CHAPTER EIGHT - SHADOWS AT DAWN

The night stretched long and airless. Amara lay on her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling as Vanessa’s words looped like poison in her blood. Ask yourself what happens to people Damian can’t control.

Sleep never came. When dawn finally slipped through the curtains, it felt less like relief and more like judgment. Her body ached from exhaustion, but her mind wouldn’t quiet.

By the time she left her room, the house was stirring. Staff moved briskly through the halls, avoiding her gaze, as if the whispers from the gala still clung to her skin. In their eyes, she was no longer invisible. She was marked.

In the kitchen, she busied herself with tasks no one asked her to do - arranging fruit, checking lists - anything to keep from thinking. But every sound seemed louder, every glance sharper.

“Miss Brown.”

The voice snapped through the air. Amara turned, pulse leaping. Damian stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, as if sleep had been as elusive for him as it was for her. His presence filled the room, drawing all attention like gravity.

“Come with me,” he said.

Her hands tightened around the knife she held. “I have work—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

The knife clattered against the counter. She followed him through the silent corridors, her steps unsteady. He didn’t speak until they reached his study, the heavy door shutting behind them with a finality that made her stomach clench.

Damian turned, leaning against his desk, arms crossed. His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, shadows carved deep beneath.

“What did Vanessa say to you?”

The question hit like a blade. Amara’s throat went dry. He didn’t circle around, didn’t soften. Straight to the point, as if he already knew Vanessa had found her.

She forced her voice steady. “Why does it matter?”

“Because,” Damian said, pushing off the desk, “Vanessa doesn’t open her mouth unless she wants blood. And I need to know who she’s after.”

Amara’s pulse hammered. “She said…” The words lodged in her throat. That you’re not merciful. That I should be afraid of what happens to people you can’t control. But saying it out loud felt like handing him a loaded weapon.

“She said what?” he pressed, stepping closer.

Amara lifted her chin. “That Caroline’s return isn’t an accident.”

Something flickered across his face - anger, yes, but also something else. Calculation. “She’s right,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. “Then what does that mean for me?”

Damian’s gaze pinned her in place. “That depends on you.”

The words sent a chill racing down her spine. She wanted to demand answers, but his expression warned her there was a line she couldn’t cross - not yet.

He stepped back, as if sensing her unease. “Stay away from Vanessa. Whatever she offers, whatever she suggests - don’t bite. She thrives on breaking things she can’t have.”

“And Caroline?” Amara asked before she could stop herself.

His jaw tightened. “Caroline is history. Don’t let her make you doubt your footing here.”

Her footing. As if she had any.

She folded her arms, forcing strength into her voice. “And you? Should I be doubting you too?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Damian’s eyes searched hers, and for a moment she swore he almost smiled - humorless, sharp.

“You already do,” he said softly.

Before she could reply, the study door opened without warning. A man stepped inside - tall, in a dark suit, his expression as unreadable as Damian’s. He carried a leather folder under one arm, and his eyes flicked briefly to Amara before returning to Damian.

“We have a problem,” the man said.

Damian’s jaw hardened. “Not here.”

“It can’t wait,” the man insisted, voice low but firm.

Amara’s skin prickled. She wasn’t supposed to be there - that much was clear. But neither man asked her to leave.

The man placed the folder on the desk and slid it open. Amara caught a glimpse - photographs. Grainy, zoomed-in. A shadow of Damian near his car. Another of Amara entering the estate. Her breath stuttered.

“They’re watching you,” the man said. His eyes cut to Amara. “And her.”

The air froze. Damian’s face turned to stone.

Amara’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Who - who’s watching us?” she whispered.

Neither of them answered.

Damian snapped the folder shut, his voice ice. “Leave us.”

The man hesitated, then gave Amara one last unreadable look before exiting.

Silence stretched. Amara’s pulse roared in her ears. “Damian,” she whispered, “what does this mean?”

He looked at her, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw something raw and unguarded flash in his eyes. Fear.

But it was gone in an instant, replaced by steel. He stepped closer, so close she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“It means,” he said quietly, “you’re not safe anymore.”