Chapter 42 PUBLIC play

Chapter 42 PUBLIC play


Damien’s POV

Power is only useful when you make people believe they still have a choice.
That’s the first thing my father ever taught me. It’s also the first thing I learned to unlearn.

Because right now, choice is a luxury I can’t afford.

The leak hit faster than I expected. The story spread across the media like wildfire disguised as smoke—subtle but inescapable. “Unverified reports suggest that fragments of the long-buried Project Seraphim may have resurfaced.”

They didn’t name names. But everyone in the industry knew who to look at: me. Cade Industries. My father’s ghost.

And Elena.

I can already see it in the way the press phrases every follow-up question: “Cade’s wife allegedly involved in classified research…” They don’t need facts. They need blood.

Which means I have to draw attention—just enough to redirect it.

I call a board meeting for nine a.m. sharp. By 9:02, the vultures are all here: eleven men and women who owe their wealth to my father’s shadow and pretend they built their empires on brilliance instead of fear.

I stand at the head of the table, not sitting. I want them to see that I’m not here to negotiate.

“You’ve all read the reports,” I begin, my voice even, cold. “You’ve all probably received your own versions of the truth from whoever leaked them. Let’s skip the games. Someone in this room is still communicating with Cade Senior’s offshore accounts. That account just moved ten million dollars to a proxy in Singapore—an account connected to a company that ceased to exist three years ago.”

They shift uncomfortably. A cough from one corner. The scrape of a pen.

I lean forward. “We’re going to find out who did it, and when we do, they won’t have time to spend a cent.”

One of the board members, Marlowe, gives a practiced smile. “With respect, Damien, this company has survived worse. Perhaps we shouldn’t panic over unsubstantiated leaks from anonymous—”

I cut him off. “Anonymous doesn’t mean untraceable. And panic is what guilty men call accountability.”

Silence.

He swallows, adjusts his tie. “And Mrs. Cade? Should we be… concerned about her involvement?”

The question is bait, but I take it anyway—because I want them to hear the threat in my tone.

“Elena is under my protection,” I say, calm and final. “Anyone who thinks of touching her—professionally, personally, or politically—will cease to exist in this industry.”

No one speaks. No one blinks. That’s good. Fear means control.

But under the table, my hand trembles once before I close it into a fist.

Because the truth is, I’m not just shielding her for optics. I’m shielding her because I can’t stop myself.

That afternoon, I meet Adrian in the underground parking level. He’s leaning against a black SUV, tablet in hand.

“The fake investor is ready,” he says without looking up.

“Timing?”

“Five p.m. at The Meridian.”

The Meridian—neutral ground, a luxury restaurant with too many cameras and not enough morals.

“Good,” I say. “Make sure the decoy account looks clean. We’ll bait whoever tried to buy the recordings into making contact. Once they bite, we follow the transaction to the real buyer.”

Adrian nods but hesitates. “And what about Elena?”

“She’s staying home,” I answer too quickly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You told her that, or you’re assuming she’ll listen?”

“I told her.”

He snorts. “Then she’s already on her way out.”

I shoot him a look.

He grins faintly. “You forget I’ve seen this before, boss. You tell her to stay out of something, she walks straight into it.”

“She won’t this time.”

But even as I say it, I know I’m lying—to both of us.

By evening, the trap is set.

I sit in a private surveillance room overlooking the Meridian’s VIP wing. Every camera feed is mirrored to my laptop. On-screen, a man sits at a table—our decoy investor—pretending to scroll through files on a tablet.

Across from him sits Marlowe.

My pulse slows, steady, deliberate. So it’s him.

Adrian glances at me from the next seat. “You were right.”

“I usually am.”

We watch as Marlowe slides a small drive across the table. The decoy takes it, types a few commands, and wires a preliminary payment.

And that’s when it happens.

A third man enters the frame—uninvited, unknown. He’s wearing a dark cap, head down, moving fast.

“Marlowe, who’s that?” Adrian mutters.

The man doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into his jacket and pulls something small, metallic.

“Gun!” I snap.

Before I can react, the feed explodes into chaos. The camera shakes, blurs, then goes dark. Shouts echo faintly through the speakers. Adrian is already on his feet, barking orders into his earpiece.

I’m moving before I think. Down the corridor, through the back stairwell, my heartbeat syncing with the sound of my shoes striking marble.

By the time I reach the VIP floor, it’s over.

Marlowe lies on the ground, motionless, blood seeping into the polished floor. The shooter is gone—vanished into a service exit before my men could close the doors.

The decoy investor is trembling, pale. “He just walked in and shot him. Didn’t even look around.”

I crouch beside the body, jaw clenched.

Marlowe’s phone lies a few inches away. I pick it up, swipe the screen, and freeze.

The last message received—ten minutes before the meeting—reads only: Do not talk. You’ve already been paid.

Anonymous sender. Encrypted number.

Someone silenced him before we could.

I straighten slowly, staring down at the corpse of a man who was both traitor and victim.

Adrian approaches quietly. “We’ll clean it up. Call the police, make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”

“Don’t,” I say.

He frowns. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t clean it up.”

I look toward the cameras still blinking red above us. “Let them see. Let everyone who’s watching know exactly what happens when you try to bury the truth.”

He hesitates, then nods once.

As I turn to leave, the reflection in the elevator glass catches my own eyes—cold, haunted, and tired.

For a second, I see my father’s expression staring back at me.

That’s what frightens me most.

Because every move I make to protect Elena, to protect what’s left of the truth… brings me one step closer to becoming the man I swore I’d never be.

And somewhere deep inside, I know—
this war has only just begun.