Chapter 12 The ghost I buried
Damien’s POV
It’s 3:07 a.m.
The mansion is silent and dark except for the one in my study. I sit alone in front of me is a mess of unopened files and an untouched glass of whiskey. The ice melted hours ago and the amber liquid now flat..
I can't sleep, I just can't. And I haven't been able to sleep in years.
I drag a hand through my hair, leaning back in the leather chair as it groans beneath the weight of my thoughts. The laptop screen on my desk blinks with unread messages, but I ignore them. The only thing I’m looking at is the drawer hiding my biggest regret. The person I couldn't save.
I slide it open and takes out her photograph. Her dark hair, green eyes, and smile I never deserved is staring back at me. She’s wearing that red gown—the same one Elara touched earlier today.
And I couldn't protect her.
To the world, she is a tragedy. But to me, she is my failure. I should have earned her, stopped her. I should have done anything to protect her… but I didn't. And now she's gone.
I trace the edge of the photo with my thumb, jaw tight. I shouldn’t keep it because every time I look at it, the guilt crawls a little deeper under my skin. But I can’t destroy it either. It’s the only proof that she was real. The only reminder of what I lost and what I swore would never happen again.
I take a breath, close my eyes, and for a moment, I’m no longer in the study.
I’m back that night.
The rain was relentless, hammering against the windshield as I argued with her. I remember the anger in her voice, the way her hands trembled on the steering wheel. “You’re lying to me,” she’d said, her voice cracking. “You knew what your father did, and you let him destroy my family anyway. My father was loyal to you, and what did he get?”
I’d tried to reach her. To tell her she didn’t understand. That I was trying to fix it. But she didn’t listen. She drove faster. And then she lost control.
I flinch as I recall the silence that followed.
I open my eyes, breath sharp and uneven. My hands are clenched so tight the photo’s edges crumple.
Sophia was right. I knew and I didn’t stop it in time.
My father called it a necessary loss. A loose end. I called it murder.
And I’ve lived with the blood of it ever since.
I stand, feeling restless, and start to pace the room like a caged animal. The security monitors lining the far wall flicker softly, showing different angles of the mansion. The hallways, driveways, rooms, my entire world, mapped and guarded.
I look closer and zoom into Elara's room.
She sits by the window, laptop open, her face lit by its glow. Her brows looks focus, her lips pressed together in concentration. I know that look. The look of someone chasing a story.
My jaw tightens.
She’s digging again.
It shouldn’t surprise me. It’s in her nature to hunt, to uncover, to bleed until the truth is discovered. The same instinct that got me close to her but it's this same instinct that could get her killed now.
I step closer to the monitor, the faint static hum filling the silence. She scrolls through articles and stops on an old headline, her hand covering her mouth.
I don’t need to see the screen to know what she’s found.
Sophia.
Of course she found her. She always finds the things I pray will stay buried.
“Damn it, Elara…” I mutter under my breath.
I press a hand against the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. I could shut off the feed, walk away, pretend I didn’t see. But I can’t. Not when she’s walking the same path Sophia did and straight into a grave carved by secrets too old and too powerful to be found.
She doesn’t understand what she’s digging into.
She thinks this is about her father. About being a journalist and exposing me.
She doesn’t know that its about survival.
If she keeps going, she will pull the wrong thread and the same people who silenced Sophia won’t hesitate to come for her too.
I return to my desk and stare at the whiskey. The urge to drink and forget, claws at me. But I’ve learned that whiskey only dulls guilt; it never kills it.
Instead, I unlock the bottom drawer and pull out a folder stamped with my father’s stamp. It’s thin but Inside are reports of organizations working with my father. People who have the power to end a life with a single word.
My father’s empire wasn’t built on business alone. It was built on blackmail, coercion, and blood.
And somewhere inside that web was Elara’s father.
The man had been brilliant—idealistic, reckless. He’d stumbled into something he shouldn’t have seen and something my father wanted. And when he In his foolish wisdom tried to get into a deal with my father, his investment to protect his secret, my father destroyed him first.
And Sophia died trying to expose it.
Now Elara is walking straight into the same fire, and I’m the only thing standing between her and the people who lit it.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I’ve become the cage and the shield. The villain and the savior.
I glance at the clock. 4:02 a.m.
The house creaks faintly under the weight of its silence. The air feels colder somehow.
I look back at the monitor again. Elara has closed her laptop. She’s staring at her reflection in the window, her face drawn, thoughtful, a shadow of determination etched in her eyes.
God, she looks so much like Sophia when she’s stubborn.
I press a hand against my forehead, trying to block the thought, but it won’t leave. Sophia’s voice echoes in my mind sharp, accusing. You think you can protect everyone by controlling them, Damien. But you’re the reason we need protection in the first place.
I slam the drawer shut, the sound echoing off the walls.
I know she’s right.
Every decision I’ve made since that night has been about control. To me control means safety, control means survival, control means no one else dies because of me.
But Elara is a storm I can’t contain. Every time I try, she finds another way to break through.
And the part of me that once wanted peace now wants her wants to protect her, yes, but also to keep her close. Because when she’s near, the ghosts are quiet, even for a second.
I drag a hand over my face, hating the weakness in that thought.
I shouldn’t want her. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
My phone buzzes. A single message from an encrypted contact:
“She’s looking in the wrong place. For now.”
No name, no signature. Just the reminder that someone else is watching her too.
A chill crawls up my spine.
I glance again at the monitor. Elara’s room is dark now, her figure curled in bed beneath the blankets. She looks peaceful, vulnerable. Oblivious to the danger circling her.
I set the phone down slowly.
Whoever sent that message knows too much. That means they’re inside the system or close enough to touch it.
And if they’re watching her now, it’s only a matter of time before her curiosity turns into a warning shot.
I can’t let that happen again.