
Good thing my parents trained me early to look like I belong in rooms that make my stomach twist.
Dinner started maybe ten minutes ago. Or maybe an hour. Time feels different when you're being watched.
In the car earlier, Damian barely spoke again after the long lecture about his family. The ride was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the flicker of city lights across his face. Every time I exhaled, I could feel his eyes on me or maybe that was my imagination. When he finally said, "Try to behave," I'd answered, "No promises."
Now, sitting here, I almost regret it. Almost.
*****
"So this is the fiancée," Harrison says suddenly, setting his glass down.
The sound is small but commanding, like he expects silence. He gets it.
"Yes," Damian answers. His voice is calm, but cold enough to frost glass. "Elle Morgan."
Harrison's gaze sweeps over me like he's scanning a résumé. "Hmm. You're not what I expected."
I tilt my head slightly. "That's the best compliment I've heard all day."
A few people at the table chuckle under their breath. Harrison doesn't.
He leans back, swirling his wine with lazy precision. "Tell me, Elle, what exactly do you do? Apart from… keeping my nephew entertained."
The smile freezes on my lips. I blink once, twice, making sure I heard him right. The air tightens, forks pause midair.
I blink slowly, "I'm sorry, what?"
He smirks. "It's a simple question. Don't tell me small talk isn't your thing."
Before I can answer, Damian's voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"Watch your mouth."
It's quiet, controlled, but deadly enough.
Harrison raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "It was a question, Son. No need to bark."
"Then learn how to ask one without sounding like an ass," Damian says, his tone sharp enough to make the nearest server flinch.
The silence that follows is thick. A woman coughs softly. Someone pretends to reach for water. I can almost hear the tension snapping between them like a live wire. I catch a flicker of amusement in one of the cousin's eyes, apparently this isn't new.
I decide to lighten the air before someone chokes on their salad.
"It's fine," I say, keeping my smile steady. "Mr. Harrison's just being protective. I mean, if I had a nephew who looked this good and made this much money, I'd probably be suspicious too."
A ripple of laughter moves around the table. Someone snorts.
Harrison narrows his eyes, clearly not expecting me to punch back with humor.
"Quite a tongue you have, Ms. Morgan."
I raise my glass, clinking it lightly against his. "Only when provoked."
More laughter. Even Damian's aunt hides a smile behind her napkin.
I catch Damian's gaze for a second and there it is. That flicker. The one that looks dangerously close to admiration.
*****
By dessert, the air is looser. I'm mid-sip when a soft voice pipes up from across the table.
"Uncle Damian?"
Everyone turns. A little girl; six, maybe seven, peeks shyly from behind Harrison's chair. Her curls bounce as she steps forward, clutching a stuffed bunny.
Damian's expression softens instantly. "Zoe," he says, voice gentler than I've ever heard it.
She grins at him, stepping forward with a shy wave then notices me. Her wide eyes flicker between us, curious and sweet.
Before I can say anything, her glass tips over, spilling juice across the tablecloth.
Everyone gasps except me.
"It's okay," I say already on my feet, grabbing a napkin and moving to her side. "Happens to me all the time. Usually right before I try to impress someone important."
Zoe giggles. I dab at the spill and give her a wink. "See? No harm done. We're both disasters."
Harrison looks horrified, like the sight of me kneeling with a napkin has personally offended him.
Damian just watches me, his jaw tight and his eyes unreadable.
Zoe beams. "You're really pretty," she says.
I grin. "And you're trouble. My favourite kind of person."
The laugh rings through the room, cutting through the tension that's been strangling it all evening. When I sit back down, Damian's still watching me. And for once, he doesn't look like the untouchable CEO everyone whispers about. He looks… human.
*****
The drive home is quiet than before. Heavy.
I glance out the window, watching the city stretch and shimmer. "You didn't have to go full mafia boss on your uncle."
Damian doesn't look at me. "He disrespected you. And you didn't have to step in, I can handle my family."
"You also don't have to play my bodyguard," I say, turning to face him. "I can handle myself."
He turns his head, eyes flashing. "You'd rather I let him humiliate you?"
"I handled it. You don't have to fight my battles for me."
He exhales, slowly. "You talk too much."
For a second, the silence between us feels alive, not hostile, not calm, just charged. Then he looks away, hands steady on the wheel.
I lean back, watching the city lights blur past the window.
He can pretend he's in control all he wants, but I saw it tonight; that flicker in his eyes when I made Zoe laugh. The man has cracks. And I'm starting to see them.
When the car finally rolls to a stop in front of my building, the quiet settles heavy between us.
"I'll walk you in," Damian says, already reaching for his seatbelt.
I shake my head. "You don't have to. I'm fine."
"Marielle..."
"I'll be fine," I say again, cutting him off. "I can handle a front porch."
He hesitates, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I think he'll argue. Instead, he sighs and leans back.
"Text me when you're inside."
I grin. "Cam will do that. I don't have your number, and I don't intend to."
He rolls his eyes and looks away, pretending not to be amused.
I step out, clutching my purse as the night air wraps around me. It's cooler now, quiet except for the buzz of a streetlamp and the soft hum of his car engine. The kind of silence that almost feels aware.
I walk up the short path to my porch, keys clinking in my hand. Then stop.
Something's there.
Right in the center of the doormat sits one of my family's old relics: a carved wooden talisman shaped like a crescent moon, wrapped in deep blue cloth and tied with what looks like strands of hair.
My stomach twists.
That cloth, it's my grandmother's favorite shawl. I'd recognize it anywhere.
She used to send things like this when she wanted to "speak across." That's what she called it.
Crossing the line between worlds.
It was never a game for her. She believed that once you called, the other side listened. And sometimes, it didn't stop listening.
My mother never liked it. She said those calls didn't just send messages, they pulled things in. Things that can cause imbalance to this world.
But I haven't seen one of these in six years. Not since the night of my grandmother's burial.
A soft gust brushes past me. Not wind, but breath.
The porch light flickers once, then again.
Then it goes still. The bundle pulses faintly, the fabric shimmering as though it's breathing.
"Okay," I whisper. "That's not weird at all."
I should walk away. I know that. But something deeper; something I can't explain, roots me to the spot. I hear a whisper in the back of my mind, threading through my thoughts like it knows me.
It's not calling to me.
It's calling through me.
As if it's been waiting for me to answer.
"Everything okay?" Damian's voice cuts through my thoughts. He must've been watching me from the car.
"Everything's good," I call back, forcing a small laugh.
And then, before I can change my mind, I reach out and pick it up.
The moment my fingers brush the fabric, a shock of cold races up my arm. My breath catches. The world blurs: light, shadow, and flashes of faces I don't recognize. A woman's voice whispers something close, in my ear.
My knees give out.
The ground tilts.
I think I hear my name once, sharp and panicked. Damian's voice.
Then everything fades.
*****
Through the darkness, I hear him.
"Elle!"
The car door slams. Footsteps thunder across the pavement.
I can't move. Can't see. Only feel the weight of my body as it hits the ground. The cold seeps deeper into my skin.
By the time he reaches me, I'm already on the floor, eyes closed, the bundle still clutched in my hand.
He drops to his knees beside me, lifting me into his arms.
"Hey, look at me! Elle!"
No answer. My head lolls against his shoulder.
The bundle slips from my grip, unwrapping just enough for the talisman inside to glow faintly, each pulse matching my heartbeat.
Damian freezes, staring at it.
And just before the dark takes me, I hear her.
A voice I haven't heard in six years.
"My little moon."