Chapter 5 – A Line Crossed
The next morning, Elara awoke to the scent of coffee and a city bathed in gold light.
For a brief second, she forgot where she was—until she opened her eyes and saw the ceiling molding carved like a crown. Voss Penthouse. Reality returned in full color.
A silver tray sat on the table beside her bed. French press coffee. Fresh fruit. A handwritten note.
"Meeting at 10. Wear the navy. – D"
She stared at the neat scrawl.
He didn't sign it Damian. Just D. Short, commanding. Just like him.
By 9:45, she was dressed in the navy blue sheath dress his stylist had sent—a classic cut, backless, paired with sapphire earrings and sharp heels. She looked lethal.
The driver was already waiting. She slid into the black car and was whisked through the city to Voss Technologies headquarters—a glass monolith that pierced the clouds.
Inside, Damian was already in the boardroom, speaking in clipped, low tones to two men in thousand-dollar suits. When Elara walked in, they all paused.
Damian's eyes swept over her briefly. "Gentlemen, this is my wife, Elara Voss."
The word still startled her.
Wife.
One of the men—a man in his fifties with shrewd eyes and salt-and-pepper hair—stood and offered his hand.
"Tristan Hale, chairman of the board. We've heard so much about you, Mrs. Voss."
She smiled, shaking his hand. "Only the good things, I hope."
He chuckled. "You've certainly changed the tone of our investor meetings."
Translation: Damian's stock rose the moment you appeared.
Elara took her seat beside Damian, careful to match his poise. The meeting wasn't about her, but she could feel every eye occasionally drifting in her direction. Some skeptical. Some curious. Some just admiring.
The topic shifted to the upcoming IPO launch.
Damian was flawless—crisp, confident, brutal. Every word calculated. Every decision final. It was intoxicating to watch him work.
But halfway through the meeting, a message buzzed on her phone.
Unknown Number: Did you marry him to forget me? Or is he blackmailing you, too?
Her blood ran cold.
Liam.
Damian noticed the change in her expression. He reached over and casually covered her phone with his hand, pressing it flat against the table.
"Don't give him your attention," he murmured under his breath.
She forced herself to look up and nod politely as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur.
Back at the penthouse, Elara threw her clutch onto the marble counter and paced the kitchen.
Damian followed at a distance, silent as ever.
"I changed my number," she snapped. "How did he get it?"
Damian leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You don't understand men like Liam. They don't want you until someone else has you. Then suddenly, you're gold."
"Do you think I want his attention?"
"No. But attention can still be dangerous."
She turned to him, frustrated. "You seem to know a lot about people you've never met."
"I know enough about betrayal to spot the signs."
That shut her up.
The silence between them thickened.
Finally, Damian pushed off the wall and walked over. "I've had your phone reprogrammed. Use the new one. Your calls and texts will be filtered through a secure line."
She blinked. "You're monitoring me?"
"I'm protecting you."
"There's a difference?"
His eyes darkened. "In my world, no. There's only what works—and what doesn't."
Her chest heaved. "You keep treating me like I'm part of some strategic acquisition."
"You are," he said, low. "But that doesn't mean I won't burn down anyone who tries to touch you."
The air between them sizzled.
"You don't have to play protector," she said, voice softer now. "You're not my real husband."
Damian stepped closer. "Maybe not. But you're still mine. For now. And I don't share what's mine."
Her breath caught. The line had been crossed.
He was too close.
She could see the flicker of something beneath his cold exterior—heat, maybe. Possession.
And the worst part?
She wasn't entirely sure she wanted him to back away.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The penthouse felt too big. The bed too soft. Her heart too loud.
Elara slipped into the hallway in a silk robe, heading for the kitchen. Water. She needed cold water.
But halfway there, she stopped.
Damian was on the balcony again, shirtless this time, a glass of scotch in his hand, eyes fixed on the skyline.
He didn't hear her approach.
Or maybe he did and just didn't care.
She stepped outside slowly. "You don't sleep much."
"No."
"Nightmares?"
"Memories."
Elara leaned on the railing beside him. "You don't strike me as the kind of man who lets the past bother him."
"I don't. I let it teach me."She studied his profile. The sharp cheekbones. The scar at his jawline, barely noticeable unless you were this close.
"Who hurt you, Damian?"
He didn't answer.
Not for a long time.
Then finally, he said, "Everyone I once trusted."
She nodded. "That's why you don't love."
"That's why I don't need to."
Silence.
"I'm not here to fix you," she whispered.
"I know."
"But if we're going to survive this year… we need to stop pretending we're made of steel."
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
And for the first time since this entire façade began, Elara saw the truth:
Beneath the cold… he was just as lost as she was.