Chapter 35 Gala of Masks

Chapter 35 Gala of Masks
Elena’s POV

I turn at the sound of his voice. Damien steps onto the balcony, the moonlight catching the edge of his jaw. His bow tie is loosened now, his expression unreadable. Behind him, laughter drifts faintly from the ballroom, muffled by the glass doors.

“There you are,” he says, voice low. “I thought I lost you.”

“I needed air,” I reply, forcing calm into my tone. “It’s… suffocating in there.”

He walks closer until he’s beside me, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Crowds have that effect,” he mgurmurs. “Too many smiles. Too many lies.”

I glance at him, studying the sharp lines of his face. “You’re good at pretending, though. You make it look effortless.”

His mouth curves faintly. “Pretending is a skill you learn early when you grow up among men like my father’s friends. You learn how to play the part they want you to play.”

“And what part is that tonight?” I ask softly.

He turns to look at me. “The devoted husband.”

The words hit me harder than they should. For a second, I can’t breathe. His eyes stay on mine — steady, searching, too honest for the man who’s built his entire life on secrecy.

“I didn’t ask you to defend me back there,” I say finally. “You made me look helpless.”

His jaw tightens. “You weren’t helpless. You were being hunted.”

“And what does that make you, Damien? My shield or my jailer?”

The question hangs between us, heavy and raw. The wind brushes past, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks out over the city lights, his profile cold and beautiful under the moonlight.

“I’ve been both,” he says at last. “But you’d rather hate me than understand me.”

Something flickers in my chest — anger, confusion, maybe something worse. “You make it impossible to understand you. You lock doors, hide truths, control everything. You say you’re protecting me, but you never tell me from what.”

He exhales, long and slow. “Because if I told you, you wouldn’t sleep again.”

The honesty in his voice sends a chill down my spine.

Before I can respond, a shadow passes across the glass doors — one of the servers signaling that the guests are beginning to leave. The night is winding down, but the air between us feels charged, dangerous.

He steps closer. “Whatever you heard tonight,” he says quietly, “whatever people said — they only know fragments. The truth is buried deeper than gossip.”

“Then tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me your truth.”

He studies my face for a long moment, and for the first time, I see hesitation in him. The great Damien Cade — calculating, unbreakable — looks uncertain. Vulnerable, even.

“I will,” he says finally. “But not here.”

His hand brushes mine, just barely — a fleeting touch that sends a rush through me. Then he straightens, his mask slipping back into place.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.”

The drive back is quiet. City lights blur past the tinted windows, and I catch our reflection in the glass — two people sitting close but miles apart. His hand rests on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed forward, but I can tell his thoughts are far away.

When we finally pull up to the estate, the house looks different. The lights glow softer than usual, shadows curling at the corners of the marble hall. He helps me out of the car, his touch polite again, controlled.

“Goodnight, Elena,” he says when we reach my room. His voice is neutral, but his eyes linger longer than they should.

“Goodnight,” I whisper back, though sleep feels like a distant fantasy.

When the door closes behind him, I lean against it and let out a shaky breath. My heart won’t slow down.

You’re closer than you think.

Marta’s words loop in my head like a haunting melody.

Closer to what? The truth about my father? About Damien? Or something even darker — something neither of us is ready to face?

I kick off my heels and cross to the vanity. The mirror catches my reflection — eyes lined with exhaustion, makeup fading at the corners, a stranger wearing my face.

I pour a glass of water, but before I can take a sip, my phone buzzes. Unknown number. No text, just an image.

My stomach drops.

It’s the same photo from the market — my father and Damien’s father shaking hands. But this time, there’s another figure in the background. A woman. Half turned away, her face mostly hidden, but something about the posture, the hair… feels familiar.

Underneath the photo, a message appears.
You’re looking in the wrong direction. Check Room 7.

Room 7. Lower wing.

The words from the note I’d found days ago slam back into focus.

My pulse spikes. I glance at the door, half expecting Damien to walk in, to tell me to stop, to lock me in this gilded cage again — but the hallway outside is silent.

Every instinct screams at me to wait until morning. To think. To be careful.

But curiosity has always been stronger than fear.

I slip out of my room quietly, barefoot on the polished floors. The house is asleep, but the security lights cast long ribbons of gold across the corridors.

I move quickly, turning left past the library, down the narrow hallway that leads to the lower wing. It’s colder here, quieter, the air dense with dust and disuse.

At the end of the hall are several locked doors — old storage rooms, maybe. Each marked with a small brass number.

Five. Six. Seven.

I stop.

Room 7 looks no different from the rest, but the lock has been replaced recently. New metal against old wood.

I reach for the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Locked, of course.

I glance around — then remember the thin pin I keep in my hair. I slide it out, crouch, and start working the lock. My father taught me when I was younger, back when he called it “an investigative precaution.”

After a tense minute, I hear the soft click.

The door opens with a slow, creaking sigh.

The room beyond is dark, the air thick with the scent of old paper and metal. I find a switch and flip it on.

Light floods the small space — and my breath catches.

Blueprints cover the walls. Stacks of files, old prototypes, and photographs lie scattered across a long table. On the largest board, pinned in the center, is the same photo I just received. Only this one has notes written all around it — coded strings, dates, and one name circled in red ink.

A. MARLOWE

I stare at it, heart racing. Marlowe — one of Damien’s board members. The man who’d toasted to us at our wedding dinner, smiling like a family friend.

A noise behind me makes me freeze.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Damien’s voice is low, steady. I turn slowly, my pulse roaring in my ears. He stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his eyes unreadable.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly.

I swallow. “Neither should you.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the space between us alive with everything we’re not saying. Then he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The faint lock clicks.

His voice drops, soft and dangerous. “You were warned not to dig further.”

“And you were warned not to lie to me,” I shoot back.

He exhales, long and heavy, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he looks tired — really tired.

“Elena,” he says, almost pleading. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“Then explain it.”

He hesitates — and then, finally, he does something he’s never done before.

He reaches out and takes my hand, his grip steady but trembling faintly. “If I tell you everything,” he says, “you’ll never see me the same way again.”

The words hang in the air like a warning.

And I realize with a cold, trembling certainty — that whatever truth lies ahead, it will destroy one of us.