Chapter 9. The Message She Sent

Ariella’s POV

The room smelled like antiseptic and orchids, Damon’s idea of comfort, are white curtains, white sheets and white lies.

I’d been here for five days.

To the nurses, I was a wife recovering from stress. To Damon, a compliant trophy in timeout. To the world, a glowing newlywed resting after a demanding wedding.

But beneath the hospital-grade calm, I was preparing for war.

I hadn’t cried. Barely spoken. That was the trick, look breakable, and no one asks what you're really thinking.

The door creaked open.

Nurse. Chart. Syringe.

“Vitals check,” she chirped.

I let her work. My pulse? Steady. Blood pressure? Perfect.

She left.

From beneath the mattress, I retrieved the burner phone, taped deep into the lining. I re-read the latest message from the informant:

"They think you're weak. Good. Stay invisible. One more drop, and the glass spills."

He was right. One wrong move, and Damon would bolt every door I’d managed to crack open.

I opened the encrypted messaging app, double-blind. No contact name, just a string of numbers. It was my father’s.

I typed:

"Safe. Out by tomorrow. Message to Damon ready. Any movement on your side?"

A full minute passed. Then:

"Meeting rescheduled. He suspects. I’ll create noise. Move now. Not later."

Even in silence, my father had fire. All that Damon did, could break the relationship I had with my father.

"Thank you for trusting me. Then, Make him pay, Ari." My father said.

That was all.

At midnight, I recorded the message. No makeup. No rehearsals. Just truth.

“I married you to save what you destroyed.

But I won’t stay in a castle built on lies.

You forged my father’s debt.

You orchestrated our fall.

And now you sit on a throne of ash and call it mercy.

So here’s the truth: I’m not running. I’m repositioning.

You always said love was weakness. Maybe.

But fear makes people stupid. And I’m not afraid anymore.

The next time we speak, I won’t be your wife.

I’ll be your rival.”

I encrypted the file. Burned it to a thumb drive. No return address. Black envelope. I choose 10:00 a.m. to deliver the mail directly to Damon’s office. And I sent one last message to my father:

"It’s done."

He replied instantly:

"Now step back and watch what fear does to tyrants."

Discharge by 6:32 a.m.

The doctor signed the papers. Nurses smiled, relieved to be rid of me. Damon’s control was still ironclad, but it didn’t reach behind my eyes.

At the exit, Damon’s driver waited.

“Ma’am, the car’s ready.”

“Tell him I’m staying at the penthouse. I need time alone.”

He nodded. No questions. He was trained not to have any.

Westside Penthouse, 7:04 a.m.

An old Jace property, hidden under a fake name and forgotten by everyone—except me.

The lock still worked. The lights flickered. The floor creaked with memory. I dropped my bag and exhaled.

Then I got to work.

I laid out blueprints. Financial ledgers. Screenshots of digital transactions. I pinned each forged loan, each bribe, each account like evidence in a trial. The wall turned into a war map.

Damon didn’t build an empire. He built a crime scene.

I powered on the second burner.

Message from the informant:

"Eyes on your envelope. He’s in the office."

I got into Damon’s Office by 10:14 a.m. I saw he black envelope lay neatly atop his glass desk.

He slid the drive into his laptop. My face filled the screen.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t frown.

When the video ended, he sat still for a moment. Then:

“Marcus.”

“Yes, sir?”

“She’s no longer passive. Pull everything we have on her. Emails. Bank trails. Burner activity. I want it all.”

“Yes, sir.”

But Marcus wasn’t the only one watching. Elsa, elsewhere in the House

Elsa watched the playback from a mirrored panel in the hallway. She wasn’t on payroll. She was on blood oath. Older than she looked. Colder than she seemed.

She made the call.

“She’s out. Clean exit. But not hiding. She’s building.”

Silence on the other end. Then Damon’s voice, low and calculating:

“Follow, but don’t be seen.”

Westside Penthouse in the Night

The burner buzzed. A new message: ''Intercept confirmed. Plane manifest says Thursday. Company jet. Three seats. Track who boards."

I frowned. I texted back.

"What’s the plane for?"

"Sure not cargo, not vacation maybe something worse. A reset I think?''

A reset?

I read meaning into the statement and smiled weakly. Damon wasn’t just preparing to disappear, he was preparing for some more.

Then another message:

"Also: second shadow. Damon doesn’t trust Marcus anymore. New tail on you. Unknown profile. Stay covered."

Even Marcus was in the dark.

Secrets inside secrets. Damon had gone full paranoia.

I powered off the burner, slid it into a lead-lined pouch, and turned back to the wall.

Three names circled.

One crossed out.

The message I sent was a warning.

What came next?

A war.

1:03 a.m. Another Message From Father

"They’ve started purging files. Damon’s trying to clean house. He’s scared."

"Good. Keep him off balance. Do you still have the asset?"

"Yes. Still buried under our name. He hasn’t found it."

The asset.

A long-term trap we had set, one only my father and I knew existed. A fail-safe tied to an old land deal, a forged signature, and a witness with a price.

"If he makes the jump, release the tape. Not before."

"Understood."

2:11 a.m. The Informant Again

"Elsa’s movements irregular. She’s feeding two chains. Not loyal to Marcus or Damon. Possibly playing her own game."

Elsa.

I had suspected. She moved too quietly. Knew too much. Eyes like a dead woman’s.

I jotted her name on a new notecards. Drew a question mark. Then circled it.

3:40 a.m. Me, alone Again

I sat at the window with tea I didn’t drink. The city lights blinked like warnings. Somewhere out there, Damon was erasing files, shifting accounts, and questioning loyalties.

And yet, I wasn’t scared.

Because now, for the first time, he was.

He built a kingdom on control. I’d just cracked its foundation.

Not with noise.

With silence.