Chapter 28

Damian’s POV

The day dragged on endlessly, heavier than it should have been.

The rhythm of the city was changing again, rumors seeping through cracks in the old networks I had built, broken, and rebuilt with my own hands. Marco’s death had left a mark on my empire, ugly and spreading, refusing to be erased. Every meeting, every whispered exchange, circled back to the same shadow someone had moved pieces on the board where they had no right to.

And Elena stood at the center of it all.

I wasn’t sure if she was a pawn, a deceiver, or something caught in between. What I did know was simple: someone had reached her. Marco’s death wasn’t some random act, and neither was her sudden presence under my roof. Threads were winding together, and if she thought silence would protect her, she was delusional.

By the time I returned to the estate, night had sunk deep and heavy across the sky. My skull throbbed, my jaw tight with the weight of unanswered questions. I needed the truth. I needed someone to bleed it out for me.

The halls were silent. Too silent. Normally, she lingered somewhere close, hovering carefully at the edges never bold enough to irritate me, yet unwilling to vanish completely. Tonight, though, there was no trace of her.

I went straight to my room. Empty. Bathroom. Empty. The bed untouched. A slow fire started building in my chest.

Then I caught it. Fabric twisting under a hand, the faint slosh of water. I followed the sound until it pulled me toward the laundry room.

The door hung half-open. I pushed it wider.

And there she was.

Her sleeves were rolled, her hands buried in soapy water, with damp linen stacked beside her. Steam curled through the air, clinging to her hair and gown until the thin fabric stuck against her frame. She looked up sharply, startled, lips parting like she’d been caught red-handed.

I stepped inside. At first glance, it looked ordinary just another chore. But then my eyes caught it.

A bedsheet. White, faint embroidery at the edges. The weave was familiar. Curtains belonging to a room no one had touched since Marco’s death.

I went rigid, blood running sharp.

“Where did you get that?” My voice came out quiet, dangerous.

She blinked, bewildered. “I was told to do laundry for all the rooms,” she whispered. “It was already in the pile. I thought…”

My hand slammed against the table, the crack splitting through the air. The basin trembled, water rippling. She flinched.

“All the rooms?” My tone dropped lower. “Even Marco’s?”

Her face drained, realization striking before I needed to say more.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Who told you?” I cut her off, my words like a blade. “You know no one in this house gives you orders except me. Who was it?”

She stuttered, panic sparking in her eyes. “There was… a note. On my table. It looked like your handwriting. I thought it came from you.”

My stare locked on her. “Where is it?”

She froze, tears gathering fast. “It’s… it’s gone. I swear, Damian. It was right there. I didn’t think…”

A hollow laugh escaped me, cold as steel. “How convenient. A note that vanishes. Ghost commands.” I leaned forward, casting her in my shadow. “Do you honestly believe I’m stupid enough to buy that?”

Her tears slipped free, streaking down her cheeks. She shook her head frantically. “I’m not lying…”

“You are lying,” I hissed, my hand shooting out, seizing her wrist so hard the soap made it slip under my grip. “You think you can play me. Break my rules. Hide behind excuses. Use tears to soften me. Do you really think I am that weak?”

Her voice broke apart, raw. “Please. Please, Damian. I thought…”

I didn’t let her finish. My hand closed around her throat. She gasped, body jolting as I forced her back against the table. Her hands clawed at my wrist not fighting, just trembling, begging.

“What more do you want from Marco?” I snarled in her face. “Haven’t you already stolen his life? Do you sneak into his room to touch what isn’t yours, to soak yourself in his ghost? You pathetic bitch.”

Her sob burst out, sharp and pitiful. It should have repulsed me. Instead, it twisted something jagged inside me.

I tightened my grip, then loosened it, then tightened again careful not to crush her, careful to keep her dangling at the edge of breath. For a split second, Marco’s lifeless body flashed in my mind, the betrayal still burning through me like acid. I shoved it down and let her go abruptly.

She staggered back, coughing, hands clutching her throat.

“You will finish every piece of this laundry,” I said coldly, each word deliberate. “Then you will crawl to the punishment room and kneel, facing the wall, until I return. You will not move. You will not speak. If I come back and find you disobeying, if you dare defy me again I will make you beg for death.”

Her lips trembled, tears streaming freely. “Damian, please”

“Enough.” My voice cracked like a whip. “No more excuses. You disgust me.”

I turned sharply, storming from the room. Her sobs followed me down the hall, clinging like smoke I couldn’t shake off.

Yet beneath all the rage, one thought clung like a splinter. Someone had planted her in Marco’s room. Someone had forged my handwriting. And if she wasn’t lying, that meant a traitor was walking my halls.

Still, I wouldn’t give her that mercy.

She would break first. She would beg first.

And I would drag the truth from her piece by piece.