Chapter 10- Counterstrike
I kept replaying the footage in my head until it blurred into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.
Two people at the gate. The handoff. The wire. My mother’s trembling voice. Damian’s jaw tightening as if the pieces had finally found their groove. We’d seen the trail. We’d seen the voices. We had proof enough to make accusations, but not enough to make them public without a wrecking plan.
“We don’t leak,” Damian said that morning, blunt as a blade. We were in the war-room, screens up, coffee gone cold. Marcus had the ledger open and the phone recordings cued. Clara paced like a caged animal. My mother sat like a woman folded in half by shame, and Isabella watched like someone calculating angles on a chessboard.
“Leaking to a tabloid ruins you,” Marcus added. “But a controlled release. Something forensic, airtight, makes Ward look like the coward he is.”
“So we play by their rules,” Clara hissed. “We give him a stage and then burn the stage under his feet.”
I rubbed my thumb over the rim of my coffee cup. “What’s the play?” I asked. I needed plans and felt stupid for needing them.
Damian’s gaze cut to me. He’d slept maybe two hours. He looked like someone who hadn’t given himself the luxury of forgetfulness. “We draw him out,” he said. “Ward likes to win by pride. He’ll respond to opportunity. We make it an opportunity.”
“You mean bait,” Clara said.
“We mean bait with a camera,” Marcus clarified. “We get Ward to speak to someone he thinks he’s safe with. He reveals credit chains, motivations. Then we have everything.”
“And who is the someone?” I asked. My pulse sped. I hated feeling like the lure, but the truth was uglier: I had little patience for sitting on the sidelines while men moved pieces around me.
“You,” Damian said flatly.
The room pivoted. My heart knocked a little too loud. “What?”
“You’re the only one who will make him move.” He rose and walked forward like he could read the question in my face. “If Ward believes you’re vulnerable, he’ll take the bait. He’ll gloat to someone he thinks is yours or allied. He’ll try to recruit you to his side. And when he does, Marcus records. We release. Ward looks like a liar.”
“You want me to go meet him?” I heard Clara’s laugh and it was sharp. “Elena, that’s,”
“Dangerous,” my mother whispered, and the sound was small but true.
Damian didn’t flinch. He stepped in close and his voice dropped like a promise and a threat. “You’ll be protected. Marcus will be wired. I’ll be there. We’ll limit the variables.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’ll bring a truth he won’t anticipate.” His hand hovered near my shoulder and didn’t touch. “Because you’re collateral. And collaterals have stories to sell.”
The anger rose then. Collaterall. “I’m not a prop for your chess,” I said. “Not for anyone.”
“You won’t be if you do this right.” He sounded almost gentle, which made me more mistrustful than anything. “You’ll be the one who turns the tables.”
I swallowed hard. There were a hundred reasons to refuse but a tiny, fierce voice inside me wanted the confrontation. Wanted to look Ward in the face and ask why. Wanted the truth in his mouth, hot and ugly.
“Fine,” I said. “But I don’t go in as your wife. I go in as Elena Carter, an angry woman who knows she’s been used.”
Damian studied me. The tiniest flicker of something like admiration crossed his face. “Good,” he said. “Then tonight. Ward’s club, Eden. Marcus has a contact there. We’ll walk in like guests. Clara will be visible, make sure cameras are rolling. You keep it conversational.”
“And if he calls me a liar?” I asked. “If he says I made it up? If he tries to play me?”
“You call his bluff,” Marcus said. “We have the evidence. You steer conversation to the ledger, the transfers, the gate footage. You make him respond in a way that implicates him.”
“That’s a big ask from someone in my...position,” I muttered.
From his side, Damian’s jaw worked. “We’ll rehearse. We’ll make it look like an accidental meeting, not a trap.”
I resented the trap language and the truth of it. But I also wanted answers. And in all the ways this week had gone sideways, the man across from me, Damian, was the only one making moves that promised to stop the mess. For now, at least.
The afternoon bled into evening. Marcus ran files and set up feeds. Clara buzzed like a crazy bee, practicing where to sit, where to call, where to signal. My mother disappeared into her room and my stomach clenched. Isabella excused herself, sweet as poison, claiming some luncheon obligation. The house felt like a theater and we were tuning the lights.
