Chapter 25 Walls have eyes
Elena’s POV
There’s something different about the air in this house. It’s quieter now, too quiet.
The silence used to soothe me, a rare reprieve from the noise of the outside world. But lately, it feels like something else entirely. A silence that watches me. A silence that listens and breathes.
Damien is distant since yesterday. Not cold, not yet but he looks like his mind is working round the clock, calculating his every move. Every time I speak, he listens too carefully. Every time I move, he notices.
At breakfast, I feel his gaze on me the entire time.
He barely touches his food. Just sips his coffee slowly, eyes tracking every small motion I make. The way my fingers circle the cup, the way I cut into the toast, the small tremor I can’t quite suppress.
“Something wrong?” I ask, forcing casualness into my voice.
He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, gaze unreadable, and says, “You shouldn’t go out today.”
I freeze. “Why?”.
He shrugs, setting the cup down. “You don’t need to.”
It’s such a simple statement. Calm, absolute. But it lands like a command.
I want to protest. I want to tell him he doesn’t get to decide that. But the way he looks at me, quiet, heavy, almost pleading makes my words dissolve.
Instead, I murmur, “I was just going to the market. I need a few things.”
“Then send a list,” he replies, tone still smooth. “Someone will get them for you.”
It isn’t what he says that unsettles me. It’s the way he says it. Like he isn’t making a suggestion he’s protecting something… or someone.
The rest of the meal passes in silence. When I stand to clear the table, his hand brushes my wrist with a fleeting, electric contact. His voice drops low, near my ear.
“Elena,” he says quietly, “please. Just stay inside today.”
It isn’t an order. It’s a request wrapped in fear.
And that terrifies me even more.
By afternoon, the house feels larger than it ever has. Every hallway stretches too far, every shadow feels deliberate.
I find myself pacing the study, drawn again to that space that has become both my obsession and my undoing. The papers on his desk are stacked neatly, perfectly aligned like a fortress of control.
I shouldn’t be here.
But curiosity edged me on.
My fingertips trail along the edges of the bookshelves, tracing the spines of thick ledgers and legal volumes. A drawer half-open catches my eye barely noticeable, but not to me.
Inside, is an unmarked flash drive.
I hesitate. My chest tightens. Every instinct screams that I should walk away, but the other part of me, the journalist, the daughter still chasing her father’s ghost won’t let me.
I plug it into the laptop on his desk.
A folder appears instantly. No password. Just one file.
“M_Confidential.”
My pulse thunders. I click it open.
At first, it’s just documents, transaction logs, contracts, coded emails. I scroll further, eyes scanning quickly. Then I freeze.
One name repeats across several pages.
Martin Technologies.
My father’s company.
I stare at the screen, throat dry. Every record here dates back to before his death. Shipments, patent transfers, nondisclosure agreements—proof that Damien’s father had dealings with him long before the scandal that ruined us.
And there, buried halfway down the page, a single note written in shorthand:
“Project Seraphim – asset transfer confirmed. M. Martin’s cooperation: secured.”
It was a Co-operation. Not theft, not extortion.
My father works with them.
The world tilts slightly.
Could it be true? Could he have willingly sold what I thought was stolen?
Before I can dig deeper, a soft beep breaks the silence. The monitor flickers just for a second but it’s enough to make my blood run cold.
Someone is watching this feed.
I yank the flash drive out, my hands shaking. The faint hum of static fades, but the unease lingers.
Then I feel it, yes. Not imaginary, not paranoia. Real.
I turn sharply toward the camera mounted near the ceiling. A tiny red light blinks back at me.
My heart slams against my ribs. I’ve seen that light before, but it never felt like this. Now it feels… alive. A pulse in the walls.
He’s watching me.
For the first time, I realize how many corners of this house hold those quiet, glowing dots. The hall. The staircase. The bedroom. Everywhere.
My stomach twists. How long has he been watching?
I back away, pulse quickening, when the door clicks open behind me.
“Looking for something?”
His voice comes out smooth, controlled and deadly quiet.
I whirl around. Damien stands in the doorway, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, eyes dark with an emotion I can’t name.
“No,” I manage to say. “I was just—”
“Just what?” He steps forward.
The distance between us shrinks too quickly. I take a step back, but the desk meets my hip, trapping me. His gaze flicks to the flash drive in my hand.
“Elena.” His tone is calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “Put it down.”
“I was only—”
“I said,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “put it down.”
The air thickens. I drop it onto the desk. It lands with a small, traitorous clatter.
He exhales slowly, moving closer until I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he says softly. “You know that.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.”
My pulse hammers as he lifts a hand towards me Not in anger, but something slower, more deliberate. His fingers brush the edge of my jaw, turning my face up to his
His eyes are . Desire. All tangled together in a dangerous knot.
“What did you see?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “Nothing I wasn’t supposed to.”
His thumb traces my cheekbone, his breath shallow. “You shouldn’t have gone looking.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to,” I whisper
A muscle ticks in his jaw. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, he leans in—close enough that I feel his breath ghost across my lips.
“I’m protecting you,” he says quietly. “Even if you don’t understand it yet.”
The words burn through me like smoke.
“Protecting me from what?” I ask, barely audible.
He doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me.
But instead, he steps back, reclaiming the space he’s stolen. The air between us snaps tight, electric and unfinished.
“Stay out of my study,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “For your own sake.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
I stand frozen, staring at the door long after it closes, his scent still lingering in the air—dark, sharp, maddening. My heart is a drumbeat I can’t silence.
I glance back at the camera. The red light is still blinking.
I whisper into the empty room, “Protecting me from what, Damien?”
But the walls, like him, stay silent.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
That night, as I lie awake, the faint red light on the ceiling flickers once and then turns off completely.
And from the hallway comes the quiet click of another door opening.