It started with a scent.
Lavender and smoke. The smell of her old apartment in the city. The one she left behind the night she signed the contract that sold her name to Damien Cross.
Except—there was no lavender here.
Not in this ice-cold penthouse. Not in this museum of dead women and unspoken things.
Emilia sat upright in bed.
The scent faded. But something stayed.
A feeling.
She reached for her phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.
Until she opened the Notes app.
And found a single line typed in, timestamped 3:14 a.m.
He watches who you become. Don't let him bury you in velvet.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't typed that.
She hadn't even unlocked her phone.
The message was unsigned. No number. No trace.
But she recognized the phrasing. She remembered hearing it once.
Whispered in the gala's shadow. From a woman with trembling hands and lips that didn't match her smile.
Annabelle.
---
She showed it to Damien the next morning, expecting denial. Gaslighting. Anger.
But all he did was sip his black coffee and read it again.
Then again.
Then set the phone down, eyes unreadable.
"You should change your passcode."
"That's it?"
He leaned back in his chair, robe hanging open over his chest like a casual warning.
"Do you want the real answer?" he asked.
"I want the truth."
His eyes met hers, cool and ancient. "The truth is a hammer. You don't use it until you're ready to break something."
She stared. "And what am I supposed to break?"
Damien smiled.
"Me."
---
She left the breakfast table furious. Not because he was hiding something. But because she wasn't ready to admit that a part of her wanted to smash him wide open.
To dig through the layers until she found the ghost underneath the empire.
Or the monster.
Whichever came first.
---
At noon, she walked into the west wing again.
This time, the hallway felt colder. Like it had been waiting.
She entered the study. Still locked.
But this time, she used the bobby pin she'd hidden in her sleeve.
Click.
The door gave way.
Dust curled like breath as she stepped inside.
The walls were covered in books, but they weren't for reading. They were records. Financials. Court cases. Blackmail files.
And in the center drawer of the mahogany desk—an envelope.
Inside: four photographs.
Women.
Each of them beautiful.
Each of them bruised.
Each of them smiling.
Until they weren't.
On the back of the fourth photo—her own name.
Written in red ink.
Not a signature.
A warning.
---
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She took a photo of the pictures. Sent them to a private server. Erased the sent trace. Locked the room behind her.
When she emerged, Damien was waiting.
"You broke into my study."
"You let me."
"I told you," he said, stepping closer. "You're not like them."
"Then why is my picture in your collection of corpses?"
His jaw ticked. But his voice stayed low.
"Because you're still alive."
---
That night, she waited for him in his bedroom.
She sat on the edge of his bed wearing nothing but silk and the storm in her chest.
When he walked in, he stopped cold.
"What are you doing?"
"Inviting you in."
"This wasn't part of the contract."
"No," Emilia said, voice soft. "This is a warning."
She stood. Walked to him. Placed a hand on his chest—just over the place his heart should've been.
"I don't want your empire," she whispered. "I want your secrets."
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
But his hand found her wrist. Gently. Possessively.
"I don't have secrets," he murmured, breath warm against her skin. "Only co
nsequences."
She tilted her head. Smiled.
"Good."
And kissed him.
Not out of love.
Not out of lust.
But because sometimes, to break a man, you had to taste him first.