Chapter 14 Haunted by ghosts
Damien’s POV
Since I got that text hinting that Elara I find it difficult to sleep. I can't close my eyes without seeing her—Sophia, reminding me that the same fate would meet elara If I do not do something. Of I don't protect her. Sophia’s name drifts through my dreams like smoke, curling into the edges of my thoughts until I can’t tell where the past ends and the present begins.
Tonight, I stop pretending. The clock on the wall blinks past 3:00 a.m., mocking me with its silence. I’m in my study again, the same place Elara found me last night, surrounded by ghosts I can’t exorcise. The papers she saw are still here, scattered like the wreckage of a life I once tried to bury.
The whiskey sits untouched because these days I don't even have the zeal to drink. And to me, it's my punishment. To remember.
I stare at the photograph creased at the edges, faded from time. Sophia’s smile catches the light, her arm looped through mine, her other hand resting lightly on my father’s shoulder. A perfect illusion. A moment before everything shattered.
My jaw tightens. I can almost hear the echo of that night, the rain against the glass, the scream, the crash.
I close the drawer too quickly. The sound of it slamming makes me flinch.
I try not to allow myself to feel things anymore. Not since that night when I learned how fragile everything truly was. Love, life, trust, nothing really lasts. The cost of caring is losing. And I don't want to lose again.
Because I am scared for Elara.
She is too much like her. Stubborn, brave, reckless and even the way she looks at me, challenges me, demands to know the truths that would destroy her reminds me of the way Sophia looked at me some minutes before the accident. Before my father decided to teach me what power really meant.
The memory claws through me again, how she was screaming at me and the argument that ensued before the screech of tires, and the flash of headlights. I can still smell the gasoline, the iron tang of blood.
And then the silence.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars, forcing the memory back where it belongs. Somewhere buried, deep, and unreachable.
But it’s not anymore because Elara keeps digging.
By morning, I’m dressed and composed again, every inch the man the world expects me to be. I put on my mask of control easily, the way I always do.
Elara finds me in the foyer, her hair still damp from a shower, eyes cautious but bright. She looks at me the way people look at storms, half afraid, half fascinated.
“You didn’t sleep,” she says softly.
I adjust my cufflinks. “Neither did you.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re still angry about the photograph.”
“Anger implies I care,” I say flatly. “I don’t.”
That’s a lie. One she sees through instantly. Her brow furrows, and she steps closer, invading my space like she has no idea she’s standing on dangerous ground.
“You push people away when you’re afraid,” she says.
The words slice through me, clean and precise. “And you assume everyone can be saved.”
She flinches. “I’m not trying to save you, Damien. I just want to understand you.”
“Understanding is overrated,” I mutter, reaching for my jacket. “It leads to mistakes.”
“Like falling in love with the wrong person?” She challenges me.
The air stills between us. For a moment, the mask slips. Just enough. I see her eyes widen, as if she realizes she’s hit something raw.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quietly.
“Then tell me,” she whispers. “Tell me what happened to her.”
I turn away before she can see the tremor in my hand. “Go get ready. We have a meeting downtown.”
“Damien—”
“Don’t,” I say, the single word sharper than I intend. “Don’t dig where the ground still bleeds.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than any argument.
Later that evening, I catch her through the glass walls of the library. She’s seated at my desk, the faint blue glow of her laptop lighting her face. Her expression is focused, almost haunted.
She’s researching again. I can see the name Sophia reflected in her eyes.
Part of me wants to storm in, shut it down, and remind her that some truths aren’t hers to touch. But I can’t move. I just stand there, watching her, the ache in my chest something I haven’t felt in years.
She doesn’t know what she’s walking into. The Cade legacy isn’t made of marble and money. It’s made of blood. Every secret she uncovers cuts closer to the bone.
If she finds out what my father did… What I did… there won’t be any saving either of us.
Adrian’s voice breaks the silence. “You can’t protect her forever, sir.”
I don’t look away from her. “I can try.”
He hesitates. “At what cost?”
I finally turn, my reflection in the glass fractured by the lamplight. “Whatever it takes.”
The next day, she corners me again, because of course she does. She’s relentless, beautifully, maddeningly relentless.
We’re in the corridor outside the conservatory when she stops me, her voice trembling between anger and something softer
“Why do you keep doing this?” she demands. “You say you want to protect me, but from what? From the truth? From you?”
Her words hit deeper than she knows. I take a step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her chin to meet my gaze.
“Elara,” I say, quiet but firm. “There are things you don’t want to know. Things that will destroy everything you think you understand about me. About this family.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t decide what I can handle.”
“Yes,” I say, and the word comes out like a confession. “I can. Because I’ve seen what happens when someone like you refuses to stop.”
Her breath catches. “Someone like me?”
I nod slowly. “Yes. Someone curious, fearless and stubborn. The kind of woman who doesn’t stop until she finds the truth, even if it kills her.”
She stares at me for a long moment, pity flickering in her eyes. And something else. Empathy, maybe even understanding.
“Is that what happened to her?” she asks softly.
I don’t answer because I can’t. My silence is enough.
That night, I sat in my study again, watching her on the security monitor. She’s pacing her room, restless, torn between leaving and staying. She has no idea how close she’s dancing to the fire.
I should end this. I should push her away, make her hate me, make her run. But I can’t. Every time she defies me, every time she looks at me with those eyes, God, she looks just like her.
I take a long breath, my fingers brushing against the edge of the old photograph still hidden in my drawer.
“If she’s going to dig,” I murmur to the empty room, “then she needs to understand what she’s risking.”
Because these truths killed the last woman I loved.
And right now, I know that someone is watching again.