Chapter 13 Cracks in the ice
Elara’s POV
The morning after feels strange. The mansion is quiet, too quiet. Not the polished kind of silence that usually fills Damien’s home, but something heavier, like the air itself is waiting for something to break.
I walk barefoot through the hallway, my robe brushing against the cold marble as I move. I tell myself that I’m not looking for him, that I just need coffee, air, distance. Anything to keep me afloat, but my feet take me toward the west wing anyway. Toward his study.
The door is slightly open.
That alone stops me. Damien Cade doesn’t leave anything open. Doors, emotions, conversations. Everything about him is locked tight, airtight, calculated. But right now, I hear faint movement inside, the shuffle of papers, the soft clink of glass.
My Curiosity take the better part of me as I push the door open.
And freeze.
Damien sits behind his desk, shirt half unbuttoned, tie discarded, dark hair scattered like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. Papers are strewn across the desk and floor, like a storm ripped through his carefully curated world. The whiskey bottle beside him is nearly full, but the glass next to it remains untouched.
For once, he doesn’t look like the billionaire puppet master I’ve come to know. He looks… tired.
The sight unsettles me.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask softly, stepping inside.
His head lifts slowly, and when our eyes meet, I almost wish they hadn’t. There’s no fire there today. No cold dominance, no smirk or sharp edge. Just exhaustion.
“Elara.” His voice is hoarse, low. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You left the door open. That feels like an invitation.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You have an interesting definition of invitation.”
“And you have an interesting definition of privacy,” I counter. “You watch me through your cameras, remember?”
His gaze darkens at that, but he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he exhales, the sound rough. “What do you want?”
I shrug. “Answers, as always.”
He leans back in his chair, one hand running through his hair like he is weary, unguarded. “You won’t find them here.”
“Then maybe I’ll just settle for company,” I say, moving closer before I can stop myself.
He looks at me sharply, as if measuring the weight of my words. But then his eyes flick toward the window, distant again.
“Do you ever stop pushing?” he murmurs.
“Do you ever stop hiding?” I shoot back.
The silence between us stretches, fragile as glass.
When he doesn’t answer, I walk around his desk, my fingers brushing the scattered papers. Financial reports, old documents, an open folder with faded handwriting. Some of the pages are smudged, others burned at the edges as if they’ve been destroyed and resurrected one too many times.
“You’ve been up all night,” I say quietly. “This doesn’t look like business.”
“Don’t prob,” he warns, his tone low but unsteady.
I meet his eyes again and for the first time, I see something beneath the armor. A flicker of pain and guilt. It’s raw and real in a way that makes my chest tighten.
He looks away first. “You think you know me, Elara. But what you see is just the part I allow.”
“Then show me the rest.”
That gets his attention. His gaze snaps back to mine, and something dangerous flickers there, not anger, not desire exactly, but a kind of vulnerability that terrifies him.
“You wouldn’t like it,” he says finally. “No one ever does.”
“Try me,” I whisper.
He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging as though the weight he’s been carrying has finally become too heavy. For a moment, I think he might actually tell me something, maybe something real. But instead, he closes his eyes, shutting the door between us again.
“You should go,” he says softly. “Before I let you stay.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“Damien…”
“Please.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say that word. Not as a command, but as a plea.
I step back, uncertain, torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to shake him for being so impossible.
The world has seen Damien Cade as untouchable, as king in his glass fortress. But standing here, surrounded by chaos and silence, he looks nothing like that. He looks human, broken, even. And that’s what scares me most.
Because if he’s human, I can feel for him.
And if I start feeling, I’ll forget why I came here in the first place.
I move toward the bookshelf, pretending to browse. “You hide a lot behind these walls,” I murmur. “You ever get tired of pretending?”
He doesn’t answer, but I catch the faintest tremor in his hand as he pours whiskey into the glass he hasn’t touched all night. He stares at it for a long time before setting it down again, untouched still.
“I stopped pretending a long time ago,” he says finally. “Now I just survive.”
The simplicity of that confession twists something inside me.
Before I can think better of it, I say softly, “You don’t have to do that alone.”
His eyes lift to mine again, sharp but unreadable. “You think you can fix me, Elara?”
“No,” I admit. “But I think you’re more than what you pretend to be.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes. Then he stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “You should leave.”
I open my mouth to protest, but something in his expression stops me. There’s no anger now, only fear. Quiet and desperate fear.
For me? Or for himself? I can’t tell.
I turn toward the door, but something glints from the corner of my eye, a photograph half-hidden under a stack of papers. I hesitate.
“Don’t,” he says sharply.
But I’m already reaching for it.
It’s old, edges worn. Three people smile at the camera: Damien, younger and softer; his father beside him, stern even then; and a woman between them, looking stunning and alive.
Sophia.
I don’t need to ask who she is. I saw her yesterday night. And I can feel it in the way the color drains from his face.
“That’s her,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens. “Put it down.”
“Your ex-fiancée,” I say quietly. “The one who—”
“Elara.” His voice cuts through the air like glass shattering. “Enough.”
I flinch, the photograph trembling in my hand. But I don’t drop it. Not yet. “She looks happy,” I say instead. “Was that before or after your father destroyed her life too?”
The room goes still.
Damien’s expression turns to stone, every trace of vulnerability gone. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before.
“Leave,” he says again. “Now.”
I do. Because this time, it isn’t a warning. It’s self-preservation. For both of us.
I make it halfway down the corridor before I stop, pressing my back to the wall. My pulse is racing, my breath uneven. The image of that photograph burns behind my eyes. Damien’s smile, his father’s presence, Sophia’s face.
And beneath it all, that hollow look in his eyes.
He’s not the monster I thought he was.
But that makes him infinitely more dangerous because now I’m starting to care.
And caring for a man like Damien Cade is the surest way to destroy myself.
Still, as I walk away, the raw, human, broken sound of his voice lingers in my mind like a shadow that won’t fade.
I tell myself it’s curiosity and a strategy. That I’m getting close enough just so I can finish the story.
But deep down, I know I’m lying.
Because for the first time, I don’t just want the truth.
I want him.
And that might be the most dangerous secret of all.