Elle's Pov
I push the door open, still breathless from taking the stairs two at a time, pulse thudding. My mother sits in the living room, serene, idly flipping through one of my manuscripts as if she lives here.
"Mom?" My voice is strained. "Did anyone see you come in?"
She glances up, completely unbothered. "No."
That can't be right. "Then how did you get inside? You didn't meet Camila. The door..."
I stop mid-sentence. Oh no. I gasp. "You didn't!"
Her eyebrows rise in a perfect act of innocence. "Didn't what?"
"Mom," I whisper, stepping forward, my hands twisting. "Please tell me you didn't siren the doorkeeper."
She throws her hands up like I'm being dramatic. "All I did was tell him who I was. Honestly, that boy acts like greeting people is a crime."
I take a shaky step back, my jaw tight. The audacity of it steals my voice.
She huffs. "What? You're the one who said I should be more assertive."
"Not like this," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "You can't just show up and..."
"Oh, don't pretend you're thrilled," she interrupts, eyes narrowing playfully. "You look like you wish I came next year."
"I… I'm just… surprised. It's all sudden."
"Surprised? Firefly, I've been doing this since birth. You should be used to it."
I ignore her.
She leans back in the chair, twirling the manuscript between her fingers. "Not happy to see me? Well, you're lucky I love you enough to ignore the scowl."
"I'm not scowling!" I protest. "And you still can't just go around sirening people!"
"Oh? Watch me," she says, settling deeper into the couch. "Now, are we going to talk or are you going to keep chanting rules you never follow yourself?"
I groan and drop my bag onto the couch. "Talk. Quickly. I have a gala to plan."
"Good girl," she murmurs, patting the seat beside her. "Sit."
I sit reluctantly. Her smile fades. Something older settles in her eyes, the look of a woman who knows where all the bodies are buried.
"Elle… your grandmother wants you back."
The air tightens. I sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down. Nana… after all these years. My mind drifts to that summer at her countryside home, the smell of fresh bread, her stories of our people, how she always reminded me my gift was a blessing, not a curse.
"No," I say instantly. "I'm not going back. That life is over."
Her lips tighten and the room grows heavy with unspoken history. "Done with it? This same life you spit on is the one paying your bills. 'Engaged to Damian Blackwell' was that really coincidence? Or was that you, using your gift for petty revenge?"
I flare. "You don't know anything about my visions. I don't want that life. I don't want this curse."
She leans forward, voice low and firm. "This isn't my request. It's Nana's. She wants to see you… before it's too late. I've stopped trying to drag you back. But this? This one thing, just go."
The urgency in her voice chills me. It isn't a plea. It's a warning of the "Died: 2026" kind.
*****
Damian's Pov
It's evening and the building is dead quiet, most floors dark. My office still glows, the only corner of this building refusing to sleep. Papers spread across my desk, quarterly projections, and two contracts needing signature. None of it bothers me. Routine never bothers me.
My phone buzzing face-down bothers me. Lila Monroe.
I swipe to answer. "This better be good."
"She left work today, after just an hour in. In an unusual haste, like her hair was on fire," Lila jumps straight in. "I followed her home. She wasn't alone."
My pen stills. "Meaning?"
"Couldn't identify the woman," Lila says, annoyed. "Older, striking resemblance. Definitely related."
Related could mean safe… or it could mean the opposite. "Stay on her. No interactions. And Lila… keep me updated. Every detail."
"Already doing that." A beat. "By the way, a popular gossip blog is cooking a piece about your engagement. Trash, but sticky trash. I can kill the story."
"How do you even know about... nevermind. Handle it."
I lean back in my chair, staring at my reflection in the window. A man who hasn't had a day off in months. I should be buried in contracts and quarterly reports, making decisions that affect thousands. But my mind won't leave Elle's apartment. Is she alright? Is she hiding something that could take me out for good?
Something is happening, and I don't like the feeling. I pick up my phone and dial her.
"Hello?"
"Hey," I say, tone softer than I intend.
"Damian?" Her surprise is obvious. "This is unusual. Did something happen?"
I lean back, rubbing the back of my neck, suppressing a grin. She's tired, but she's still Elle. No hint of the visitor. No slip. Nothing.
"Just making sure you're okay," I say, trying to poke her.
She makes a skeptical noise. "Okay, now I'm suspicious. We're pretending to be engaged, not auditioning for a romance movie. Should I bat my eyelashes or practice my socialite laugh? Or should I assume someone important is nearby and you need me to play along?"
"Elle, I'm serious."
"So am I," she counters lightly. "I'm not used to this. Checking in? Out of the blue? Well..."
"Busy day?"
"How'd you know I was busy?" she whines. "What is going on with you today?"
"Dinner," I say.
"What? I have a gala tomorrow, I haven't slept properly, and you want dinner?"
I lean forward. "Say yes."
A sharp exhale. Then she caves. "Fine. Dinner. But if this is corporate networking, I swear I'm throwing my drink at you."
I allow myself a laugh. "Understood."
When the call ends, the office feels quieter than before.
Elle is keeping something from me. And whoever showed up at her house today is part of it. I'm going to figure it out. Whether she tells me or not.