The vote

Layla's pov

I could feel the air getting thicker every day at Blackwood Enterprises. Tension clung to the walls like smoke, wrapping itself around every conversation, every sideways glance, every late-night whisper that never quite reached the surface. It wasn’t just the weight of Isabel’s attacks anymore—it was Damian. He was changing.

Not in obvious ways. It was subtle at first—the way his jaw clenched tighter with each passing hour, the way his once-playful smirks became rare and brittle. His replies grew shorter. His presence colder. He stayed longer at the office, sometimes not coming home until dawn, sometimes not at all. Something inside him was unraveling, thread by thread.

One night, I found him in his office, bathed in the low glow of a desk lamp, surrounded by piles of documents, contracts, and spreadsheets. His eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them deep and hollow.

“Damian, you haven’t slept,” I said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “Come to bed. Please.”

H