Chapter 22 The Devil's Voice
Elena's POV
Rain returned like a slow, creeping warning, at first a gentle drizzle that seemed almost polite, then growing heavier, more insistent, tapping against the windows of my study with a rhythm that matched the anxious drum of my heart.
Three days. That was all it had been since I had struck first, publicly, strategically, exposing Damien’s network within Vale Corp, initiating audits, shutting down unvetted fund transfers, and sealing our systems tighter than a vault.
Three days of silence, of quiet control, of pretending that the storm outside the glass didn’t reach into my veins until now.
My phone buzzed, shrill and insistent against the polished mahogany of my desk.
An unknown number.
My chest contracted automatically, a pause in my heartbeat that wasn’t quite fear, but a liminal moment of dread, the kind that leaves you frozen, trapped between action and paralysis. My fingers hovered over the screen as if the touch alone might summon catastrophe.
Finally, I answered.
At first, there was nothing, only silence. Then a familiar hum, classical music, a waltz my mother had adored. My chest constricted at the memory of her smile, the scent of her perfume in a sunlit room—it all hit me at once, bittersweet and jagged.
“Elena,” the voice said, smooth, deliberate, curling around the word like smoke. “How long has it been?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The voice was impossibly familiar, and yet it was coated in something I hadn’t anticipated: menace wrapped in charm, a predator speaking in velvet.
“Don’t tell me you have forgotten the sound of my voice,” Damien continued, mock hurt curling around every syllable. “I always thought you would remember me longer than your vows.”
I sank onto the edge of my desk, my knees suddenly weak. My grip on the mug of coffee I hadn’t drunk yet tightened, white knuckles pressing against porcelain.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, soft and precise, “press, audits, board meetings… your little marriage rebellion. Fascinating to watch.”
“You are a ghost,” I whispered finally, my voice quieter than I intended, brittle, sharp. “That’s all you’ve ever been since the divorce. Ghosts don’t haunt me anymore.”
“But that’s the thing,” he said smoothly, “ghosts only appear when someone calls them back. You summoned me, Elena. You made a move, and I answered.”
I let my hands fall to my lap, breathing uneven, pulse hammering. “I made a move to protect what’s mine. Not to hear your voice again.”
A low chuckle, almost musical in its cruelty. “You always were brave when angry. Do you remember Paris? That night on the balcony… I asked if you were afraid of falling.”
I wanted to snap, to burn the memory of that night, to throw it out like a filthy rag. “Don’t romanticize what we had,” I said, my voice tight.
“I’m not,” he replied, velvety and cold. “I’m reminding you what it feels like when someone knows you better than you know yourself.”
A shiver slid down my spine. The familiar thrill of danger, the sting of old betrayals, all pooled into a hard knot in my chest.
“I know you told Jack everything—or almost everything,” he added.
My throat tightened. I didn’t want to respond. Words would fail me.
He let the silence stretch, deliberate, and surgical.
And then, in a whisper that felt like a blade pressed to my ribs: “You never told him about the pregnancy, did you?”
The room tilted. My lips parted, and no sound came. There was no breath left for words.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice soft, venomous. “You should have known better than to think that chapter would stay closed forever.”
The pain wasn’t new. It had fossilized over the years, hardened into a silent companion I had buried beneath ambition, beneath strength and control. But hearing it now, wielded by him like a weapon, ignited every buried scar in an instant.
“You destroyed that,” I whispered, my voice breaking slightly. “You left me to deal with it alone.”
“No, Elena,” he said, carefully, like a teacher correcting a stubborn student. “I gave you a chance to erase your weakness. That child would have been an anchor to sink you. I did what was necessary.”
“You are a monster,” I said, trembling but unwavering.
“No,” he said softly, smoothly. “I am a mirror. I reflect what you deny. Remember, Elena. You let me in before Jack ever touched your hand…you chose me.”
I felt my whole body quiver. Anger, sorrow, rage, and a whisper of old yearning all tangled together. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. “What do you want?”
“To play,” he said simply.
The word hung between us, venomous and exact, and I could feel the pulse of it in my veins.
“This isn’t a game,” I snapped, voice tight with control I had to force.
“To you, maybe,” he said, silky, “but to me, it always has been. And here is your first clue, sweetheart. The man you are married to is not just hiding things. He has already lied. But I’m letting you uncover that on your own.”
“You are bluffing,” I said, trying to anchor myself.
“Am I?” His laugh was soft, dangerous, curling like smoke around the edges of my sanity. And then the line went dead.
I remained frozen, phone slipping slightly in my hand, blank screen mocking me.
Was this a test?
My legs refused to support me, and I pressed my forehead against the glass. Then I remembered the journal.
It was still in the locked drawer, the one I kept for the things I could not speak aloud.
I stumbled over, fingers shaking, unlocking it, opening to the pages I had never wanted to relive. Every word, every line, every confession of loss, pain, and whispered hope was there. The pregnancy, grief, betrayal, and the silence I had carried alone. Everything that had happened two years ago.
I read it again, the ink smudged, words faded, yet painfully vivid. When I closed it, my resolve had hardened into something sharper, something honed by grief and anger alike. Damien wanted a game…
Fine, but it would be mine to control.
Downstairs, Jack’s presence remained constant. I could hear the low murmur of his voice to his contact in cyber security, clipped, precise.
“We’ve got unusual encrypted access from the Harrow International Mainframe,” his man reported. “Not directly from Damien’s alias, but from a relay server in Monaco.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “He’s laundering data. Possibly laying a false trail. But one thing is clear: he’s embedded someone in your ranks. That’s how he stays a step ahead.”
“Find them,” Jack said quietly, steel in his tone. “I want a name before the week ends.”
He hung up, glancing towards the windows. I stared at his back quietly.
Later that night, I sat at my vanity, robe loosely tied around my waist, fingers tracing the edge of the journal. My reflection stared back at me: tired, bruised, but not broken.
Damien had reminded me who I once was, who I had allowed myself to be vulnerable for. Jack reminded me who I could still be: relentless, strategic, unbroken.
Both men held parts of my story now, and both, in different ways, had lied. Trust was fractured, faith wavering. I let the weight sit for a moment, heavy and sharp.
Then I stood. I tucked the journal back into the drawer, locked it, and exhaled a slow, controlled breath. Decisions were not made in grief, but in clarity.
I picked up my phone and dialed the one number I knew I could trust.
“Layla?” I said quietly when the line connected. “I need you to come in tomorrow morning, we have things to discuss.”