Before we left I found Damian alone in the conservatory. He was leaning against the glass, city lights in his eyes. In the dim he looked like he’d been carved out of night. Beautiful and dangerous and steady.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, not moving.
“I don’t have to do a lot of things I do,” I answered. My voice came out thin.
He turned, closer now. The scent of him caught my senses in a way that made my knees go soft. “Then don’t make this about proving yourself,” he said. “Make it about getting answers.”
“I want them,” I said. “I want to know who bought my silence, and why. I want to know if Lucas betrayed me or if he was used.”
He reached and took my hand, the touch firm and grounding. “You’ll have the truth,” he promised. “I’ll make sure.”
We were quiet a long moment. Then he bent and kissed me, slow and deliberate. Not the quick heat of hunger last week. This was steadier. It was asking permission and claiming anyway. My mouth opened because I wanted to feel human against him, and because I was tired of being polished and handed around.
We didn’t go far, the car that drove us to Eden had dark windows and Marcus at the wheel. The club was a black heart of glass and smoke. Ward’s name glowed in low neon.
We sat in a booth. Ward’s table was a short walk away, a man with a crown of arrogance that made the room bend. He was surrounded by men who looked like polished sharks. He waved as if we were part of his plan, and when he saw me he did that thing older men do, smile like they know a secret you don’t.
“Elena,” he called, voice smooth as syrup. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I took a breath and let Marcus’s hidden mic buzz against my collar. “I thought I’d ask you the same,” I said, voice steady. “Why did your people wire money to the Blackwells before my wedding?”
He blinked like a man asked an odd question in a market. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”
“You do,” I said. “We’ve got a ledger. We’ve got a gate camera. We have a phone recording. You sent funds to Blackwell Holdings. Are you trying to sink them? Or were you trying to use them?”
He laughed then, that kind of laugh that’s used to breaking things and watching how they fall. “You’re awfully crisp for someone who’s been dragged across the coals, Elena. Tell me, did your new family tell you to play the victim?”
“Why would I lie?” I asked. “Why would I show up to your club to ask a question you won’t answer?”
He slid a glance across the room and then leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Because you’re curious. And because curiosity looks good on you.”
He was playing. He thought we were small. He thought this was a game for him. Then an extra chair scraped and I saw Lucas.
He looked worse than the footage suggested—skinny, eyes hollow, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a cigarette dangling like a prop. He wasn’t with his old life. He was alone, and when his gaze hit me it was like a hand twisting in my stomach.
“Lucas?” I said, more a disbelief than a question.
Ward’s smile grew. “Ah. The prodigal. Come to make amends?”
Lucas rose like someone walking on glass. He stopped a meter from our table. He looked at me and his face crumpled in a way that made my resolve falter. Then he turned to Ward and said, quietly, “He needs assurance. He wants evidence he’s not alone.”
Ward’s eyes flicked to me with all the hunger of a man counting his wins. “Elena,” he said, “you see. People have been rearranging themselves for a long time.”
Something in the room shifted. I felt Marcus shift his weight. Damian’s fingers dug into the cloth. The men around Ward straightened like coiled ropes.
Lucas looked at me again. “Meet me after,” he said, voice raw. “I’ll explain.”
A thousand things fought in my mind. Trust. Answer. Safety. The mic near my collar warmed against my skin like a desperate heartbeat.
Ward raised his glass and the room applauded like a theater for wolves. He caught my eye and the look was clear: you’ve stepped into our world, little bride. You can either dance or drown.
Damian’s hand covered mine under the table. He squeezed once, a signal that he was there, and that he’d been pretending to step back only so he could tighten his grip. The cameras in the ceiling tilting to capture everything, the mic buzzing, Clara poised to text when Ward said anything incriminating, this was the trap.
Ward smiled and said nothing. He’d thrown the bait, and the ripple had already started.
Lucas tapped his glass against his lip and met my stare. “After,” he mouthed.
I swallowed. My head was a mess of sound and shame. The room buzzed like an insect.
“Are you ready?” Damian breathed, his lips nearly at my ear. His breath was hot. The world narrowed and then exploded into something fierce.
I nodded. “Ready,” I lied, and then stood.
Because if you’re going to be used as collateral, you might as well pull the detonator yourself.