Chapter 10 Making findings
Elara’s POV
The morning light cutting through the curtains in rays of soft gold wakes me up, a heavy weight pressing on my chest. I am in Damien’s mansion, wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of cedar and smoke, surrounded by scented candles that's worth my monthly pay and all I can think of are the words I overheard at his family’s dinner.
She must never learn the truth about her father.
The phrase burns deep. What secret are they trying so hard to hide? Could there be more than my first story on Damien Cade try to expose? The same story that got me kicked out of practicing journalism.
The more I thought about it the more questions I had and less answers. What truth? What connection could Damien’s family possibly have to my father? The man I buried in memory ten years ago, his name dragged through mud, his legacy nothing more than a cautionary tale whispered by those who knew him. How many more people have the Cade's destroyed?
My hands curl into the sheets. I told myself when I agreed to this arrangement that I'm doing it for survival, for the means to claw my way out of the ashes of failure and reclaim my identity. But it feels like that isn’t enough anymore. I didn’t sign that contract to play house. I signed it for access. And today, I’m going to use it.
By midmorning, Damien is gone, off to whatever empire-building rituals fill his day. Adrian lingers like a shadow in the hall outside my room, but eventually, he disappears too, muttering something about meetings.
That’s when I get my chance.
I slip into the corridor, careful not to let my feet sound too loudly against the polished marble. The mansion is a labyrinth, each hallway colder and more silent than the last. The air smells faintly of wax and lemon polish, sterile as a museum.
It takes me three wrong turns and one near run-in with a maid before I finally find Damien's office. The exact place I am looking for.
The door is locked, of course. But locks are only a suggestion if you have been a journalist long enough. I had learned a few tricks slipping into places where they had hidden the truth behind locks and threats.
I removed a pin from my hair. My hands tremble slightly, but I allow muscle memory to take over. And after a few tense minutes, the latch clicks open.
The office is exactly what I expect. Dark wood walls lined with shelves, glass panels that reflect back only my own nervous face, and ledgers stacked in meticulous order. A massive desk dominates the space, sleek and polished, every item aligned with precision.
On the desk sits Damien’s laptop, closed but humming faintly, like a living thing guarding its secrets.
My pulse pounds as I cross the room and lower myself into his chair. The leather is warm, the faint scent of cedar and his cologne lingering. It distracts me, but I shove the thought away and open it.
First, it's locked. Then I try the obvious: Damien123. CadeEmpire. Even ChicagoKing. Still nothing.
I stare at the blinking cursor, frustrated. Then I remember the way he looked at me last night, the smug curve of his mouth when he told me to stop digging. His arrogance, his obsession with power.
I type in Control and the screen unlocks.
Perfect.
Files sprawl across the desktop, folders neatly labeled with nest names: Investments. Contracts. Foundations. I click through them, scanning, searching, my pulse hammering faster with every second.
Then I see a subfolder buried in Foundations, marked only with a date from years ago.
The exact year my father died.
My throat tightens. My fingers tremble as I click it open.
Documents flood the screen. Financial reports, email correspondences, transfers. My father’s name shows up on the screen again and again, binded to Cade Enterprises in ways I don’t understand. Not for charity or clean deals. They look like payoffs.
My stomach turns.
I copy the files onto the flash drive I brought, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly drop it. The progress bar creeps forward, agonizingly slow.
Ninety percent. Ninety-five.
And then, I hear the honk of a car downstairs.
Looking over Damien's window, I watch in horror as the beast-like gates stretch it's month open wide and Damien slick and expensive looking car drives in.
I glance back at the flash and it's still lingering at ninety seven. My heart raced. He'll be coming in anytime soon but I wait patiently. I won't let this chance pass me.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Damien's voice slices through the silence, cold and unhurried.
My blood ices.
I freeze. Slowly, I turn in the chair.
Damien stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his figure shadowed in the light spilling from the hall. He doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he looks amused.
“I—”
“Don’t bother lying.” He steps inside, shutting the door behind him with a click that sounds like a sentence. His eyes flick to the laptop screen, still glowing with evidence of breaking the rule. Something he expressly warned me again just the day before. “You’ve been busy.”
I snap the laptop shut, gripping the flash drive tight in my palm. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
He arches a brow. “This is my house, my office, and my rules. You seem to.have forgotten that. Tell me, Elara. Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”
My heart pounds, but I force my chin up. I don't care about the consequences anymore. I want to know the truth now. The reason my story was killed even before it was formed. “What are you hiding about my father?” I asked, daring him to reply.
He freezes, and then I see the flicker in his eye. It's subtle at first almost like a heartbeat but it’s there—the shadow that slips past his iron composure.
It’s enough to confirm what I already know: there is something. Now everything in me is raging to find out what it is.
But nothing would prepare me for what he was about to say next.
“Go change,” he says finally, voice low and controlled. “We’re going out.”
I blink. “What?”
He moves closer, each step measured, deliberate. His presence wraps around me, suffocating. “You’re going shopping. Getting a new wardrobe, new shoes. New everything. These are your conditions for our marriage, didn’t you? I’m keeping my end.”
“This isn’t about clothes,” I snap. “This is about my father. The one that is 6 feet below the ground while here you are, flourishing and excelling all around you. Tell me why your family wants me contained.”
His gaze darkens, hard as obsidian. “You’re not ready for those answers. And if you keep searching for them, you’ll bleed out even before you ever touch the truth.”
I swallow hard, the flash drive digging into my palm.
“You can’t keep me from knowing,” I whisper.
He leans down, his breath brushing my ear, cold as steel. “Watch me.”