Why didn’t you tell me?

Damian’s POV

I heard the elevator ding long before I saw her. The faint, mechanical chime echoed through the vast, usually silent expanse of my executive floor, cutting through the silence of my office like a freshly sharpened blade. Every instinct in me stilled—ears sharpening, senses on high alert, heart slowing its deliberate rhythm, muscles coiled like a predator sensing his prey.

She was here. Against all logic, against all my expectations, she had returned.

I remained in my chair, back ramrod straight against the supple leather, jaw tight, a muscle ticking violently in my temple. I refused to move, refused to acknowledge what my wolf already had, what my senses had confirmed with a jolt that went straight to my core.

She came back. The beast within me pulsed with a confusing mix of possessiveness and something akin to reluctant respect.

The heavy mahogany door to my outer office opened quietly, a barely audible click. She stepped inside like a ghost—silent, small, almost translucent against the muted tones of the decor. She was dressed in charcoal black slacks and a soft gray blouse that hung slightly loose around her frame, emphasizing her fragile delicacy. Her hair was pulled back in a low, austere bun, strands escaping to frame her pale, almost translucent face, stark against the dark fabric.

But it wasn’t her clothes or the whisper-soft sound of her steps that caught me off guard. Not even the way she seemed to shrink into herself, trying to become invisible.

It was her eyes.

Red-rimmed. Hollow. Glazed with a profound, bone-deep weariness. As if she hadn’t slept, not a single hour of true rest, since I had last seen her. As if the world, and I, had wrung her out and left only this trembling, fragile husk behind. A raw, visceral ache, something akin to a phantom pain, twisted in my chest. It was an unwelcome, unbidden sensation.

Her file, a slender manila folder, was clutched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white against the pale cardboard, a testament to the iron grip she had on her own composure. She didn’t speak, didn’t even glance my way, avoiding my desk, avoiding me, like a plague. Just walked directly to her own desk, a sleek modern design, placed the folder down with a quiet finality that sounded deafening in the silence, and sank into her chair like her bones were made of ash, as if the effort of simply existing was too much.

I watched her for a full minute. Two. My gaze was fixed, predatory, analyzing every subtle shift in her posture, every minute tremor of her hands. Her fingers moved over her keyboard, hovering for a moment, then began to type. Calm. Steady. The faint clicks of the keys were the only sound in the cavernous office, a mundane counterpoint to the raging storm within me.

Except I could smell the truth. Even from across the expansive room, even through the antiseptic scent of the hospital that still clung to her.

Salt. The undeniable tang of dried tears.

Tears. Recent. Profound.

Fear. A pervasive, underlying tremor of pure terror.

She had cried again. Recently. Likely in the cab on the way here. Maybe even in the elevator, a silent breakdown before she put on this brittle mask.

And she hadn’t come to me. She hadn’t sought comfort, hadn’t pleaded, hadn’t even acknowledged my existence beyond her professional duties. She had absorbed the blow, dealt with the aftermath alone, and then returned, as if nothing had happened. The omission, the silent defiance, rankled more than any scream.

I stood without thinking, the sudden movement causing the floorboards to creak faintly beneath my expensive loafers. My steps were soundless, practiced from years of stalking boardrooms and battlefields alike, moving with an almost preternatural stealth. When I stopped beside her desk, looming over her, she finally looked up—slow, hesitant, as if lifting her gaze required monumental effort.

Our eyes met. Her brown eyes, deep and shadowed, held a raw vulnerability that struck me anew, stripping away the carefully constructed facade she presented. Something pulled tight between us, a taut, invisible wire humming with unspoken tension.

She blinked quickly, her long lashes brushing her pale cheeks, and then lowered her gaze, breaking the intense connection. Her voice, thin and strained, was barely audible. “Your meeting with the Tokyo branch is scheduled for eleven. They sent over the revised quarterly reports. They’re projecting—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, cutting her off, my voice low, a dangerous rumble that seemed to fill the air around us.

She stilled. Her fingers, which had been hovering over the keyboard, froze. Her breath hitched.

“I saw the transfer,” I said, my voice still low, controlled, but with an underlying steel that brooked no argument. “You paid for Elizabeth’s surgery this morning.”

“His name is Eli,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath, still not looking at me, her gaze fixed on some invisible point on her keyboard. It was a soft correction, but firm. A small act of defiance.

I stared at her, absorbing the small, unexpected challenge. That fragile voice. The way it trembled just at the edge of breaking, like a finely tuned instrument about to shatter. And still, she didn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of me. The strength of her silent suffering was infuriating, compelling.

“And you didn’t think to inform me?” I pushed, the question biting, designed to provoke, to shatter her composure. “After all the… arrangements we made? After the… contract?” The word tasted like ash.