Chapter 9 Glass walls
Damien’s POV
The ride from my family’s estate is thick with silence. The kind of silence that weighs between us like concrete. Elara sits beside me in the back of the car, hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale against the black fabric of her dress. She looks suspicious and I know immediately that something is wrong.
A message chimes on my phone. From Adrian.
“She was eavesdropping on you and your father earlier.” I smile as I read it. She hasn't changed. Still probing into matters that don't concern her.
I watch her in the reflection of the dark window. Eyes bright but restless, mouth set in a defiant line, shoulders rigid as though she’s bracing for an impact that hasn’t yet come.
“Marcus,” I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the engine.
“Yes, sir.” he turned slightly.
“Drive us to Elysium.”
She turns towards me. Sharp, her eyes flashing . “What? No. I'm tired and I need to go home. Take me back to the house.”
I don’t look at her. “You didn't eat more than two bites at dinner, you were too busy charming my mother and making acquaintances with my sister,” I reply, tone flat and cold as the night outside.
“You must eat something. I won't let my wife starve herself under my roof.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. “I’m not hungry.”
I turn my head, just enough for our eyes to lock. My voice lowers into something harder, sharper. “Then you will have a drink with your husband. But you won’t sit across from me, shaking with hunger and pride, and pretending you’re fine. It’s insulting.”
Her eyes flash with the defiance I’ve come to expect from her. “Everything about you is control, isn’t it?”
“Control is survival,” I simply reply. “And survival requires strength. You will need both.”
She turns away with a huff, muttering something under her breath. but i don't care what it is.
When the car finally slows, Elysium glows in sight, like a jewel box against the Chicago skyline, floor-to-ceiling glass walls spilling light into the dark, chandeliers cascading gold over white linen tables. The car door opens, and the cold rush of city air slips in.
Inside, the maître d’ recognizes me immediately and ushers us to a private corner without question. I made no reservations. I’ve come to learn that money and fear always work faster than reservations.
We sit across from each other at a small table, the glass wall behind her framing the city like a living painting. She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her gaze fixed on the view, like the lights out there might offer an escape.
The waiter approaches, bowing low. “What may I bring you this evening, Mr. Cade?”
“Two glasses of Château Margaux,” I say without glancing at her.
She mutters under her breath, “I said I’m not hungry.”
I ignore her, my focus on the waiter. “And the chef’s sea bass. Rare. And the ribeye, medium rare.”
The waiter nods and disappears.
When the wine arrives, she lifts her glass but doesn’t drink. Her fingers toying with the stem like it’s a weapon she doesn’t know how to use.
I lean back in my chair, watching her. “Tell me, Elara. What exactly did you overhear tonight?”
Her eyes flick up, wide, and cautious. “Nothing.”
My lips curve in a humorless smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” she repeats, firmer this time.
I swirl my glass slowly, watching the crimson catch the light. “Let me save you the trouble. You heard enough to make you curious. And curiosity, in your hands, is a weapon. Isn’t it? You're a journalist afterall.”
Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing.
“I know that you've been digging,” I continue, voice steady, cool. “Not just tonight. From the moment you walked back into my world, you’ve been gathering information. Thinking you can turn them into a story big enough to bury me.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. She tries to mask it with defiance, but I notice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says finally.
“Don’t insult my intelligence.” I set the glass down with a quiet click that cuts sharper than a shout. “You were a journalist once. You have not stopped being a predator just because your press badge is now useless. You’ve been watching, listening, waiting and hoping for a chance to strike.”
Her fingers grip the edge of the tablecloth until the fabric puckers. “And what if I have?”
The corner of my mouth curves upward in a cold smile. “Then you’re playing with fire you can’t control.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid. Around us, the restaurant murmurs with laughter and the clink of silverware, but here in our glass corner, it’s just war.
Finally, she leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Why are you so afraid of me?”
I let the question linger, swirling the wine one more time before leaning forward to match her. “I am not afraid of you. I am aware of you. There’s a difference. Afraid implies you’re a threat. Aware means I’m prepared.”
Her breath catches, just enough to confirm I’ve hit home.
I take a slow sip of my wine. “Do you really think you can unravel me? That six months under my roof will give you the keys to my kingdom?” I shake my head. “You’ll drown before you can scratch the surface.”
Her voice is low, tight. “You don’t own the truth.”
“No,” I say softly, placing the glass back down. “But I own the consequences of chasing it.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I watch her wrestle with herself, fury and fear sparking in her eyes like live wires.
The waiter returns with plates—sea bass for her, steak for me. He sets them down silently and retreats.
She doesn’t touch hers. She just stares at it like the porcelain itself is poison.
“Eat,” I instruct, my tone neutral but firm.
She doesn’t move.
“Elara.”
Her eyes lift, defiant. “You can force me to sit here, you can throw food in front of me, but you can’t make me touch the food.”
I study her for a long time. Then, slowly, push my own plate away, untouched.
“Fair enough.”
Her brows furrow, surprise flickering across her face.
I rise from my chair, buttoning my jacket with deliberate calm. “But understand this, Elara.” My voice drops, quiet enough that only she can hear. “If you keep digging you won’t just ruin yourself again. You will regret it. And this time, I won’t be there to save you from the fall.”
Her lips part, but no words come out. Her fingers tighten around her napkin instead, knuckles white.
I lean in slightly, my shadow spilling over her untouched plate. “Stop searching for the truth.”
Straightening, I stand slowly and extend my hand. She hesitates for a few minutes before standing up slowly. She takes my hand as we leave together. Behind me, the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of laughter go on as if nothing has shifted. But everything has.
As we turn the gliding doors, I whisper into her ears again. “Stop digging Elara. Some truths are too dangerous to survive. Or what you find out in the process might just destroy you...” I pause for the weight of it to skink in. “Or me.”
She shivers slightly, a gesture I did not miss. I did not bring her here to eat, so the glass of untouched wine and plate of untouched food did not bother me. I brought her here to warn her and even now, I can almost hear her heart pounding with questions she’ll never stop asking.