Chapter 5

Damon

The news spreads like poison.

Senator Bishop’s only daughter—Ingrid Bishop—missing for days. Headlines everywhere. Breaking news. National panic.

To the world, she’s a golden girl: graceful, refined, raised in polished corridors and political legacy.

To me? She’s a fucking nuisance dressed in diamonds.

My classmate. My childhood shadow. My supposed fiancée.

The investigation devours everything around her—every friend, every movement, every inch of her picture-perfect life. Nothing is sacred. Not even us.

Especially not me.

I was the last person to see her alive.

Well—me and Rosetta.

And yet I’m not shaken. I should be. But I’m not. Because something about this feels planned. Or convenient.

Ingrid Bishop doesn’t just disappear. She’s reckless, not stupid. Calculating, not careless. Her silence doesn’t read like fear. It reads like defiance.

Or bait.

“She’s a fucking ticking bomb,” I murmur to myself, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

“How are you feeling?” Rosetta’s voice slithers into my ear like silk soaked in venom.

We’re in her bedroom. Again. Familiar sheets. Familiar sin.

I glance at her. Red hair wild from earlier. Her lips still swollen from the kiss we didn’t finish. Eyes sharp—Scotch-fire and spoiled wine.

“How am I feeling?” I echo, letting my hand drift into her hair. “Like I could breathe for the first time in years.”

She smiles, satisfied. “She’s gone. You’re finally free.”

I don’t answer.

“Do you like that she’s gone?” I ask, watching her reaction. Not because I don’t know—but because I want to hear her say it.

She tilts her head, crawls onto my lap with the grace of a wolf in red lingerie. “Boo, it’s not like you two ever had anything real.”

“She’s better off dead,” she adds with a chuckle, casual as daylight. “And now I can have you. Fully. No more fucking shadows.”

Her words pulse like heat under my skin. I grin. A crooked, indulgent grin.

Rosetta. My bloodstained goddess. My Scottish disaster. The one I’ve crossed borders, rules, and loyalties for. We’ve survived on secrecy and stolen hours for years. From Edinburgh to Berlin to Manila—we met like ghosts. We made it work. We always have.

Because I love her.

And she owns me.

Our bodies clash like a bad ritual. She sinks into me, slow and dangerous. Her hips grind with intent, and I pull her closer, harder. Our eyes don’t break. Locked in a war we both want to lose. Lust dances on the edge of rage.

She makes me ravenous. Desperate. Fucking cursed.

My mouth is on her neck. My hand under her shirt. Her fingers tangle in my hair.

And then—

Ring.

My phone screams against the sheets. The spell cracks. Rosetta flinches.

I grab it. No patience left.

“What?” I snap.

“Sir,” comes Chevre’s voice—monotone, professional. “The Bishops have summoned your father to a joint security meeting at the main estate. 6:00 PM. Miss Ingrid’s disappearance has escalated into a confirmed abduction.”

I want to crush the phone in my fist.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I mutter.

Because I really don’t. I’m sick of the charade. Playing Prince Charming to a porcelain fraud. I'm done.

Still, I exhale. “Yeah, whatever,” I say, then hang up.

When I look up, Rosetta’s already moved off me, her expression dark.

She’s quiet. Dangerous quiet.

“Hey,” I reach for her wrist. “Don’t shut down on me now.”

She doesn’t look at me. Just stares out the window like it owes her something.

“This again?” she finally says. “Every time she gets in the picture, I disappear.”

“She’s not in the picture anymore,” I say firmly.

I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing because my key to power has eloped from my hand to captivity and that pisses me off. Damn you, Bishop. She is my possession. I will marry power, I will marry Gold. 

“You don’t get it,” she whispers. “I’m tired, Damon. I’m tired of waiting. Of being your little secret. Of being the second.”

I grab her chin and force her to look at me. “Rosetta. You were never the second.”

“Then why are we hiding?” she snaps. “Why are we still pretending that Ingrid Bishop owns a piece of you?”

“She doesn’t—” 

Rosetta cuts me off. Always does. 

“She does.” Her voice cracks. “She does. And I hate it.”

I release her.

She stands, pacing the room like a loaded gun.

“I want her gone,” she hisses. “Really gone. I want her name erased from your world. I want her body rotting in some gutter where not even the press will find it. I want her bones shattered and burned.”

I say nothing.

“She was always in the way,” she continues. “She thinks she’s untouchable. Like she walks on gold. But you and I both know—she bleeds like the rest of us.”

She turns to me, eyes glossy with hate and something deeper. Something more dangerous.

“This disappearance? It better be real. It better be permanent. Because if she comes back—I’ll kill her myself.”

She’s shaking now. A beautiful, psychotic flame.

I walk over, take her in my arms. Rub her back in slow circles.

“There, there,” I whisper. “She won’t be back. I’ll make sure of it.”

But even as I say it—

I feel the burn of a lie on my tongue.

Because deep down, I’m not done with Ingrid Bishop.

Not even close.

She’s a sickness I haven’t cured. A storm I want to survive just to feel the thrill again.

I press my lips to Rosetta’s temple and whisper the only truth I can afford:

“She’s gone. You’ve won.”

But my heart doesn’t believe a damn word of it.

And if Ingrid does come back…

God help us all.